The Pieces We Keep

by Kristina McMorris

  Had he simply changed his mind?

  Every Wednesday morning, her usual wrought-iron table served as a personal pew. She relished this semi-cove, thanks to a stone wall behind her and, to her side, a pot of tall, vibrant flowers. Tucked away, she could be left to her thoughts, sometimes her tears. But always she found comfort in the fragrance of blossoms and freshly baked dough, accompanied by Isaak’s words.

  My Dearest Vivian,

  I am writing this letter only hours before departing London. Although I am anxious to see my family and confirm that all is as well as they claim, already I miss you terribly. It has taken every ounce of my strength not to abandon my mission and reunite with you this instant. As you know, however, I could never rest without first settling my personal affairs.

  While my hopes are high that my travels will go quickly and without incident, I have arranged for a trusted friend to deliver this letter should I fail to return in time. Your safety, my darling, is of utmost importance. Please do not hesitate in evacuating as planned. Rest assured, wherever you are, I indeed will find you.

  Until then, keep this necklace as proof of my promise. Wear it close to your heart, just as I hold my love for you in mine.

  Yours for eternity,

  Isaak

  She fingered her blouse where the charm dangled beneath. On occasion she would pull the letter from her jewelry box, but merely to touch his scrawled words, not for fear of forgetting them. They were forever imprinted in her heart. Helplessly savoring them now, she continued to block out the city, until a man’s voice cut in.

  “I said, ‘Sure is a swell day, isn’t it?’ ”

  Vivian raised her eyes and discovered the question was directed at her. An Army private, roughly her age, smiled from the next table.

  “Yes,” she said with a glance at the sky. The sun was elbowing its way through the clouds. “I suppose it is.” She gave him a cordial look, her standard for these situations, then conveyed disinterest by flipping through her issue of McCall’s.

  “I’m Ian Downing, by the way.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his outstretched hand. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, military enlistment had spread like a virus. The service in itself was an honorable one, but not the common expectation that all dames lost their marbles over a starched and pressed uniform.

  Don’t be rude, Vivian. Accept his hand, Vivian. She heard her mother’s prodding. A lifetime of drilled decorum was difficult to expunge.

  Vivian obliged the greeting but promptly returned to her magazine.

  “Mind if I ask your name?” He either couldn’t take a hint or chose to ignore it. “Course, I could always figure it out for myself.” He tapped his pointed chin as if crafting syllables customized for her face. “It’s ... Alma. No, no-Bessie.” He cocked his head. “Cordelia?”

  Marvelous. He was going to scroll through the entire alphabet.

  “Hmm ... Irene maybe.” Another tap. “Mildred?”

  “Vivian,” she said, bringing this to an end.

  “I knew it!” He snapped his fingers and beamed. “That was definitely my next guess.”

  An eye roll would have been much deserved-did she really look like a Mildred?—yet the fellow exaggerated such surety Vivian couldn’t help but laugh.

  She shook her head at him. “You do realize this is a pitiful approach, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said with a shrug. “But if it made you smile, it was worth coming off like a heel.”

  Vivian would have taken this for the continuation of a practiced pickup if not for the sincerity in his voice, the kind gleam in his greenish-brown eyes. Maybe he didn’t deserve the coldest of shoulders. Besides, they were seated at separate tables, affording a buffer of comfort.

  “Food sure is great here, don’t you think?” He lifted the Danish from his small plate and took a generous bite.

  “I enjoy it.”

  “So, Vivian,” he said, after swallowing, “you from this area?” The pastry had stamped him with a yellow mustache that flitted when he spoke. “Or are you just in the Big Apple visiting?”

  She tried to keep a straight face, yet found it impossible. “You have ... some crumbs. Right here.” She brushed her own lip to illustrate.

  He snatched his napkin and cleaned off the flakes. “Better?”

  She nodded.

  His eyes lowered, as if shielded by embarrassment. She was only trying to help but somehow wound up the one who felt like a heel. And now she was stuck, forced to soften a conversation she had hoped to avert.

  “I ... take it you’re stationed in the area,” she said.

  “Just across the river, at Fort Dix.” He wiped his chin to be thorough and wadded the napkin. “Lucked out actually. I’m from Michigan-that’s where my whole family is, back in Flint-but I got some friends from around here. It was nice to already know people in such a big city.”

  “Sure. I know how that can be.”

  He crossed his legs, confidence returning. Beneath his dark, close-cropped hair, he had a pleasing oval face and the kind of smile any dentist would gladly take credit for.

  “You know,” he said, “my buddy Walt and I, we were planning to hit the town Friday. Maybe go to the USO over by Times Square. His girl, Carol, is wild about swing bands.”

  “Oh?” She knew of the place, mainly from her roommate, who welcomed any opportunity to dance. Vivian had yet to go, despite Luanne’s urgings; an evening of laundering socks had more appeal than a hall packed with servicemen in heat.

  “How ’bout it?” he asked.

  “How about ... ?”

  “Golly, you sure don’t make it easy on a guy, do ya?” he teased. “About going out with me? Making it a double date?”

  How dim-witted of her. Of course. A date.

  They were strangers, though.

  As she mulled it over, a flutter formed in her stomach. She barely recognized the sensation. Could she really accept? He seemed like a keen fellow. Luanne might even be willing to come, for both safety and decency.

  Vivian straightened in her chair, invigorated by the offer, just as Isaak’s image barged into her thoughts, and with it a feeling of betrayal.

  “I—I can’t.”

  “All right,” Ian said. “Then how about Saturday?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sunday?”

  “I’d love to, but ... I’m engaged.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize.” Ian glanced toward her hands resting on the table. Too late she recalled the absence of a ring. She curled her fingers under, yet already it was clear: He viewed the decline as a brush-off.

  “Well, I’d say he’s one lucky man.”

  She sought a way to explain. The engagement wasn’t formal, but a promise had been made, without expiration.

  Ian rose from his chair. “Guess I better shove off. Hate to sit around goldbricking all day.” He gave her a smaller version of his perfect white smile and tossed a crinkled dollar next to his plate. “It was real nice talking to you, Vivian.”

  “Likewise.”

  When he started away, she focused on her magazine to avoid watching him leave.

  Her beloved sanctuary suddenly felt isolated rather than secluded.

  “Bonjour, chérie.” The manager of the cafe seemed to magically appear. He wore his signature gray vest, loose on his aging frame, and a pin-striped bow tie. “You are enjoying your coffee, yes?”

  “It’s splendid. Thank you, Mr. Bisset.”

  He began to clear the soldier’s table, his usual waitress out with a cold. “You have the day off, I see.”

  With the way she was feeling, she wished that were so. “Not today,” she said, before it dawned on her why he would assume as much. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, criminy! I’ll never make the bus.” With operators to deliver to two other locations, the chartered bus waited for no single person.

  Vivian gathered her belongings and jumped to her feet before remembering she hadn’t paid. Sh
e fumbled through her purse for change.

  “Allez, allez.” He waved her off. “You pay me next time.”

  She would not have agreed, but her stodgy supervisor deemed tardiness a cardinal sin. Vivian’s last infraction had induced the firmest of warnings. She thanked Mr. Bisset with a peck to the cheek, inducing a chuckle.

  “I won’t forget!” she called out, and scurried toward the street.

  Block after block every taxi was taken. Up ahead the streetcar dinged. She sprinted in a flourish, propelled by benefits she refused to lose. Beyond wartime scoops, her job allowed her financial independence, a counterargument to her mother’s matrimonial crusade-not to say the woman didn’t supply plenty of other reasons her daughter required a husband.

  Vivian still had her special savings, of course, stored in the back of her closet. But she had sworn not to squander those funds on anything mundane. They were for her and Isaak, their excursions from coast to coast, the honeymoon she had envisioned too many times to count.

  In the event that would ever happen....

  Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back and picked up her pace, as if ample speed could outrun her doubts.

  19

  Audra needed this job like the air in her lungs. She needed this change for her son.

  After yesterday’s session with Dr. Shaw, Jack’s nightmare gained new ferocity, spanning almost an hour. The proof lay in Audra’s eyes, still bloodshot despite half a bottle of eyedrops. She just hoped her interviewer’s computer was set low on the brightness scale.

  Why did their call have to be on video? At least she still had an hour until noon, giving her ample time to practice.

  “Please tell me my last answer didn’t sound overly rehearsed.”

  On Audra’s laptop, set on the kitchen table, Tess responded from her office. “It didn’t.”

  “But how about the one regarding splenectomies? And dental radiographs?”

  “Nope and nope.”

  “Did you think—”

  “It was perfect. All of it. Personally, I’d hire you,” Tess muttered, “back.”

  Audra pressed down a smile. “Thanks.”

  They both knew it was unfair to keep staff at the clinic short-handed, given her full intention to move. By resigning, she now had no choice but to focus on the goal.

  “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how it went,” Audra said, but Tess wasn’t yet done.

  “You do know Boston gets about a hundred inches of snow, right?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ve mentioned it.”

  “And the cost of living there is almost as high as San Francisco? Then there’s also the crime rate—”

  “Tess,” she said. “You were the one who hooked me up with this contact in the first place.”

  “Yeah, well. Moment of weakness.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  A pause. “Can you imagine what a city known as ‘Beantown’ must smell like in the summer?”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Whatever.”

  Audra ended the video call and softly laughed.

  She double-checked her computer settings and confirmed they were in order. Then she reviewed her outfit, a royal-blue sweater and charcoal slacks, a step up from her usual. She’d even flatironed her hair, wearing it long over her shoulders, and applied lipstick and mascara. Though no curling of the lashes. She had to draw the line somewhere.

  Now, with Jack at school, there was nothing to do but wait.

  And think.

  About Jack.

  After leaving the therapist’s office, she had asked him what he meant by saying he’d been there during the war. He hadn’t answered, and it seemed best not to push him. Maybe his nightmares were blurring the line between what was real and not. But how to stop it?

  This was the question that gnawed at her.

  Audra needed a diversion. She despised deep cleaning, but tidying—with its distinct before and after states—always gave her satisfaction.

  In Jack’s room, she tossed his pajamas into the hamper. She threw away tiny paper scraps and cracker crumbs from his desk, put his kid scissors and glue stick back in a drawer. As she made up his bed, she thought of the book hidden beneath.

  His journal.

  What would a kid his age write inside? About his feelings, more pictures? What if he did recall his dreams but, when told to draw “happier things,” had lost the courage to share? The key to his night terrors could lie in something he was suppressing, and that discovery would be worth a minor infringement.

  Before she could change her mind, Audra grabbed the book. She sat on the bed and flipped open the cover.

  On the first page was a drawing. Again smoke plumed, but only from a chimney. The house was two stories high, like the home they used to own. A grassy yard, billowy clouds, and a ball of sun comprised the scene. No planes or signs of death.

  Relieved though still searching, Audra continued on. The doodling and handwriting developed with his age. And then he shifted to collages. Ticket stubs and candy wrappers overlapped various strips from the Sunday comics. Newspaper photos and magazine ads had been trimmed to fit the pages: an amusement park ride, a baseball stadium, a picnic in the park. Together, they formed a compilation of Jack’s favorite things.

  The Eiffel Tower, though, surprised her. As did the cruise.

  She studied them closer, until the connection became achingly clear: He wasn’t featuring the places in the scenes; it was the people. All were families, smiling and laughing, hugging, holding hands. They were the unbreakable units that had once created the security of Jack’s world.

  The doorbell rang. Audra flinched, and a tear broke free, catching the journal’s edge. She dried it with her sleeve and tucked the book away.

  A rapping on the door followed. The maintenance guy from the building wasn’t due until two. He must have squeezed her in early to keep her leaky fridge from forming another lake. Either that or he wanted a head start on his weekend.

  Regrouping, she made her way to the door and swung it open.

  The man wasn’t one she recognized. He had no coveralls or box of tools.

  “You’re here,” he said, sounding relieved. “I wasn’t sure if . . . that is, well, I hate to bother you, but I was hoping you could help me.”

  At the pause, she said, “I can try.”

  An unreadable smile formed on his lips. “The questions I’ve got will probably seem unusual....”

  The remark tipped her off, and she bristled. He had to be a journalist, likely the same one who had aggravated her situation at work. His unassuming attire—a rust-hued button-down shirt and jeans—was clearly a strategic move.

  “If you’re the reporter who came to the clinic, I can tell you right now, you’ve caused me more trouble than I needed. Now, I’m asking you nicely, please leave us alone.” She reached for the doorknob.

  “No, wait.” He stepped forward. “That’s not me. I’m not a reporter.” His mix of sincerity and urgency prevented her from closing the door. Still, she remained cautious.

  “Then who are you?”

  “I’m Sean Malloy. At the festival, I heard the security guard say your name on his radio. I apologize if I’m intruding, coming here like this, but you took off so fast.”

  The soldier. From the stage.

  In the chaos of finding Jack, she had barely given him a glance.

  “The thing is,” he explained, “we hit a roadside bomb, over in Afghanistan. My team was on patrol. Part of my memory was wiped out. I’ve been trying everything I can to get it back. Visiting old places and people I knew. When your son came and talked to me, I figured somehow we must’ve known each other.”

  Audra tried to keep up, the conversation so unexpected. She had assumed his uniform alone had reeled in her son.

  She studied the man’s face, hoping to solve the mystery, not just for his sake, but Jack’s. In the soft natural light, Sean’s eyes were the color of topaz. His hair was sandy-
brown, worn short on the sides, longer on top. Around his late thirties, he had a strong jaw and his complexion promised a tan from the smallest rays of sun.

  All were nice traits but none of them familiar.

  “I’m afraid we’d never met before.” She hid her disappointment that felt selfish given his situation.

  “But your son,” he said, “how else could he have known?”

  “I ... don’t know what you mean.”

  With a quizzical look, Sean pulled a necklace from beneath the collar of his shirt. He dangled the round golden charm for her to see. An inscription of tiny letters appeared on the aged trinket.

  “Viel Feind, viel Ehr,” he read aloud. “An old German saying. It’s what your son said to me that day.”

  An icy shiver rippled through her. Was that the phrase Jack had recited after she’d questioned him in the car? It sounded similar enough, but that didn’t make sense. Even if he knew the adage, the coincidence of repeating it to a stranger who owned the same engraving ...

  Of course. The engraving.

  It was so simple, so obvious.

  “He read your necklace,” she realized. “He must have, when he saw you wearing it.”

  Sean shook his head. “I was in Class A’s, ma’am. I wasn’t wearing any jewelry.”

  His certainty struck her as a challenge. “Well ... maybe you forgot to take it off.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then, you must’ve misheard him.”

  Sean’s expression mirrored the doubt she felt, yet she refused to let hers show. With every passing day, her logical reasoning and understanding of Jack drifted further from her grasp.

  Just then, a trill sounded from behind.

  Her laptop.

  The video call. She had forgotten the interview!

  “I have to go get that.”

  He responded with a nod, but the plea in his face halted her. In that frozen moment, with her future plans at risk, she had to make a choice.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve helped.” She infused her voice with all the kindness she could, then closed the door and rushed inside.