Dodging and Burning

by John Copenhaver

  “Look,” Jay said, nodding toward the Vellums’ house. A man and a woman came out of the front door. The man was Frank Vellum. Although I couldn’t see his face, I recognized his shape and his mannerisms. His arms moved in angry jabs, and his voice was loud and biting, but just noise, nothing we could make out. The woman ignored him and kept walking to a dark sedan at the edge of the road. She wore a black, wide-brimmed hat, carried a makeup bag and a small suitcase, and was wrapped in a dark raincoat, which, for summer weather, was peculiar. She was young and moved quick, but her steps were uneven, like she was off-balance, even drunk. I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t think she was Bernice Hersh. She seemed too young, too short. Could it be Aunt Kathy? Was she involved? She might know what happened to Lily.

  The woman dropped into the passenger side of the car, and Frank hesitated at the driver’s side, his hand on top of the car. Then, in a furious motion, Frank got in and slammed the door.

  “What are they up to?” Jay said, genuinely surprised.

  The sedan’s lights shot on and the car pulled out, its wheels tearing through the gravel. Jay started the wagon, and we were in pursuit.

  We followed them back over the mountain, swinging through all the curves and blind corners again, this time in the dark, insect-speckled night. Jay kept a tight grip on the wheel and sat a little forward, his eyes like glass beads catching the beams from passing cars. We cut through Royal Oak, north to south, and bright-lit windows like candid snapshots passed us by, exposing the interiors of people’s lives—families having dinner or washing dishes or listening to the radio or dancing or playing cards or just sitting and staring back.

  As we neared Hersh’s Pharmacy, I thought maybe the woman in the car was Bernice Hersh, after all. Frank’s car slowed down in front of the pharmacy, but it kept moving through town to the train depot behind Main Street. The 10:00 train to Charlottesville, Culpepper, and Washington would be passing through soon, its whistle echoing down the valley.

  Frank swerved and braked at the curb, and the woman flung herself from the car, still clutching her bags, tottering a bit like she was still tipsy—or emotional. I saw her face under the streetlight, just for a second. It was beautiful, bright, and blank like a clean sheet of paper, not a face I knew. She smacked the door closed with her suitcase. Without a good-bye, Frank made a U-turn and drove back past us, his face as still as a statue in the dim light.

  “Go,” Jay said. “Go talk to her.”

  “What?”

  We heard the hollow sound of the train whistle. It wouldn’t stop for long, maybe five minutes, if that.

  “Go,” Jay said.

  I jumped out of the car. “Come with me,” I said. I could see the engine’s light growing brighter, a dot, then a circle of light down the tracks.

  “Go—before she’s gone.”

  “Please come with me!”

  “Go! Now.”

  I had lost sight of her, so I headed to the platform. By the time I reached it, the train was pulling in. Its huge metal wheels cranked to a halt, slow and deliberate, like the locomotive was dying in little gasps. Then, the engine sent a blast of steam through a small cluster of people on the platform. The men grabbed their hats, and the women adjusted their cotton dresses as the light fabric blew back against their legs.

  Just inside the station door, I saw the woman holding a ticket in her hand, her luggage arranged neatly at her feet. Her face was in shadow, but her chin, a streak of silvery skin, peeked out, inviting me to come closer. I walked toward her, terrified, wanting to know what it was I needed to see, what I was supposed to say, what Jay had wanted me to understand, feeling like I was stepping across some invisible border that divided the realm of my imagination and the real world.

  “All aboard!” the conductor called out, and the woman glanced up, and we were looking at each other, dead-on. She had thin purple lips, high cheekbones, and the smooth, thick makeup of an urbanite. Her hair was pulled back and tucked into her hat, a loose curl or two drifting at the sides of her face. Her eyes, however, were glassy and raw, and a little puzzled to be regarding me. The clamor of passengers boarding the train flowed around us. I was about to speak, to say something stupid, when I noticed the pearls around her neck, and it was somehow that detail—not her clothes, not her face, not even her eyes—that made me realize I was standing in front of Lily Vellum, in the flesh.

  8

  A DATE WITH

  DEATH

  A Handsome Stranger

  Sheila fidgeted and dropped her purse. It had been perched in her lap while she had her drink.

  “Let me get that for you,” Thomas said, and retrieved it. She liked his wide shoulders, the curl in his thick brown hair, and the way his cologne brightened when he moved. She was also terrified of him. She was sure he was the man in the photos. Was she crazy? Or was this some mental trick, like déjà vu? She had dreamed of a handsome stranger arriving and sweeping her off her feet so many times since Kenneth left her. He seemed a figment of her imagination. And even if she had seen what she thought she saw in the album, who could say it depicted the truth? Who was to say what that even was? Besides, she had some say-so in her fate, right? She had free will. It was a law of nature. She had decided a long time ago that she wouldn’t be trapped on a farm in New Jersey, growing potatoes like her father and mother. Now the world was hers for the taking.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the purse from him cautiously.

  “Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t look like the sort of hausfrau out for the evening I’d expect to see in a joint like this. What I mean is, you don’t look like you’re from around here. Take that as a compliment.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to.” She frowned a little.

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York City.”

  “I was right. Thank God.”

  “And you?”

  “The same.”

  “Why are you here?”

  The bartender interrupted and asked what Thomas would like to drink. “Whiskey. Straight up.”

  “I should be going,” Sheila said, standing from her stool.

  “Stay. Indulge me a little.”

  Sheila liked the way he was smiling at her. He did have more than a little charm.

  “Get the lady another one,” he said to the bartender. “What were you drinking?”

  “Just a club soda and lime.”

  “A club soda for the lady,” he said loudly, and looked her way again. “What’s your name? You haven’t mentioned it.”

  “Sheila Fury.”

  “You don’t say. Fury. What a fiery name! I bet you’re passionate.”

  “You’re just flirting.”

  “Yes—but I speak the truth. Names tell you everything about a person.”

  “Such as?”

  “Their background. Where they come from. Who they come from. I knew a man named Walter Roosevelt. A king of a man. You can hear it in his name. I knew another man. This guy, he called himself Sid Ciscero.”

  “He sounds like a movie star—or a goon.”

  “You’re good at this! He was a failed actor turned petty crook. Can I offer you a smoke?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He took out a cigarette, caught it between his lips, and lit it with a silver lighter.

  “You hang out with crooks a lot?” she asked.

  “Oh, Sid? He was the friend of a relative.”

  Sheila’s club soda arrived. She toyed with the lime but didn’t take a sip. “Why are you here again?”

  “Haven’t said. I’m visiting family.”

  “I’m here because of family too.”

  “Oh really?”

  “My aunt passed away.”

  “Too bad. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t know her. She was a bit of a crook herself—or that’s what they say. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. She was glamorous, and I’m thankful to her. I’m going to travel the world and have wonderful a
dventures because of her. I’m saying good-bye to this dull life.”

  “See, I knew you were fiery!” He slapped the bar.

  She laughed and smiled at him. He slid his hand close to hers. The tips of his fingers brushed against her skin. The experience at her aunt’s had faded, now just a faint murmur in the back of her mind, and she slipped into easy conversation with Thomas.

  His surname was Finn, and he lived in Manhattan and worked for a bank. His girlfriend had recently thrown him over for a rich head doctor. He asked many questions. She liked that he took such an interest in her. She told him about growing up in Parsippany and moving to New York City; about her first job as a waitress at Larry’s Restaurant, a grubby dump in the Village; about landing her first real job at Waverly; about meeting Kenneth in the elevator; about falling for him; about his being a bum; and about her divorce finalizing in a few weeks. As she spoke, she felt better, more in control of her senses, more herself again. Eventually, she decided she had to return to her aunt’s house. She needed to finish getting the papers in order and head back to her little apartment in the city.

  They were outside, standing beneath the wooden bear, his outreaching paws just above Thomas’s head. The light from the lounge transformed the drizzle into a fine red mist. The White Mountain Lounge’s mascot seemed fierce in the scarlet shadows, but Sheila felt safe, even lighthearted.

  “Good night,” she said, smiled, and started to turn away.

  He caught her arm and moved in. “When we’re both back in town, we’ll go on a proper date.”

  He was so close to her. She could smell the musk on his damp skin. She could see the subtle flex of his jaw muscle and the perfect shape of his lips.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly.

  He leaned into her and kissed her.

  14

  BUNNY

  Before I could speak to my father, I had to wait quietly, respectfully, for him to finish reading an article in Life. I fidgeted like a little girl, twisting my sweet-sixteen pendant around my finger and picking the remains of the little girl’s cotton candy off my blouse.

  On the cover of the magazine, in faded black-and-white, Nazi prisoners marched with their hands on their heads. About a week before, Truman had dropped the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The war had ended, but it hadn’t completely sunk in. We were still sorting out the truth from the propaganda—one story had been told, a tale with all the correct proportions and hopeful conclusions, but another, much more unpleasant one had been lived. I wondered if the same weren’t true of Jay.

  “Yes, what is it? You’ve been sitting there very patiently,” my father said. He laid the magazine on the side table, smoothing out the dog-eared page he had been reading.

  Father had traditional good looks. His red-brown hair had gone gray at the temples, and his sturdy face was grooved at the dimples and the corners of his eyes without seeming weathered or dry. His cheeks and chin were always a bit grizzled, like he didn’t care too much about his appearance, a nonchalance I envied because I had not inherited it from him. He had a presence about him that calmed me—perhaps it was his eyes, which were the color of silvery winter clouds, or the slow, bottomless breaths he took before answering a question or responding to a request. After what I had seen at the carnival, as much as I wanted to talk, I also just wanted to sit with him, to be his daughter for a little while.

  “Daddy, I need to use the car. I want to go shopping in the city.”

  “Are you going with someone?”

  “I know where to go. I’ve been with Mother. I’d rather be on my own.”

  “You are very independent. But I don’t like you going alone, not with the war still on.”

  “They’re not seriously worried about Washington being bombed. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t care what the newspapers are saying. We just bombed Japan, and yes, they surrendered, but they could still retaliate. Another Pearl Harbor. Who knows? I would feel better if you were with someone.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like a snoot, but I can’t take friends from Royal Oak. They wouldn’t appreciate the price tags on the dresses, if you catch my meaning.”

  “All too well. Your mother has refined my appreciation for price tags.”

  “I’m using the money I earned at the plant.”

  “If it’s your money, I can’t stop you. But I insist you return before it gets dark. It’s dangerous at night in the city. You’ll have to ask your mother too. She may not have enough gas on the ration book.”

  Mother immediately embraced the idea. She poured me a cup of coffee and sat across from me at the kitchen table, eager to strategize and embrace a moment of mother-daughter bonding. “I always make a plan,” she told me. “You need to be a smart shopper.”

  I told her I needed a fall coat, perhaps something in chocolate brown and nicely tailored, and a pair of black shoes, patent leather with a substantial heel. Nothing too blocky, though.

  Narrowing her eyes and smiling, she said, “How much do you have to spend?”

  “Thirty dollars.”

  “Hmm.” Her glossy red nails gleamed as she tapped her thin porcelain coffee cup. “I’ll give you an extra ten, and you can pay me back. I’d hate for your trip to be less than a total success.”

  “And gas?”

  “I haven’t used my ration coupons for this week. You should be fine.”

  Before I left, I hugged both of my parents. I made a point of this. It was a secret apology. Of course, I hadn’t told them the real reason I was going to DC.

  Mother gave me her map and drew X’s with red pencil to indicate all the stores that met her standards: “Go to Woodies first, and then Garfinckel’s. Woodies has the best coats. Both have wonderful selections of shoes. You’re sure to find something that suits your fancy.”

  When I stopped for gas on the edge of town, I made a call to the operator and had her patch me through to the Howard, which I discovered was on 8th Street NW. I figured I would start there. I had brought the article about Lily from the Royal Oak Times and the photograph of Jay he had given me before he left for the war.

  The weather was particularly beautiful that day, one of those afternoons with impossibly blue skies, trees fluttering with shades of green, and limestone cliffs nearly white in the sun. My mind felt refreshed, sharp, clear. A theory began to bloom. Perhaps Lily had been Jay’s secret lover and had died horribly at the hands of her abusive boyfriend Billy, who killed her because, let’s see … he thought she was pregnant with Jay’s child! It could be. And Jay was using Ceola and me to bring Billy to justice—or, at the very least, to grieve for Lily.

  The intricacies of my self-deception have to be admired.

  On that drive, I created an alternate emotional reality for Jay, and I convinced myself it was true. If a flaw poked its ugly head through my reasoning, I dismissed it. For instance, why did Lily write, “I can do without the pushy girls at the Showboat or the boys in uniform at Carroll’s (but I’m sure you don’t mind a look!)”?

  Don’t over interpret, I said to myself. Detectives only deal with facts and concrete observations, don’t they?

  And so my brilliant hypotheses continued. Jay kissed Ceola only because she had asked him to. She was getting curious about sex, and adolescent girls have been known to do such things. He had felt obliged to kiss her, because he knew she was grieving, too, and she needed the attention. But why there, on the Ferris wheel, in plain view of Royal Oak? Another ripple in my smooth reasoning. It made me drive faster.

  My mind returned to what I thought I knew—namely, the passionate kiss Jay and I had had before the war. His kiss with Ceola was only for a moment, a messy, awkward event, but our kiss was the bright crystal of evidence, the tangible fact, indicating the most authentic of connections—the spark of true love.

  In the 1940s, servicemen and -women and other government workers filled DC, giving color and movement to those austere, self-important façades, those Parthenonic symbols of a democracy. Boar
dinghouses became overrun, and the temporary Navy and Munitions Buildings along the Mall teemed with employees like massive beehives. The newly constructed Pentagon, the largest office building in the world at the time, glowed from across the Potomac; a monolith, a vision of impenetrability.

  The city went beyond the purely symbolic. It functioned practically, both by housing the offices of a nation at war and by inspiring an imaginative conception of what our nation was and who we were, particularly in the face of evil from abroad. It is no wonder my romance with DC began during that time.

  I drove into the city across the Key Bridge, with Georgetown’s gothic steeples and spires pitched against the sky. I made my way through Georgetown and down K Street, dodging the streetcars as I went around Washington Circle. A few blocks south, between 10th and 11th Streets, I found Woodies.

  I dashed through the department store, passing by a gorgeous display of asymmetric lace and taffeta gowns in buttery yellows, emerald greens, and faded pinks, sparkling with rhinestones and intricate embroideries. In another display, mannequins posed fluidly, as if modeled from designer sketches, showing off décolletage-enhancing necklines, sheer laces, and slim-waisted silhouettes. But I didn’t have time to gawk.

  I usually enjoyed shopping at a leisurely pace, trying on outfits and checking the fit, so this whirlwind tour through the ladies’ department was harried and unpleasant. I was brusque with the store clerks, who were being friendly and chatty, bolstered by the war’s nearing end. One woman in a pink blouse said, “My dear, you have the bone structure of a starlet; your cheeks catch the light at all the best angles.” I stopped for a moment, gave her my full attention, and told her of course it wasn’t true, but thank you. She insisted I try on a gray felt tam. I indulged her but decided against it.

  I thought of Lily trying for a job here. I imagined her modeling dresses for the fall preview, drifting through the store, smiling and spinning to show her dress to customers: “This comes in dusted rose and silver pearl too.”