Kip reached for the lid with shaking hands. He lifted slowly, releasing an aroma of days gone by: musty air laced with a touch of decay.
He sifted through the contents, opening oilskin-wrapped packages. Engrossed now, he pawed through photos, yellowed papers, two books, brochures, and stacks of letters without envelopes, tied with a blue ribbon. I spotted a metal tin box, a crumbling pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, a plaid bow tie, postcards of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, and a rusted safety razor.
“Where is it?” he muttered under his breath. “Where in God’s name is it?”
A photo escaped the pile and fluttered to the floor, landing face up at my feet. I picked it up and studied the woman in the picture. The black and white print was worn and slightly out of focus, its ragged edges smoothed from years of handling. It appeared to be the kind of shot a movie star would hand out to fans. Originally signed on the lower right hand corner, the wrinkled and peeled markings looked as if something had spilled on them long ago.
The woman eyed the photographer with a sideways glance, holding a microphone in her slender hand. Her lips, a ripe curvy ribbon, pursed against the mesh cover of the microphone as she apparently crooned, illuminated by stage lights. Her other hand touched the jeweled necklace on her bodice. Dusky skin glistened under the lights with a slight sheen of perspiration. Although I held the picture for less than a minute, I sensed raw emotion streaming from her dark eyes.
I handed it to Kip. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
He blanched, collapsing with relief, and took it from me. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” His eyes devoured the cracked image, soaking it in for a long time. He closed them, clasped the photo against his chest, and smiled. Tears ran down his cheeks.
I sat silent beside him, waiting for him to recover. A crow flew past the window and landed on a nearby limb, squawking at us. He fluffed his feathers, then soared into the woods.
I thought of the numerous photos I had of Elsbeth, and tried to imagine how hard it would be to have only one picture of my darling first wife. I would guard it with my life.
When he opened his eyes again, they danced with memories. He turned the photo over and read the inscription on the back. “Ah. I remember now. I remember.” Once again, he pressed her to his heart. After a minute, almost reluctantly, he held it up, facing me. “Gus?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I want to introduce you to someone. Meet my… Bella.”
I stared at the photo again. “She’s stunning.”
The image seemed to breathe before my eyes. The low cut bodice of Bella’s ermine trimmed velvet dress plunged provocatively, caressing her well-proportioned body. I imagined the softness of the fabric. Perhaps it was green? One of her earrings sparkled in the camera’s flash. It looked like a diamond stud.
“I loved her with all my heart,” Kip sighed. “And then I lost her.”
I touched his arm. “Can you remember anything else about her? How did you lose her? Do you remember?”
He propped the picture against the valise and stared at it. “It’s been so long.”
“I know. Maybe if you think back to the last time you saw her. Can you remember that?”
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “No. The memories are still in bits and pieces. But I do see flashes of…”
“Of what?”
“A bedroom with green shades on the windows. It was someone else’s apartment, I believe. Someone who let us use it for our trysts. There was a yellow lamp by the bed. And a red coverlet.” He looked at me as if hoping the details would help, then his face fell. “That’s not very useful, is it?”
“Well, maybe not the room details. But if you could remember who owned the room, we could start to hunt for them. Or a street sign outside the apartment? A building address? A room number?”
“I think it was a woman’s place. Maybe a friend of Bella’s. Or… her cousin, perhaps?”
He looked at me as if I had the answer, and then his face clouded over. “I have a recurring dream about something else. A plane crash. We were flying near some RAF planes. We weren’t on duty, we were… it was something about an upcoming performance, I think. We…our wings iced over. We lost control. Flames. Everywhere. We crashed.”
His eyes dulled and he seemed to deflate. “I don’t remember any more.”
I sat up. “That’s okay. The dream could be telling us you served in the war. It was probably WWII, right? And Debbie said you’d been ‘in the system’ since 1944. So the timing fits. Now, if we can just get a hint as to your surname. Was Kip your nickname? Or your given name?”
“I remember my mother calling me Kip, when she called me in for dinner.”
“Good. That means it was either your first name, or a nickname. Hey,” I squeezed his shoulder. “We’re getting somewhere.”
Realizing I should probably be taking notes, I reached for the pad of paper and pencil he’d been using earlier. “Do you mind if I read this?” I asked, motioning toward the full page of notes. He nodded his approval and I carefully tore the page off the pad. Before I could forget, I scribbled a few notes.
1) Service in WWII. What branch?
2) Kip - first name.
3) Plane crash, RAF?
4) A performance? Musical?
I folded up the paper with my notes and studied his list. Kip’s compact neat handwriting slanted to the left. It reminded me of my mother’s writing. She’d been left-handed, but in their misguided sense of conformance, the school had forced her to write with her right hand. Somehow, that had translated to a left-slanted script.
Questions about his identity filled the first side of the page.
Who was my father? Did I have siblings? Where was I born? On the back, he described a white house with a porch and a tree swing. A dog named Charlie. But most of the notes seemed to relate to Bella. Gifts he’d given her, things she’d said to him, memories of a trip to the beach.
He pushed the rolling table back and started to get up. I rushed to help him.
“I’m tired.” He sounded defeated.
Hobbling along the linoleum to the other side of the bed, he leaned on my arm, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. I helped him slide onto the mattress and tugged off his slippers, setting them beside his bed on the floor. He managed to get on the bed and I covered him with a sheet and blanket.
“I’m sorry I tired you out, Kip. Maybe next time we should take it a little slower.”
He leaned back against his pillow, already losing the battle with sleep. I was about to leave, when he spoke.
“Gus?”
“Yes?”
“Please come again.”
My heart stuttered. His voice sounded so frail. And the sense of loneliness sifting through his words pained me. “Of course I’ll come back. You can count on it. Maybe even tomorrow. Would that be okay?”
“That would be just dandy.” His words trailed off into a drowsy mumble. I backed out of the room quietly and headed for home.
Chapter Sixteen
When I pulled into the yard, my heart stopped. Freddie’s Sienna van sat squarely in the driveway.
Usual spot. Wrong time of day.
Are the kids sick? Did something happen to them?
My brain imagined the worst, as it always did, until I ran into the kitchen and found her frowning over a cookbook.
“Hi, Dad.” She didn’t look up.
“You’re home early. What’s up?”
Most weekdays, she closed the veterinary clinic at six and arrived home by six-fifteen. It was barely four o’clock.
She blew a loose lock of hair out of her eyes. “I closed up early. I’m cooking tonight.”
My face remained passive, with eyebrows raised in apparent delight. Inside, my heart sank. Cooking was not Freddie’s forté. “Um, what are you making?”
It was obvious. The kitchen table boasted two large jars of Ragu tomato sauce, three long baguettes, three pounds of Barilla pasta, and a head of i
ceberg lettuce. No question what she was making, it was how she was making it that got me worried.
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Nice,” I said. “You know, if you sauté some garlic, onions, and mushrooms, you can really beef up that—”
“I’ve got it covered, Dad.” She sighed with exasperation.
“It’s just that—”
“Dad!” Her eyes grew fierce, aimed right at me.
But I couldn’t help myself. “I have some leftover sausages—”
“Dad, go!” She pointed to the great room, where Siegfried and Lily knelt beside the coffee table with my grandchildren, then flapped her wrist as if shooing a fly. “Go!”
I held my hands in the air in defeat. “Okay. I’m going. I’m going.” Kicked out of my own kitchen. By my own daughter.
I grumbled my way into the great room. Fantastic creations sprawled over the newspaper-covered table.
“Professor, look! We have Play-Doh,” Siegfried practically shouted.
I crouched beside Marion, who concentrated on pushing a cookie-cutter over a pink blob.
He elaborated. “Freddie made it for us. And we added different colors. See? Red, blue, green.” His face reflected childish joy.
Cookie cutters and rolling pins cluttered the table. Several long snakes draped over the edges. A snowman with about ten spheres squashed together sat crooked in the center. Lily helped Celeste with a star cutout. And Johnny concentrated on yet another snake.
“We’re going outside. We’re gonna play Simon Says,” Johnny said.
Marion suddenly stood, scattering lumps to the floor. “Outside!” she shrieked.
Her twin copied her, dropping a huge mass of blue clay onto the Oriental carpet. “Outside! Outside!”
Siegfried grinned and stood. “Will you come?” he asked.
I was tempted, but I shook my head. “Maybe later, bud. I’ve got some research to do.”
Nobody really cared. They swarmed around Siegfried, ignoring me. I chuckled. Who wants Opa, when they have a live-in playmate like Siegfried?
“Okay, okay, meine Kinder. Auf gehts!” he said.
Johnny, Celeste, and Marion followed their pied piper, dancing at his feet and tugging on his hands. Lily stayed behind, bent over the floor. I glanced down and paled. Dozens of blobs of Play-Doh mashed into the Oriental carpet. I leaned over, cupping one hand to hold the pieces and using the other to pick them out of the fibers.
Lily put her hand on my forearm and shook her head, pointing to herself. “I do.”
I tried to shrug it off. I wanted to help.
“No. I do.” She gently pushed me back.
Although it was not in my nature to leave a job for someone else, I knew she needed to feel useful.
Her eyes pleaded. “I do.”
“Okay, okay.” I backed off and headed for the computer.
***
Twenty minutes later, I was stumped. I’d searched on “Kip,” “1944”, “find air force personnel,” “New York City,” and various combinations of the above. Plenty of sites existed to find “old war buddies,” but in all cases, the search required a full name. I was just about to give up when a pair of soft arms stole around my neck, as if reclaiming private property.
Camille sneaked a kiss onto my cheek. “Hi, honey. Whatcha doin’?”
“Searching for Kip. But it seems impossible.” My shoulders slumped.
“Here. Let me help.” She pulled up another chair and stole the keyboard. I filled her in on the day’s events, including Kip’s new memories. She tried a few more sites, then stopped and bit her lower lip. “What about Bella? Have you tried her?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. Let’s try ‘Bella,’ ‘singer,’ ‘NYC,’ and 1944.”
Nothing. And everything. But none of the hits seemed to relate to Kip’s Bella.
Camille tried various permutations, but we had no luck.
“Okay. Well, tomorrow Kip may remember more. If he can find a last name, then we can search for relatives, old friends from the service, and the like. We might even reunite him with someone, you know?” I said.
Her eyes sparkled. She leaned over and pressed her soft lips against mine, lingering longer than our usual “everyone’s around” kiss.
“Mmm. Do I sense an evening of passion ahead?” I whispered.
She got up and flounced to the kitchen, tossing her words over her shoulder with a mock provocative flourish. “Maybe. If you’re good.”
“I’ll be an angel, if that’s what it takes.” I laughed and logged off the computer.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, I faced a full classroom of students. The girls in front—Elizabeth, Charlotte, Grace, and Megan—sat at full attention, either dreamy-eyed or with their analytical brains in gear. In back lounged my slackers. Eddie, Justin, and Reggie slouched and rolled their eyes every time I extolled the glory of Paul Stuart’s opera, Kill Bear Comes Home. The projected image on the wall, courtesy of a data show, revealed Stuart’s CD cover art, a gorgeous drawing of a young woman wearing the feathery wings of a bird, and a hat with a prominent black beak.
We listened to the last track of the CD, the Finale, entitled “Let him roam again.” The music, with its strong Native American elements, soothed and excited simultaneously. This was the third Stuart opera we’d studied in the American Composers class. If all went well, Mr. Stuart would appear next week to talk about his work. I wanted the class to be well prepared, and had worked them hard.
As the haunting melodies floated over the room, my mind drifted back to the night before. Camille and Siegfried had accompanied Lily to her first English class, and after playing superheroes with Johnny, I’d searched online for information about Kip for another two hours, without success. Afterwards, I’d gone up to read, and had fallen asleep with a copy of book one in the series by my new favorite author: Allen Bradley’s The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie on my chest. The clatter of my glasses on the floor had woken me, and at nine-thirty, I’d shut off the light and rolled over. I’d missed my appointed romantic rendezvous with Camille, but she kissed me awake in the morning with promises of a rain check.
The idea of sensual pastimes with my love evoked images, once again, of Kip and Bella. I looked forward to returning to Bello Mondo in the afternoon. I’d poured over my class schedule for the next few weeks, looking for empty slots where I could visit Kip, and decided if I skipped my usual writing time, from ten to twelve, I could work in a daily visit. The book could wait. My publisher hadn’t given me a deadline. She knew better. “When it’s done, it’s done,” she’d chuckled.
At two-fifteen, I pulled into Bello Mondo and marched straight past the platinum Popsicle at the front desk. I did a double take when I reached Kip’s room and found his bed empty. The bathroom, too, was unoccupied.
I hope he’s not sick. What if he—
My brain drove me crazy. I told myself to stop worrying, realizing I’d probably find him in one of the common areas. I backtracked and headed for the sunroom. Several people leaned in the doorway, and the sound of singing burst through the air.
Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.
Anyone else but me, anyone else but me.
Voices rang out, not necessarily in tune, and someone plunked at the piano with great vigor. I squeezed past the three nursing assistants who leaned into the doorway and found a crowd gathered around the old spinet piano. Women and men in bathrobes and baggy sweaters leaned on the piano, faces glowing, mouths wide-open, heads thrown back. At the center of the group sat Kip. His hands danced over the keyboard and he bellowed along with the crowd.
The entire room seemed charged with energy today, different from ever before. Different from any nursing home I’d ever seen. An electric sense of excitement filled the air.
Adding to the clamor, a woman standing to my left was shouting into a phone.
“Stanley, it’s me.” Her face, shining with unparallel
ed joy, crinkled into tears when she paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Honest to God, hon. It’s me.” She listened some more and nodded her head enthusiastically. “I know! It’s like a miracle, Stan. I remember. I remember everything.” She paused again, nodding and crying into the phone. “They call it Memorphyl. It’s new. I’ve been on it for two weeks, and it’s like I’ve, I’ve come alive again.”
Across the room, Debbie sat beside a white-haired patient who tapped on the computer keyboard with one finger. Debbie turned and caught my eye, exploding with excitement. “Professor LeGarde, isn’t it amazing?” She trotted toward me, beaming. “Just look, they’re all coming back to us. Every last one of them.” Nodding toward Kip, a huge grin blossomed on her face. “And just look at our music man. He’s got them all singing again!”
She checked her watch. “Oh, dear. Time for meds. I’ll be right back. Almost everyone’s in here, anyway. I’ve never seen such a crowd.” She scooted out the door in a happy rush.
“Gus!” Kip called. “Come sit with me.”
I slid onto the piano bench beside him. “Hey, Kip.”
He started to play a left-handed boogie beat. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s jam.”
Momentarily taken aback, I hesitated. Jamming wasn’t exactly my forté, although I’d dabbled in blues a few years back. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”
Hesitantly at first, I improvised a bluesy melody. After a few minutes, we learned to anticipate each other, and had a rollicking rhythm going.
Kip smiled, his hands flying on the keyboard. “Love that riff, Gus.”
Two blue-haired ladies danced the jitterbug beside us, their pink and yellow bathrobes flapping in the breeze as they pirouetted and jumped around each other. I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. The dancing didn’t last long, and they fell back laughing onto the sagging plaid couch. Even their revived memories couldn’t get them in shape instantly.
“Gus?” Kip said. His eyes sparkled with secrecy.
“Yes?” I answered, but flubbed my notes. I’d never mastered talking and playing at the same time. After all, I am a guy.
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