“Hello, Walt. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”
Ben walked over to the counter, and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. “I need to pick up a few things, and I’m hoping I can special order a part.” He set the paper on the counter and pointed to the last item on the list he’d made. It was a length of hose he needed for the fuel line on the Cessna.
Walt looked at it for a moment, then said, “Is this for one of your airplanes?”
Ben nodded. “Yep.”
Walt studied it further. Then he turned around and ran a finger along the spines of the catalogues on the shelf behind him, finally pulling out the one he’d been looking for. “Should be in here,” he said. He put it down on the counter and started riffling through the pages.
Ben turned and started down one of the aisles. As he did, he called back over his shoulder, “Any update on Mary’s condition?” The last Ben had heard, Mary had emerged from her coma and was making progress toward a recovery. Thank God. He’d sent Jon a letter letting him know the news as soon as he had heard. Jon had replied, begging for details, but Ben had none to provide.
“She’s home.”
Ben turned and walked back to the counter. “Really?”
Walt nodded. “She came home about a week ago.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No. The boss says she needs to rest, on account of her coma and everything.”
Ben thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Is Mr. Dahlgren here today?”
“Uh huh,” Walt said. “He’s in his office,” and he tipped his head upwards.
“Do you think he’d mind if I stopped in and said hi?”
“Heck, no,” Walt replied, immediately. “Go on up. I’ll get the things on your list together for you.”
“Thanks, Walt.”
Ben walked over to the narrow staircase and climbed the steps. At the top, he tapped on the door. He heard a voice call out, opened the door and peered in.
Jim Dahlgren was on the phone. When he saw Ben, he gave him a startled look, but then waved for him to enter. Ben stepped into the office and, when Dahlgren pointed to one of the guest chairs, took a seat and waited patiently for the man to finish his call.
Dahlgren was obviously talking about plans for a rally and fundraiser. The election would be about six weeks from now. Dahlgren, Ben knew, had raised his profile substantially in the past several months. The newspaper was reporting that he had pulled into a dead heat with the incumbent, John Barker, quite a feat for a small town mayor.
Dahlgren wrapped up his call and put the receiver down. He half stood, leaned over the desk, and held out a hand. “Ben, this is a pleasant surprise.”
Ben accepted the proffered handshake and said, “Jim, it’s good to see you. It’s been some time. I see you’re in full campaign mode.”
Dahlgren nodded, settling back in his chair. “We’re coming down the home stretch. Things are looking good, knock on wood,” and he rapped a knuckle on the top of the desk.
“So I’ve heard. Good for you.”
“Can I count on your vote?” Dahlgren asked with a smile.
“Absolutely.”
“Well, now that we’ve got the most important thing out of the way, what brings you by?”
Ben gave a wave of his hand. “I was picking up a few things, and Walt happened to mention that Mary was home.”
Dahlgren nodded happily. “She is. I brought her back from the hospital last week.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s well. Thanks for asking. A little weak still, but gaining strength every day. The doctors think she’ll make a full recovery.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Amen,” agreed Dahlgren.
“You know, Jim, I got a chance to get to know Jon Meyer pretty well. I’ve been corresponding with him. I know he’s anxious to hear from Mary, and I imagine she’s pretty anxious to hear from him.”
A palpable change came over Dahlgren’s face at the mention of Jon’s name. His lips pursed and there was a tension around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He did not respond immediately. Instead, he glanced away, seeming to gather his thoughts. After a long moment, he looked back and said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ben.”
Ben was surprised. “Why not?”
“That was a difficult thing Mary went through. She’s in a fragile state right now. The mention of Jon Meyer brings back painful memories that she doesn’t want to have to re-live.” He leaned forward and fixed Ben with an intent gaze. “Ben, you need to tell the boy that she’s fine, but she’s moved on.”
Ben was stunned, and it took him a long moment to formulate a response. Finally, he said, “That doesn’t sound like Mary.”
There was brief confusion on Dahlgren’s face. Then he took a deep breath. “As well as you may think you know Mary, I guarantee you don’t know her as well as I do.”
Ben gave a nod of acknowledgement.
“As I said,” Dahlgren continued, “she went through a traumatic experience. You can’t possibly imagine what that was like for her. She wants to get on with her life. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s going to have to be.”
Ben nodded. “Of course. I understand,” though he really didn’t. Poor Jon, he thought. After having his hopes raised, this news would be devastating. He sighed heavily.
Both men were silent for a moment.
“Well,” Ben said. “I won’t keep you any longer. I know you’re busy.” He rose from his seat and put out a hand. “Good luck in the election.”
Dahlgren accepted his handshake. “Thanks Ben.”
With a heavy heart, Ben walked to the office door. He stepped out, closed the door, and slowly descended the stairs.
#
Internally, Gwenda winced.
“Let me understand,” Mary had just said to Gwenda. “You don’t know exactly what happened to me, but you have a general idea, right?”
Mary and Gwenda were sitting in Mary’s bedroom. School had finished for the day. Gwenda had dropped by to visit, and Sam, who was meeting with Mrs. Bell to discuss plans for this year’s school play, would be along in a bit. For the moment, it was just the two of them. They’d been listening to the radio, and Mary had been peppering Gwenda with questions designed to discover the facts surrounding her injury.
It was a subject Gwenda had been much better able to deal with when Sam was around. For the past few weeks, Sam had been adamant about following the instructions from Mary’s father and had simply refused to allow answers to even the most innocuous questions about the incident. Gwenda was realizing, belatedly, that she did not share Sam’s discipline.
The irony was that Gwenda knew a whole lot more about what had happened to Mary than she could ever tell. Than she would ever tell. And, now, Mary had pulled loose a thread in the narrative, and she was exploiting it to Gwenda’s great discomfort.
Gwenda had been relieved when Mr. Dahlgren had instructed them to steer clear of the Lodge incident. She continued to be beset with guilt over her role in luring Mary to the Lodge, though, in that respect, she’d been an unwitting accomplice. Her real sin had come after the fact, when she’d denied inviting Mary to the bogus party. She’d done so reluctantly, but Billy had made it clear that, if she admitted the story, he would be arrested. Gwenda had been unable to abide the prospect, so she’d lied to protect Billy. As a result, of course, Jon Meyer had been arrested. Even worse, Vernon King had gotten away with doing something horrible to her friend. She prayed Mary would never find out. And, yet, here was Mary, working hard to extract the details.
“Ok,” Mary said, “do you know where it happened?”
Uncertainly, Gwenda said, “Yes.”
Mary cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, no,” Gwenda said, quickly, “I can’t tell you. It’s your father’s instructions. He said the doctor…”
“Oh, poppycock,” Mary interrupted. “I know what my father said. But it doesn’t make any sense.”
Mary’s features softened. She looked down for a minute, then back at Gwenda. “Do other people know,” and she paused, then said softly, “what happened?”
Gwenda didn’t know how to respond, so she bit her tongue.
Mary looked distracted for a moment. Then she said, somewhat absently, “Does that seem fair? Is it right that everyone else…”
And then, she stopped, an odd look on her face. She blinked a couple of times, but her eyes did not seem to be focused on anything in particular.
“Mary?”
Mary continued to look off into nowhere. On the radio, Judy Garland was singing How About You?
With a sudden chill, Gwenda leaned forward and put a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary,” she said urgently.
Mary’s eyes slowly refocused, and she looked at Gwenda. “I saw him again.”
“Who did you see?”
Mary’s brow furrowed. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know.”
#
Walt Gallagher had finished the book Jon had given to him and was dying to discuss it with someone. Unfortunately, Jon was no longer around. After carrying out a spirited debate with himself over the past couple of days, he’d made his way to the high school late on a Monday afternoon, where he now paced back and forth at the foot of the front steps.
Jon had talked at length about his English teacher. She was a nice person, Walt knew. But would she give him the time of day?
Walt had arrived as the last class was getting out and taken up his vigil. The kids had now all come and gone, and he’d seen a few adults leave. A quiet had descended.
He’d worked out his greeting and was practicing it under his breath. “Hi, Miss Tremaine. My name is Walt Gallagher, and I’m a friend of Jon Meyer.”
He tried it with a different inflection. “Hi, Miss Tremaine. My name is Walt Gallagher, and I’m a friend of Jon Meyer.” No, that wasn’t it. He was in the process of auditioning the twentieth or thirtieth iteration when the front door opened, and a woman with red hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses stepped out and descended the steps. When she reached the bottom, Walt took a step toward her.
“Hi, Jon Meyer. My name is Miss Tremaine, and I’m a friend of Walt Gallagher.”
She looked at him curiously for a moment, her lips moving silently. Then she laughed. “If I’m following you, that would make you Walt, right?”
Walt nodded vigorously.
“How can I help you, Walt?”
Walt held out the book he’d been gripping in front of him with both hands. “Jon gave me this book to read. And I did. I finished it.”
Miss Tremaine tilted her head sideways to read the cover. “The Mayor of Casterbridge,” she said, approvingly. “That’s a good book.”
“Uh huh,” Walt replied, quickly. “Jon said it was. He said I was gonna like it, and I did.”
She nodded and gave Walt a long look. Finally, she asked, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Walt stood up straighter and smiled. “I was hopin’ you was gonna say that.”
#
On the morning exactly two weeks before the election, Jim Dahlgren was surprised to find Mary seated at the table when he entered the kitchen. She was in her robe, her hands folded and placed on the table top in front of her.
She sat very straight, looking up at him with a luminous expression. Her eyes were bright, and her face was alive with an excitement that Dahlgren hadn’t seen since the accident. She positively radiated energy. It was an amazing transformation.
He was about to say something when the next words out of her mouth caused him to stumble and almost fall.
“Jon Meyer.”
He reached for the back of the nearest chair to steady himself.
“I remember him,” she said with delight. “Oh, Dad, I remember Jon. I’ve been sitting here remembering him. I remember his face. I remember his eyes. His beautiful eyes. I remember the way he tilts his head, just so. And the little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he’s thinking.” She touched her brow lightly.
“And I remember,” she continued, thinking, “Oh my God, I remember his smile. I remember his lips.” She paused, her cheeks reddening slightly. “Dad,” she said, fixing him with a look of elation, “it’s so exciting.”
Slowly, Dahlgren pulled out the chair he was leaning against and sat down.
“It just came to me,” she enthused. “For the longest time, I just knew there was someone. I could almost see him, but I couldn’t quite make him out. And then, when I woke up this morning, there he was.”
She leaned forward and gave him a dazzling smile. “Isn’t it wonderful, Dad?”
Dahlgren was still processing the information, when Mary’s face suddenly clouded with consternation.
“I don’t remember how we met.” Then brightening, she asked, “Do you know?”
He shook his head slowly, and her brows knit again. “Oh,” she said. She looked down at the table and concentrated. Finally, she looked up and shook her head.
Then another thought occurred to her.
“Do you know where he is?”
Dahlgren looked away for a moment. Then he looked back and said, “He’s not here, honey. He went away.”
She looked crestfallen. “Oh,” she said again. Then she shook her head firmly. “No. That can’t be right. How can that be?”
Dahlgren reached out and put a hand over Mary’s. “Honey,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster, “you need to forget about Jon Meyer.”
“I already did that. Once. No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head in an animated fashion. “I can’t forget about him. I won’t forget about him.”
She pulled her hands back and set them on the edge of the table. Looking around, she said, speaking quickly, “I have to find him. I have to be with him.” She looked at Dahlgren and nodded rapidly. “Will you help me?”
He realized she was not going to be easily deterred. And, yet, he had to navigate the next two weeks without incident. He thought quickly. Mary would start extracting details about the boy from her friends. Could he keep her away from them for two weeks? No chance of that. The first thing she was going to learn was that Marvella Wilson was the boy’s grandmother. What if Marvella knew how to contact the boy? His mind raced.
He took a deep breath. “Tell you what, let me talk to Mrs. Wilson. She’s his grandmother.”
“Oh,” Mary said, a look of surprise on her face. Then her eyes widened. “Yes, she’ll know where he is.”
“I’ll pay her a visit today.”
“Oh, Dad,” she said, standing. She came around the table and put her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
#
“How could she not know?” Mary asked, disappointment vying with incomprehension. She had been certain all day that her father would return home with information that would reunite her with Jon. She had been waiting on pins and needles. This was horrible news.
“I don’t know,” her father said. “I guess she doesn’t care that much for him.”
Mary stepped back, stunned. “How can that be?”
Her father shrugged. “I’m sorry, honey.”
When she’d seen Sam and Gwenda that afternoon, she’d revealed how the memory of Jon had suddenly returned and how her father was going to find out where he was. Sam had seemed somewhat relieved. Gwenda’s reaction had been more subdued.
“What else do you remember about Jon?” Gwenda had asked.
Mary shook her head, still baffled by the limited nature of her recollection. “It’s the strangest thing,” she said. “I remember him clearly. And I know that I love him. I know that. I just don’t remember how we met. Anything we did. Where we went.”
She looked intently at her friends. “What can you tell me about him?”
Sam and Gwenda filled in what details they knew. Jon was the grandson of old M
rs. Wilson. He’d come from back East and enrolled in school the prior fall. They described some of the problems Jon had experienced at school, and Mary started crying. They told her that, somehow, she and Jon had begun seeing one another around January. They further informed her, however, that she’d kept it secret from them. As a result, they had few details to share about the relationship.
When it came to revealing anything about the accident, however, they balked.
“The night you got hurt,” Sam started to say.
“That’s enough,” Gwenda interjected, giving Sam a sharp look. “You know what the doctor said.”
Sam nodded.
It had been frustrating for Mary, and she’d been looking forward to the information her father would provide. And now, unfortunately, she’d learned he had no information.
#
The results of the 1942 Eighth District Congressional election were the closest in the history of Indiana politics. Jim Dahlgren lost to the incumbent, John Barker, by fewer than a hundred votes.
Dahlgren had known that someone from the bank would be calling. They waited a decent two and a half weeks after the election before doing so, and, when the time came, it was Mort Fletcher who was tasked with the dirty work.
Fletcher invited Dahlgren to join him for a late lunch at the Lodge. He booked one of the private dining rooms off the main room. The two of them engaged in some desultory small talk, but both men knew why they were there. When the entrée arrived and the waiter discreetly left them alone, Dahlgren decided they’d put it off long enough.
“How bad is it, Mort?”
Fletcher finished chewing the bite he’d taken, swallowed and touched his napkin to the side of his mouth before responding.
“The board is adamant that we have a substantial paydown before the end of the month. This has been a tough year, unfortunately. I’d say about a third of the county’s male population between the ages of eighteen and thirty have joined up. You take that many people out of the work force, and it’s hard to bring in a full crop. Defaults have spiked this fall.”
Dahlgren nodded. He was not surprised.
Defiant Heart Page 23