The Discovery

by Dan Walsh

  “Didn’t you see me? I was waving at you on the porch.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Daydreaming again?”

  He opened the car door. “I’m sorry. So what did your mother say?”

  “She said, ‘Bring him in, I’d love to meet him. Dinner’s in ten minutes.’”

  Claire started walking toward the house. Ben quickly caught up. He ducked suddenly at a loud noise overhead. He recognized the sound: radial-engine airplanes. On the U-boat, if you heard that, it was panic time. Everyone would scramble to get below. Bells would go off. Men would yell, “Alarm, alarm, alarm.”

  Claire turned around. “It’s okay, Ben.”

  He was embarrassed. “They’re so loud,” he said, trying to recover quickly. He looked up as four Dauntless dive-bombers flew past in formation, heading west.

  “They’re probably heading to the Naval Air Base in Deland. My dad’s company just got a big contract there. He said we’ll be hearing a lot more of those planes from now on. Maybe he’ll tell you about it over dinner. At least, what he can. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” He really was. He hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal since . . . he couldn’t even remember when.

  “Very nice to meet you, Ben.” They stood in a large foyer, just in front of the stairs. Claire’s mother took off a cooking mitt and reached out her hand. She wore a whitish apron over a floral dress.

  “Great to meet you, Mrs. Richards.”

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Maybe five more minutes. Would you like to take a seat in the dining room or wait in the living room?”

  “Either one,” Ben said.

  “Well, here,” Claire said. She took his arm gently and led him to the dining room. “You sit here, Ben. Like some iced tea? Mom, do we have any left?”

  “We do.”

  “I’ll get it,” Claire said. “You sit tight.” She followed her mother into the kitchen.

  “So-o-o-o,” her mother whispered. “What’s this we have here? Bringing Gary Cooper home to dinner?”

  “Shhh,” Claire said. “He’ll hear you.”

  “No he won’t.”

  Claire opened the icebox and pulled out the glass pitcher of tea. “It’s really nothing. When the concert ended, the gang had to leave early and Ben offered to take me home.”

  “I see.” Her mother smiled as she shoveled mashed potatoes from a pot to a serving dish. “So he has a car.”

  “Listen, Mom, we just have a minute here.” Claire walked closer. “I need to tell you something. I’ll tell you more after he leaves, but I found out something you and Dad need to know about Ben.” Her mother’s expression changed, reflecting the concern in Claire’s tone of voice. “Ben’s parents were both killed in a bombing raid in London just a few months ago.”

  Her mother gasped. “How terrible.” She looked toward the dining room but couldn’t see Ben from this angle.

  “I just . . . well, I just wanted you to know, so you won’t be asking too many probing questions. It’s still very upsetting for him to talk about.”

  “Well, of course, it would be.”

  “I’m going to run upstairs and tell Dad.”

  “That’s fine, dear.” She sighed, then looked again toward the dining room. “The poor thing.”

  Claire hurried back to the table with Ben’s iced tea. “You sip on that, Ben. I’m going to run upstairs and see what’s keeping my father.”

  “Thanks.” He took the tea from her hand. “I’m fine here.”

  As Claire made it to the top of the steps, she saw her dad coming out of the bedroom. She motioned for him to back up into the hallway.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “Nothing, I just need to tell you something about Ben. I already told Mother.”

  “Ben? So have you and Jim . . . are you and Ben . . .”

  “Ben is just a friend. Now, shush, you need to hear this and we just have a second.” She told him about Ben’s parents.

  “That’s so sad,” he said. “You read about these things, but—”

  “Well, I’m telling you so you and Mother don’t ask too many questions. He told me this at the amusement park. When he did, he—”

  “You went to the amusement park with him?”

  “Oh no.” She just realized. “I left my stuffed bear and tiger in his car.”

  “He got you stuffed animals? At the amusement park?”

  “Dad, would you stop? It was nothing. We were just walking past the shooting gallery and—”

  “Must be a good shot.”

  “He is, now will you listen? Ben and I are just friends. I invited him home to dinner, because he’s all alone. And I felt bad for him when I found out about his parents. I knew if I didn’t tell you, you’d ask him all kinds of father questions.” Claire turned toward the stairs.

  “I’ll behave,” he said. “But I don’t know what I’ll say to him now. Asking questions is my job.” He followed her.

  She stopped at the first step and spun around. “You can still do your job. Just don’t ask questions about his family. You’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Claire sat on a bench seat in front of her mirror and vanity, brushing her hair. It wasn’t that late, but she was tired. She’d already put on her nightgown and turned down the bed. On the nightstand was the latest Hercule Poirot mystery by Agatha Christie, Murder in Retrospect.

  Claire loved a good mystery. But in books, not in her life.

  She glanced down to her left at the box of stationery she’d bought at Woolworth’s right after Jim had shipped overseas. She’d picked it out especially for him. It had a nice pastel beach scene with a palm tree in the top right corner, to help him feel closer to home. She’d written him so often, the box was already half gone. But she decided she wasn’t writing him another letter until she received one back from him.

  She glanced to her right, at the last letter she’d received, over two weeks ago. Setting the brush down, she picked it up. “Why won’t you write me?”

  “What, dear?” Claire’s mother opened her door and poked her head inside. “Did you say something?”

  Claire put the letter down and started brushing her hair again. “Just thinking out loud.”

  Her mother stepped a little farther into the room. “I think your father really liked Ben.”

  “Oh?” She pretended mild interest.

  “Said some nice things about him after he left.”

  “Really? Like what?” Claire turned to face her.

  “I don’t know, just things like how well he listened, how articulate he was. He even talked about his sense of humor, that it was a good thing to see, in light of all he’s been through recently.”

  “He really is easy to be with,” Claire said. So much more she wanted to say.

  Her mother stepped closer, noticed Jim Burton’s letter on the vanity. “Are you starting to have second thoughts about Jim?”

  Claire set the brush down hard. “Oh, Mother. I don’t know.” She wished she could will all this tension away. “Why won’t he write me more often?” She reached for his letter. “When I got this two weeks ago, I was so excited. I read it a half dozen times that day. Then I started reading it before bed every night, holding it like it was some kind of treasure.”

  “But now you’ve met Ben. A piece of paper hardly compares to a real person.”

  “It’s not just that, Mother. It’s what you said this morning on the porch. I was just making excuses for Jim, about why he doesn’t write more. I really believe he could if he wanted to, like Jack does with you and Brenda.”

  “I wasn’t trying to upset you, Claire. You know that.”

  “I do, but . . . why doesn’t he want to write me more? I don’t understand. If you say you love someone—”

  “Has Jim said that? Have you two said you loved each other?”

  Claire thought a minute. “Not exactly. We kind of talked around it. But at the train station, he kissed
me like someone in love. And when he does write, he says ‘Love, Jim’ at the end of his letters.”

  “Does he say anything romantic in the letters themselves? How much he misses you, how he can’t stop thinking about you? How he wished he could hold you in his arms—”

  “Mother!”

  “What? Those are the kinds of things a man can’t help saying when he’s in love. Your father talked like that with me. He still does, whenever he goes on a long business trip.”

  Claire sighed heavily and set the letter down. Jim’s letters never mentioned things like that. Tears began to form. Her mother bent down and hugged her. “I’m sorry. I hate to see you sad. But you know we just want what’s best for you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Is it possible Jim’s just not the romantic type?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” She stood back up. “He’s crazy about you, you know. Ben, I mean.”

  “No, he’s not. We’re just . . . friends.”

  “Claire . . . you can’t see the way he looks at you? Even your father noticed it. A few minutes ago he said, ‘Does Claire realize how Ben feels about her?’”

  “Really?”

  “I think he may already be in love with you. If you’re not interested in him that way, you better be careful. After what he’s suffered with his parents dying, you don’t want to hurt him any more.”

  “No, I don’t.” Ben is in love with me? The thought stirred instant excitement inside her, followed by a sense of dread. “Did it look like I was leading him on tonight? Did I seem flirty to you?”

  “No, you were just being your fun, sweet self. But when a young man’s in love, he doesn’t need much encouragement. I’m just saying be careful.”

  Claire turned to face the mirror again and talked to her mother through the reflection. “I’m so confused.”

  “Dear, that’s common at this stage of life,” her mother said. “So you do have feelings for Ben? I thought so.”

  “No, I . . . I don’t know. I’m not allowed to have feelings for Ben. I told Jim I’d wait for him. I don’t want to be one of those girls—I read about them all the time in my magazines—they get lonely and impatient and fall for the first guy who shows them a little interest. Meanwhile, the guy they promised to wait for is overseas in all kinds of danger, and the only hope he has is the girl waiting for him back home. I can’t do that to Jim.”

  “Then . . . you better be careful when you’re around Ben.”

  It was a pleasant experience overall.

  But it had left Ben exhausted. Such a range of conflicting emotions, the tension of keeping them all in check: love for Claire, passion even, a desire to impress, fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of saying too much, fear of being asked the wrong thing.

  He sat on the bed, his stomach full, for once, with good food. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, corn, fresh bread. Then Mrs. Richards brought out homemade apple pie. Ben lay back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling. Apple pie, with cinnamon.

  This was the life he wanted.

  To live in America, where he was born. And stay there. Meet a nice girl from a nice family. Go out on dates, fall in love. Get to know the girl’s nice family, let them get to know you. The real you. A few months later, have that big nervous talk with the father, ask his permission to marry his little girl. Get down on one knee, pull out a shiny ring.

  That was the life he’d wanted. But he didn’t get that chance. It had been stolen.

  Dad, why didn’t you listen to me? You never listened.

  Ben kicked his shoes to the floor. How could he possibly live a normal life from this point? Mr. and Mrs. Richards probably had a fond impression of him right now. Why wouldn’t they? They’d seen a nice young man at their dinner table. Polite and respectful. He smiled a lot, took an interest in their lives, answered their questions. Some of his answers were even true.

  No, most of them were. But that was only because they were clearly being careful, not asking the kind of questions he’d expected to hear. Claire must have coached them, told them about his parents dying recently. But that was okay. It showed she cared for him.

  She cared for him.

  That thought made him smile. It was true, she did. He thought of the scene at the clock when she’d almost taken his hand. Then the dance. How she stayed after the gang left, just to be with him. The way she looked at him on the Ferris wheel, the tenderness in her touch when he’d talked about his parents. She didn’t love Jim Burton. Whatever she felt, it wasn’t love. But Ben knew she wasn’t free to express whatever feelings she had for him. Not now. She’d given her word to wait for Burton.

  He had no idea how this could work, how they could ever be together. But he knew she cared for him. And that mattered.

  Tonight, it mattered a lot.

  He released a deep exhale then shifted in the bed, sliding up to rest his head on the pillow. He was too tired to even change out of his clothes. He reached up with one arm and turned off the lamp, laid back and closed his eyes.

  Maybe he was too tired to think. He hoped so. Lately, reading was the only way he’d found to shut his mind down before bed. The only thing that kept him from reliving that night on the beach.

  Tonight, he was too tired to read.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Can you believe it? It’s really happening. Tonight’s the night.”

  Ben looked over at Jurgen holding on to the rail. He nodded, feigning the same enthusiasm. The first team of saboteurs was already in their rubber raft but hadn’t pulled away. Sailors from the U-boat tried to steady themselves in the rough surf as they loaded the raft with crates and suitcases full of money, clothes, and explosives.

  “Jurgen, keep your voice down,” one of the men said. “Could be patrols on the beach.”

  “Stop calling him Jurgen,” the other man said. “English names only from now on.”

  “Right, sorry.” He looked at Jurgen. “George, shut up.”

  Ben looked toward the darkened beach. He could barely make out the line of sand dunes onshore. The captain had picked a moonless night and a location that was supposed to be miles away from the closest town. The temperature was warm but pleasant, as expected for an August night in Florida. A slight wind occasionally whipped salt spray into his face, but the water was surprisingly mild.

  The plan was for U-boat sailors to row the two teams on separate rafts, drop them and their gear off on the beach, then row back. Quickly and quietly. As a precaution, the saboteurs dressed in Kriegsmarine fatigues, compliments of the German navy. Once on land, they’d change into street clothes and give their uniforms back to the sailors.

  Earlier, Jurgen had asked the captain what difference it made if they wore the uniforms now, for such a short time. The captain had said, “If you’re caught in the rafts in uniforms, you’ll be treated as POWs. If you’re caught in street clothes, you’ll be shot as spies. But not just you, my men also. Once you’re on land, you’re on your own. My job is over.”

  “George, Ben, your turn,” the captain said now from the conning tower. “Get in the raft.”

  Two sailors were already sitting in the front section. Ben nodded at Jurgen, letting him go first. The raft bobbed up and down. It was like trying to sit on a bucking horse. “Be careful, it’s easier if you stay low,” one of the sailors said.

  Jurgen fell but caught one of the ropes to steady himself. He sat then looked up at Ben. “Okay, your turn.”

  Ben’s insides were churning, more from fear than the seas. He was finally here, in America, where he’d wanted to be since he was sixteen. Soon he’d be free of his Nazi shackles. But he knew, to really be free, before this night was over, he’d have to kill the man sitting in front of him. Jurgen was completely committed to the mission; there’d be no chance of talking him out of it once they were onshore.

  In the last few months, Ben had learned a dozen effective ways to kill a man. But he’d never actually done it. He was terrified that he didn’t have what it took
to follow through. But there was no turning back. Jurgen’s singular ambition was to kill as many Americans as he could in the coming months.

  He had to die.

  Ben made it onto the raft with surprisingly little trouble. A German sailor came in behind him. Together, they began receiving their load of crates and suitcases, all wrapped in watertight bags. Ben looked back. The first team had just pulled away and began rowing toward shore. Jurgen waved at the two men, gave them a “Heil Hitler” salute. One of them returned it. Ben was relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with the Nazis ever again, from this moment on. Both teams had their own assignments, and once onshore, they were to split up and go their separate ways.

  “Okay, men,” the captain said, standing on the deck. “Time to shove off. Oberfähnrich, Schultz?”

  “Yes, Captain.” It was the German ensign at the front of their raft.

  “Remember your training. The waves near the shore are rougher here than when we practiced, but do everything you’ve been told and you should be fine.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. I’ll have the men on the beach in no time.”

  “Get back quickly. I want to head out to sea in fifteen minutes. Remind the men in the other raft.”

  “I will, Captain.”

  “Good luck.”

  Off they went into the blackness before them, the sailors rowing in a furious rhythm. Jurgen and Ben sat in the middle, holding tightly to the guide ropes. Ben could hear the roar of the waves crashing up ahead.

  The bobbing effect grew steadily worse the closer they got to shore. Now it felt like they were riding an angry horse. One wave tossed a suitcase high in the air. Ben grabbed it just before it went overboard. The only consolation for the fear of the surging waves was that it blocked the fear of what he must do to Jurgen once they landed.

  “Okay, men,” the ensign said. “Any minute now, a wave will catch us and we’ll ride it into shore. Remember your training.”

  The sound of the waves now was deafening. The seas were much rougher than what Ben had expected. He was terrified.