Dodging and Burning

by John Copenhaver

  He caught me looking and smiled.

  I said, “Was it hard for you when you were growing up? You’ve never said much about being a boy. What was it like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did your parents love you even though you weren’t—well, what I’m sure they’d hoped you would be?”

  “Oh. Well, my mom came around. She understood. My dad … he never got over it. I went to visit him in the hospital when he was dying and he wouldn’t see me. It was terrible, but I survived. It was his loss.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why are you interested?”

  “When I was a young woman, I was very cruel once—to a young man, a gay man. It’s something I’ve regretted deeply for years. It ended sadly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I need your help.” I reached across the table and covered his strong hand with mine. “I also need you to keep a secret. I don’t want Kevin to know. It’s best for children not to know their parents too well. It undercuts our authority. You understand, don’t you?”

  “What do you need?”

  I gave his hand a little pat and released it. “I need to find someone. It’s been years. I thought with your resources in the police department, you could help. It’s important. It has to do with that young man I just mentioned.”

  “What can I do?”

  I reached into my purse and handed him an envelope. Inside was Lily’s name and address from years ago. I had briefly communicated with her after Jay’s death. It was a place to begin. “Take this. See what you can find out. Lily would be about my age. At one time, she had beautiful blond hair—and dark eyes. Do it quickly, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  A week later, Parker dropped by the house unannounced. I invited him in, but he declined. He was on duty.

  “Here’s a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers,” he said. “I’ve narrowed it down to about six based on the information you gave me. There was only one who fit your description in terms of age, so I decided to pay her a visit. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell her who I was or that I was connected to you. But Kevin would kill me if I sent you into the city searching for a strange woman without checking it out first. There are people out there who take advantage of the elderly.”

  “I don’t need a watchdog, and I detest being referred to as ‘the elderly.’”

  He smiled. “Do you want to know what I found out?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “The Lily Vellum who lived at that address died a few weeks ago. The woman who answered the door was still visibly upset.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What was she like—the woman at the door?”

  “She was an older black woman. Tall. Striking.”

  I felt a little thrill in my heart. “Did she give you her name?”

  “She didn’t give me her name.”

  “Don’t be coy with me! Did you discover her name?”

  “Yes. Georgiana Gardner. It was on her mailbox.”

  “You did it! You found her. Oh, how wonderful! Poor Lily. I must pay Georgiana a visit.”

  “She lives in Shaw.”

  “Will you take me there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must.”

  “All right—but Kevin should know.”

  “No. Don’t tell him. I need this to remain private.”

  “Bunny.”

  “I need you to do this for me.”

  “This weekend, then. He’ll be out of town.”

  When Georgiana opened the door, she said, “Well, I’ll be! You found me.” She looked as if she had been expecting me for lunch, as if I’d merely been running late. “Come on in, honey.”

  She was still tall, slender, and graceful. Her body had resisted the slow collapse inward, the osteoporotic crumble. She was wearing a simple black dress, her thin waistline defined by a patent leather belt clasped with a gold, snail-shaped buckle. Her hair was pulled back, flat against her skull, and silvery-white, the color I imagined my hair was underneath the chestnut colorant.

  I followed her down the main hall of her dim, rosewater-scented townhouse into a living room with high Victorian ceilings and a jumble of oak and mahogany furniture, positioned at artistic but inefficient angles. Georgiana stopped, faced me, and asked if I would like something to drink. I asked for water, and she disappeared into the back of the house.

  The walls of the living room were cluttered with art. Personal photos mingled with bright, amateurish abstract works and African tribal masks. A stereo and speaker system, circa 1980, were tucked into a recessed bookshelf, surrounded by a dusty collection of vinyl. A large mirror loomed over the fireplace, leaning outward and reflecting the deep red Turkish rug in its surface. I sat on the love seat and looked up at myself in the mirror. My powdered, rouged face stared back at me from under my hood of dark hair, and my lilac cardigan shone brightly against the dark tones of the decor. I’m not unattractive for a woman my age, still bright around the eyes and not too much plastic surgery, but I can’t claim the elasticity of motion that Georgiana possessed. She seemed years younger than she actually was. I was a little jealous.

  When she returned, she was holding a weathered manila folder in her free hand. She sat beside me and laid the envelope on the coffee table, as if she wanted me to ask about it. Parker would be back in thirty minutes, so I wanted to get on with it. I took the water, sipped it, and spoke: “I won’t beat around the bush. Did you send Ceola and me those photos—the photos Jay told us were of Lily? I’m sure you know the ones I mean.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Jay always wanted you to have them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The regal haughtiness in Georgiana’s face melted. She brought her hand to her mouth as if to stopper the emotion rising up through her.

  “When did Lily pass?” I asked gently.

  “Just a month ago. She didn’t wake up one morning. Everyone should be able to die so quietly.”

  “You must be distraught. I’ll come back when you’re feeling up to it.” I made to stand up.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wanted you to come. I just don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. God knows, Lily and I fought about it enough. We had a wonderful life together, but this we never agreed on. I feel like I’m betraying her, you see. When I was a little girl, my mother told me there were two important rules to live by: ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and keep all the promises you make.’ Lily didn’t do that, and I’ve never approved. I sent you and Ceola those photos as a sort of test of fate. I wanted to know if you were still interested in them. If you were, I knew you would find me. And here you are.”

  “You’ve lost me, dear.”

  She reached over and picked up the folder on the coffee table. “Jay sent this to us only a few days before he died, the day Japan surrendered.”

  “August fourteenth?”

  “Jay was already dead when we opened the package. The photos I sent you and Ceola came from this folder.”

  I took it and opened it. Inside were dozens of photographs, images from the war. Snapshots of soldiers at work and at play, both the healthy and the hospitalized, were shuffled in with the bruised and torn landscapes of central Europe and occasional studies of natural settings—the woods at dusk, snow on a wet bow, and the like. For the most part, they were artistic, not journalistic, in their composition. There were also photographs of Robbie, a lover’s images. Robbie was handsomer than I remembered, his grin puckish and wise, his countenance more self-assured. There were a few of those startling, extraordinary images of me from my eighteenth birthday party; there was a shot of me from our picnic by the creek. There were several photos of Ceola too. She had a funny smirk on her face in each one, as if she were a little shy to have her picture taken. And of course, there were man
y shots of the dead Terry Trober.

  A note was with the photographs:

  August 9, 1945

  Dear Lily,

  I need you to keep these photos and keepsakes safe. When I’m gone, I want you to give them to Ceola Bliss, Robbie’s younger sister—who you will have just met, I imagine—and Bonita Prescott of Royal Oak, Virginia.

  You must deliver them in person when no one else is around. These images are only for their eyes. They are the only ones who will really understand them.

  You are probably wondering why I didn’t give them to you in person, but of course that would mean explaining to you why I’m leaving them in your safekeeping. I no longer have use for them. As I told you, I’ve bent everything out of shape, I’ve made a true mess of things. I’m going to tell my story if I can bear it and then be done.

  You and George have seen me through so much. We’ve been good friends. It’s important you do this for me. It’s the only way to end things right.

  —Love, J

  “Lily thought he was planning to kill himself,” Georgiana said. “When we heard news of the accident, Lily couldn’t believe it. In fact, she even returned to Royal Oak to speak with Jay’s grandmother. Mrs. Greenwood refused to see her, so she never found out more than the newspapers told us. Eventually, she decided she would hold on to these keepsakes and not send them to you or to Ceola. She didn’t want to confuse you. If it was truly an accident, she thought, then why tell the people who loved him he was planning to kill himself? I disagreed with her. We fought about it, but it was her decision in the end. The note was addressed to her. She took the contents and placed them in a safe-deposit box. She thought she would send them to you one day. That, of course, never happened.

  “When she died, bless her soul, she left everything to me. When I came across them again, well, my conviction held. It became my decision, so I sent those photographs to you, although it took me a little while to track down your current addresses.”

  “What’s this?” I said. I had discovered an envelope stuck to the back of a photograph. It had accidentally adhered to a spot where removed tape had left a tacky residue. I removed it carefully like a forensic pathologist from one of my novels would. It was a V-mail envelope addressed to Jay in southern England. The return address had been ruined by the tape’s adhesive. It had a red inspection stamp on it—“Passed by Army Examiner, 24610”—and the inspector’s signature. I slid two pieces of paper out of the envelope. The first was a letter:

  September 5, 1944

  Jay,

  Your letter cheered me up when I was feeling blue the other day. You always know when to send them. It’s so damn hot and muggy down here. You wouldn’t believe it. It never stops raining. Water from below, water from above, they say.

  I’ve been thinking—when I get home, I’m not going to return to Royal Oak. Mama and Papa deserve that. I’m going to a big city. Maybe we can get an apartment together. Can you imagine the two of us in DC or NYC! Or maybe we can go somewhere south, where there’s a beach. I remember what you said about the beaches in Miami. Anyway, I could write stories about the war, and you could take pictures, and maybe we could even make a little money doing it.

  I met this Aussie here. He says I’m such a “dag,” which he tells me means I’m a funny guy. He’s the funny one. He talks a lot about leaving the Navy. He says it would be easy to switch tags with a fallen soldier and then vanish under a new name. Even if they came looking for him, he says, they’d be looking for someone else. I know he’s joking—it’s just the heat getting to him—but he talks about hopping a cargo ship and not stopping until he gets to the other side of the world. I told him he wouldn’t belong to a country, he’d be a nobody. He said he didn’t care, he was okay with that, but he was drunk, you know. I wish I had his guts! I hate this place. It’s hell, perfect hell.

  Anyway, I’ve enclosed a crossword puzzle. I made it hard. Have fun! Oh, by the way, thanks for the word search! But I never know where to begin. I’m terrible at it.

  I’ll be thinking of you, hoping you avoid the worst of it. I can’t wait for this to be over. There’s so much I want to do.

  —R. B.

  I handed Georgiana the letter. She read it. Then she edged close to me, and we inspected the crossword together:

  Across

  2. Took a bite from the forbidden fruit

  3. _____ and Andy

  5. A hot week in October

  7. Black, not grene

  10. We never have enough of this.

  11. _____ isn’t everything.

  12. All gerunds have these.

  13. More or _____

  15. Leave of absence

  16. “No man is an _____.”

  17. _Captain from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

  18. Walt’s Elephant

  19. Submarine

  21. Charles Foster Kane

  Down

  1. A cat with spots

  3. Absent from your post

  4. Royal Oak, _____

  6. Arch enemy

  8. _____ you were here.

  14. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, _____ me your ears.”

  20. Eclipse

  22. Peek-a-boo Girl

  23. Bird of prey

  24. “First you say you do, and then you don’t, and then you say you will, and then you won’t…”

  Jay had finished it. However, he hadn’t filled in all the letters of the final word. I didn’t know the answer immediately. To my surprise, Georgiana began to hum, eyes closed, swaying a little, the words slowly emerging from her throat.

  “It’s Ella Fitzgerald,” I said. “‘Undecided’ is the final answer.”

  She continued to hum for a few minutes, lost a little in the song.

  “Do you still sing?” I asked.

  “Every day, honey.”

  “Did you make a career out of it?”

  “For a time. In a small way.”

  “Lena Horne was your idol. I remember.”

  “Indeed.” She looked at me and winked. “Here, you should have these.” She handed me the entire folder. “You should share them with Ceola too.” She glanced at her watch and stood up. “I need to run a bath. I have choir practice in an hour. Show yourself out, if you would.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  “Come and see me again, you hear.”

  “Yes.”

  21

  CEOLA

  Seeing someone in the flesh after so many years, someone who’d taken up so much room in my memory, someone who I had once hated, was downright intimidating, so I told the cabbie to drop me at the corner, a few houses down from Bunny’s place.

  As I made my way up the sidewalk, I dug my Slims out of my pocketbook and smoked one to settle my nerves. The street was empty, just a few dry leaves scraping against themselves in the trees, the city honking and screeching the next block over. Although many of the row houses were peeling paint and slouching forward in their foundations, Bunny’s three-story home was a prime example of top-dollar gentrification. She had herself a garden lined with a wrought iron fence and decorated with a marble birdbath and miniature Greek gods. In the spring, it would be something of a showpiece, I imagined. The house itself was red brick with shiny black shutters and a wreath of holly berries hanging on the front door. I stopped at the bottom of the steps, my nerves buzzing again.

  Then, like that, the front door opened, and there she was.

  “Hello,” she said. “I saw you coming!”

  She was wearing an expensive beige suit with a peacock scarf tucked under her lapel and a double strand of pewter-gray pearls around her neck. She had her face on, lips painted deep red. I’d given up the layers of makeup and manicures ages ago. I wonder what she thought of me with my red-brown curls, my drooping, mannish face, my neglected fingernails, my QVC jewelry. I remembered her, all primped and puffed, on the day Jay first told us about Lily. She had looked so beautiful and haughty in that strawberry-red dress. So I said, “You look good,
Bunny,” although I’m not sure how I meant it.

  “Do not go gentle into that good night,” she replied. “It’s my motto.”

  “Well, it seems to be working.”

  “It’s good to see you, dear.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

  For most of the afternoon, we sat in the kitchen, sipping lukewarm coffee and snacking on ladyfingers and ginger snaps, which she had displayed all nice and neat, like she was trying to impress me. We gabbed about everything. I asked her why she decided to write. She just smiled and said, “My dear, you know the answer to that.” I told her I liked The Black Box, her novel about the newspaper photographer who witnesses a murder, but I thought the solution to Guilty by Midnight was as plain as day from the get-go. She took my criticism in stride, which made me feel better about being there. I was hoping she’d be open to what I had to say to her.

  She told me about her father and that lovely mother of hers, Carla. She told me about her ex-husband and her children, especially her son, Kevin, whose application for the adoption of a little boy, she’d just learned, had been approved. She was proud of him.

  She asked about Sam and the boys. I elaborated on Sam’s fall from the roof, and how it was raising three boys on my own, and how it was working with doctors and patients up at Twin Oaks. I even told her I’d started to write down my thoughts about that summer, about Jay and you. I also let her know I had pulled away from Mama and Papa after Jay was killed and that Mama had stopped speaking to me once I graduated high school. Papa had made nice, but our relationship had always remained strained.

  “On his deathbed, he reached out to me,” I told her, “his painkillers blurring past and present, and touched my hand and said, ‘Robbie, I’m sorry. Please talk to me, son. I’m sorry.’ I didn’t correct him. Instead, I told him I loved him, and I rubbed his head awhile.”