But then a memory surfaced from Jack’s preschool days. A larger boy, to pillage a scooter in the playroom, had given Jack a hefty shove. Jack pushed back in defense. When Devon learned both kids were made to apologize, he delivered a staunch objection to the school director. Defending oneself didn’t warrant a “sorry.” Or an appeasing compromise.
The same principle applied here—even to Devon’s parents.
“I’ll talk to them,” Audra said, “when we go to court.”
34
June 1942
Brooklyn, NY
At Ebbets Field, on a deceivingly pleasant Sunday, Vivian avoided conversation by looking engrossed in the game. The Yankees, in the first half of a doubleheader, had lost by a run to the Cleveland Indians and were charging back with a vengeance. She cheered and clapped on cue, all the while averting her attention from Gene.
Postponing the date had appealed to her for many a reason, but canceling at the last minute could have raised suspicion. She wanted desperately to come clean, to ask for advice. From his experience in Intelligence he could offer ideas and insight. But given her history with Isaak, asking Gene to help him seemed wrong. More than that, it would put Gene in direct conflict with his duties as an officer.
And so, all weekend she had barely slept, scarcely ate, as she racked her brain for alternatives. She had quickly ruled out her father; even if he were receptive to her plight, communicating by telegram or phone would be unwise. A letter, too, risked interception and could take months for delivery. The same obstacles prohibited her outreach to politicians; any she adequately trusted had been transferred due to war demands.
Starting tomorrow, Vivian’s eavesdropping on the switchboard would serve a new and urgent purpose: to find sympathetic contacts, preferably in the upper echelons, while sifting for any hint that Isaak’s mission had been detected.
No progress. Still trying.
This was the update she had penned the previous day, without mention of names, and left for Isaak in the cafe courtyard. The underside of the flowerpot had become their nightly mailbox.
He would not say where he was staying, on what means he was living, which activities filled his hours. Though he withheld these details to protect her, such maddening unknowns nibbled at her like moths upon wool.
“Vivian.” Gene’s voice snapped her to the present. He seemed to be repeating himself.
“Yes?”
“Game’s over.”
It took her a moment to decipher the meaning as literal. Tiles on the scoreboard affirmed she had missed the Indians’ efforts, pummeled by the pinstripes thirteen to one. All around, the crowd was rising, shuffling up the stairs and out of the stadium, as if rushing to evacuate before an explosion.
“Sorry,” she said lightly. She went to stand, but his hand stopped her.
“I’d like us to talk first.”
Despite the gravity of his tone, she retained her smile. “Sure,” she said.
“Vivian, I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Her body stiffened in the seat. Had she been as transparent as she felt?
With the confrontation upon her, while undoubtedly inevitable, she had no inkling where to begin.
“It’s your father, isn’t it?” he said. “You’re worried about him. That’s why you’ve been so distant.”
The excuse hung between them, inviting her to latch on. Concern for her father did, in fact, line the edges of her thoughts. And yet she could not bring herself to agree.
“I just . . . have a lot on my mind, is all.”
“You can say anything to me, doll. You know that.” He spoke in such earnest, beckoning her like a winter quilt ready to wrap her in its fibers.
Ironically, it was this warmth that increased her reluctance to tell the truth. Trapping him in this awful predicament would be unfair. Nevertheless, she could not ignore the need for help. With so much at stake, she had to try.
“I’ve been worried for my father too, but, you see . . .” Any spectators were far out of earshot. “I have friends I made back in London, when I was traveling around. We struck up a correspondence. It’s a family that lives in Germany-not Nazis, mind you. As you can imagine, I’ve grown terribly nervous about their safety.”
He shifted in his seat, though his expression didn’t alter. At the absence of dismay, Vivian continued.
“It’s crucial they leave right away. They’re hoping to make it to Switzerland, but as you know, they’ll need special papers to go that far. I’ve been trying to figure out a way. There simply has to be something I can do.”
“How many are in the family?” he asked.
“Five. There’s a woman and a couple and their daughters. They’re extremely lovely people, just stuck on the wrong side of the border. They have no desire to be there any more than you or I would.”
Vivian stopped there, careful not to say too much or to push too hard. Gene gazed out at the field and nodded to the rhythm of his thoughts. A good sign.
But then the motion morphed into a shake of his head. As if to himself, he said, “I don’t know that anything can be done for them.”
Her stomach sank, although it shouldn’t have. He was only affirming what she already knew.
“All the same,” he added, “I’d be happy to find out. Give me a day or two to snoop around. See what I can come up with.”
She brightened inside, a kindling of possibility. “Oh, Gene. You’d do that for me?”
“Of course,” he said, and drew her hand to his lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Enduring a pinch of guilt, she smiled without a reply.
The next day, as Vivian connected one call after another, she did her darnedest to keep her hopes in check. Gene could certainly come back empty-handed. As for her father’s colleagues, her dismal streak had not improved. If she arrived at no other solution, Isaak could be sacrificing his family in order to surrender.
He would do that, wouldn’t he? Surrender regardless if necessary? I can’t turn myself in until they’re safe, he had said. But it was an emotional statement, not a resolute vow. Going through with the mission would be incomprehensible....
The blinking of her switchboard diverted her from doubt.
“Number, please,” she answered. The gentleman sounded official as he asked for a colonel’s line. “Thank you, sir.” She plugged in the corresponding cord, rang the officer, and connected the call. But before disconnecting herself, she noted Mrs. Langtree lost in her thoughts, the other operators preoccupied.
Vivian let the curtain of her hair fall forward. Hiding her hand, she covered the mouthpiece to mute sounds of the room. She listened carefully as the men traded greetings and celebratory remarks over the victory in Midway. The naval battle was sure to be a turning point, all the newspapers had raved. These men, too, concurred on this, then proceeded to chat at length about a recent night of . . . poker.
The freedom of major nations hung in the balance and these Army “brass” were reminiscing over a queen-high flush.
A flick to her ankle gave her a start, a warning from Luanne.
Vivian switched the toggle. She rushed to the next call as shoes clacked in her direction. Mrs. Langtree moved closer, ever closer, but continued on to the last operator. A new girl sought assistance with a long-distance charge, wanting to confirm she had drafted it properly.
Vivian expelled a quiet breath. The engraving from Isaak’s necklace reinforced her motivation: The greater the risk, the greater the reward.
Mrs. Langtree was still handling the bill when an Army officer summoned her to the door. “Might I have a word with you, ma’am?”
Muscles in the woman’s neck visibly tightened, an aftereffect of a request all too similar, much too recent. She nodded and left the room.
“What the devil are you doing?” Luanne whispered to Vivian, less a question than a charge of foolishness.
“Just getting an inside scoop,” she whispered back.
Luanne rolled her
eyes, though the edges of her lips lifted. It was the second time this morning she had saved Vivian from being caught. “You’d make a terrible spy, you know.”
Vivian did not disagree.
Granted, usually she would wait until Mrs. Langtree set off for the ladies’ room before listening in on a line. But today was different. In a matter of hours Vivian would be meeting Isaak. How direly she wanted to present a significant find in person. As usual, however, she needed a higher security clearance for anything of great value. She had plenty of knowledge about troops and training, weapons and bases, even tanks, planes, and ships-yet none of this would do him much good.
She glanced at her wrist, forgetting she had left her watch at home. She swiveled toward the wall clock posted by the exit and halted at the sight. Framed by the door’s window, a stern-faced officer stared directly at Vivian.
Or did it just appear that way?
Mrs. Langtree said something to the man, then pointed in Vivian’s direction.
Vivian whirled back to the switchboard, her pulse in an instant gallop. Her hands shook as she struggled to connect a call. She felt the officer’s gaze on the back of her head. It burned through her hair and seared her skull.
“Miss James?” Mrs. Langtree was now in the room.
Vivian turned her body halfway and found no clue in the woman’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The major needs to speak with you,” she replied. “In private.”
35
There was nothing surprising about the statement, only the way it suddenly applied to Audra’s life.
Energy is neither lost nor gained, only transferred.
It was a fundamental law of physics—more scientific than spiritual. Maybe that’s why her mind kept revisiting the quote since the day she finished the book. And to think, when Dr. Shaw had forced the thing into her hands, she had no intention of even cracking the cover. Now select passages were imprinting themselves on her brain like galactic secrets on an ancient scroll.
In Jack’s bedroom, she placed his laundered shirts in a drawer. When she pushed it closed, she imagined storing her mystical theories inside. There would be ample opportunity to obsess over them at the next session with Dr. Shaw, after his return from a conference in Vegas.
Audra smiled at the vision: hundreds of suited shrinks parked around poker tables, analyzing each other for tells.
She just wished their festivities hadn’t been planned for this particular week. The result was six days of waiting until Jack’s next appointment, a delay intensified by today’s meeting with Russ. For that’s when she had learned of the race they were in: a sprint to uncover the source of Jack’s behavior before a judge and evaluator presented speculations of their own.
She closed the curtains over the darkened windows, just as Jack appeared in his pajamas.
“Hey, buddy. You finish your routine?”
“Yep,” he said softly, and climbed into bed.
“Brush, floss, and flush?”
He nodded. He had covered it all.
“You sure? Because if you did happen to skip the toilet flushing, I’ll have to sentence you to ...” She twisted her lips, deciding. “Five full minutes of severe and merciless tickling.”
He smiled widely, as if recalling the tickle attacks he used to love. He’d giggle and wiggle even before being touched, just from clawed fingers near his sides, toes, or tummy.
But the memory didn’t last. His expression retracted and lips went level. All throughout dinner he appeared to be wrestling with a thought, yet each of her inquiries had met a dead end.
“Remember,” she said again, “I’m here if you want to talk. Okay?”
He scratched the skin at the edge of his cast and simply said, “I know.”
When it came to Jack, she was becoming one of those old Chatty Cathy dolls that spewed the same few sentences over and over.
With an internal sigh, she pulled up the covers, leaving the sheet loose enough for his feet to burrow free. He used to sleep cocoon-style, blankets drawn snugly under his chin. These days he required more space, as though ensuring the option to escape.
“Just one more day till the weekend,” she reminded him.
“Yep.”
“You know, on Saturday, Tess and Grace wanted to join us for a picnic. How’s that sound?”
“Good,” he said, but nothing else.
Audra nodded. “Good.” She smiled and kissed his forehead. “Sleep well,” she told him, consciously opting against bidding, Sweet dreams. It would be enough to see him rest through the night without an episode of terror. After three straight weeks, one could only hope.
She clicked off the nightstand lamp. The hall’s gentle beam cast shadows over Jack’s face, giving a glimpse of his future stages. Junior high. High school. College.
Life was suddenly moving too fast.
Needing to slow it down, she sat on the side of his bed. She stroked the fine strands of his hair, and an ache throbbed beneath her ribs. It was the area where loss tended to settle. Saying good-bye ten years from now would be difficult enough; she couldn’t fathom the day coming sooner.
At this very minute, a private investigator could be hunched over a computer, gathering any dirt possible to strengthen the case against her. He wouldn’t have to dig far. Laws in Oregon might traditionally favor the mother; but what about one with no current income? Depending on the court date, her offer in Boston could easily vanish. As for her last job, the timing of her resignation, within days of being put on leave, looked like she’d been allowed to save face while actually being fired.
It wouldn’t be tough to believe. After all, she was the woman who had gone on a rant before an entire neighborhood. A woman who rarely heard from her own parents. A woman who, in the beginning, never wanted to be a mother. Yet now, faced with a chance of losing that privilege, she could think of nothing she wanted more.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” Jack’s groggy question alerted her of the tears slipping down her cheeks.
She wiped them away and smiled. “Nothing, baby. I’m just tired. Just very, very tired.”
Between his heavy blinks, he peered at her with eyes of a bottomless depth. Old-soul eyes. That’s what a nurse in the maternity ward had called them. Even as a baby, Jack had scarcely cried. He was too busy gazing around in a serene yet eager way, as if reacquainting himself with his surroundings.
She had forgotten about that. The recollection had been buried in the shuffle of life’s more pressing issues, none of which mattered now.
“Is it because you’re sad,” he said after a pause, “from your fight with Grandma and Grandpa?”
Oh, boy.
She had brought this on herself, of course. Confronting Robert while Jack sat there in the car was a reactionary mistake with a long ripple of consequences.
“I guess we’re all kind of sad about that,” she admitted. “But we’re trying to work it out.”
“It’s about the BB gun, isn’t it? ’Cause if it is, I really don’t need one.”
Why hadn’t she connected that before? She should have, in order to prevent Jack from feeling responsible. “The BB gun has nothing to do with it. And you’ve done nothing wrong. I promise.”
Relief passed over his face, but just a thin shade. “You ... still love each other, don’t you?”
Although odds of reconciling had become immeasurably remote, she was mindful in choosing her words.
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, just like kids do. In our hearts, we still care about each other. The most important thing is, we all love you very much.” She touched his round nose with her finger. “Okeydokey?”
He smiled halfway and nodded.
“Good. Now, close your eyes and get some rest.”
She stroked his head again until he drifted into a peaceful sleep. As his breathing rose and fell, ebbing him further from wakefulness, she caught the gaze of a man. Captain America stared from the Avengers poster across the room. The same character wa
s plastered across Jack’s latest backpack.
A hero, she realized, of World War Two.
Her attention moved to the model planes in the corner. She’d always attributed Jack’s fascination with bombers and other aircraft to his stuffed 747, a favorite gift from his third birthday. But what if it was the other way around? Maybe the plush toy had become his favorite because of interest that already existed.
A mumbled phrase drifted from Jack’s mouth. Nothing she could make out. Typically she would let him be, but now she couldn’t afford to ignore it.
She spoke just above a whisper. “What’d you say, Jack?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . ,” he said, resembling a three-beer slur, like the day he’d ingested laughing gas before having a cavity filled. On the car ride home, he had rambled on and on, sharing every thought that entered his head.
Perhaps once more she could benefit from his narrow interim of consciousness.
She leaned closer to his ear. Against her dwindling skepticism, she pushed out the name that consistently eased his nightmares: “Jakob.”
Not seeing a reaction, she tried again, more pronounced. “Jakob Hemel.”
Jack didn’t answer, but his breath hitched.
“Buddy, is that who your dreams are about?”
A hum indicated agreement and sent Audra’s mind spinning.
Vivian’s necklace. Isaak’s letter. Was it possible Jakob and Isaak knew each other? Served as pilots in the war?
She tempered her volume, so as not to wake him. “Jack,” she said, “do you know who Isaak is?”
He shifted onto his side, angling his face away. But she couldn’t let up. She sensed a window open between them. She would have to hurry before it closed.
“Could you tell me why he—” Not he. To make progress, she would have to buy in fully. As Dr. Shaw had told her, what she believed didn’t matter right now, only what Jack did. “Why are you here? Is there a reason you’ve come back?”
At that, he resumed his mumbling.
She held her ponytail aside and hovered her ear over his mouth. The response came in jagged pieces: “So ... finally ... she can ... be with him....”
The Pieces We Keep Page 21
