The Pieces We Keep

by Kristina McMorris

  20

  Once on base, Vivian hurried into the building that housed the switchboard room. She smoothed her hair and dress and punched her time card in the hall.

  Fourteen minutes late.

  Perspiration on her scalp threatened to streak her face. No time for blotting. Through the pane of the door she spotted her chair at the end, waiting vacant beside her roommate. Luanne snatched up a cord as fast as she’d dropped it, connected the call, and moved on to the next. The two other operators were working at the same swift pace.

  Vivian opened the door to an immediate greeting.

  “Miss James.” The surname was spoken with the sharpness of a sneeze.

  Vivian slowly rotated to the right, where her supervisor scowled from her desk. Her appearance was meticulous as always. She wore her light silvering hair in a tight French twist and a suit jacket with shiny brass buttons. When Vivian had first learned she would be overseen by a woman, she was pleasantly surprised-until they became acquainted.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Langtree.”

  “Afternoon-wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do apologize. I missed the company bus and had to catch a streetcar-”

  “In other words,” Mrs. Langtree said, “it wasn’t a dire emergency that caused your tardiness.” The woman could sniff out a lie like a bear hunting sweets.

  “No-well, not exactly.” Just then, Vivian remembered that the woman, widowed from the Great War, was rumored to have one particular soft spot: her son, an airman stationed in Georgia. “You see, I’d encountered a rather young soldier. And he was telling me about how his family lives in”—she racked her memory–“ Michigan, all of whom he surely misses a great deal. Particularly as he adjusts to life in such a large city. So I’m sure you can understand why I found it difficult to leave.”

  Creases in Mrs. Langtree’s forehead relaxed a fraction, in turn relaxing Vivian. But after a moment, those lines snapped back deeper than before. “In that case, Miss James, you had no excuse to forget your duties here. Need I remind you, our country is at war. The work we do is vital to keeping our troops safe, and therefore requires operators who respect that fact.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Furthermore, if I recall correctly, I have already given you a final warning.” Mrs. Langtree rose from her chair. Evidently she wished to be at a superior height for her next statement, which could only mean one thing. She raised a crooked finger just as an Army officer entered the room, authoritative in stature.

  “Pardon me,” the man said.

  Mrs. Langtree dropped her finger, shifting her tone. “Colonel, how lovely to see you.”

  “May I speak with you?”

  “Why, yes. Certainly.” As the man turned for the hall, Mrs. Langtree gave Vivian a pointed look. “We shall continue this shortly.” She then swiveled on her heels and shut the door behind her.

  “Psst,” Luanne said, twisting in her chair. Strawberry-blonde curls framed her round face. She was Shirley Temple aged by a decade with a personality to match. Her lips pursed into a question: What’s the scoop?

  Vivian dreaded to supply the prediction. It was through Luanne she had been hired at all-well, through the girl’s brother at any rate. Gene Sullivan was a first lieutenant assigned to Army Intelligence, spending much of his time at Fort Hamilton. He tended not to say much, same as in high school, but had spared enough praise in a recommendation to secure Vivian her job.

  Today, after her firing, he might regret he had said a word.

  She glanced through the window at the back of Mrs. Langtree. If the discussion took a good while, perhaps the woman would lose interest in resuming the previous one. She might even decide training a new girl wouldn’t be worth the trouble. War dealings, after all, took priority. With American troops battling fiercely in the Pacific, it would not be long before they invaded Europe. This would require support of every kind, including skilled operators.

  Vivian hustled to her chair to exhibit her worth. She adjusted her headset and mouthpiece, its horn-like receiver curving up from her chest plate. She inserted a rear cord into an illuminated jack and threw the front key forward.

  “Number, please,” she said, and connected the line.

  “I hope that went better than it looked.” Luanne’s natural lilt always projected the warm, patient tone the rest of the operators had been trained to learn. “What happened to you? I thought you were only going for coffee.”

  “I just lost track of time.”

  There was no reason to elaborate. Luanne would undoubtedly call her batty for turning down a perfectly enticing date, given that her own beaus came and went. Besides, all Luanne knew was that an old steady in London had left Vivian reluctant to court. Nothing else. Preserving the details seemed a way to keep Isaak alive, if not in reality, at least in Vivian’s mind. She snagged another call to avoid saying more.

  “Number, please ... Thank you.” She plugged in the front cord as a scream belted from the hall.

  “I told you, there’s been a mistake!”

  All four operators snapped their attention toward the door. On the other side of the glass, their supervisor raged. The colonel’s mouth moved around his words. He reached forward, but Mrs. Langtree pulled away.

  “It’s not him, it’s not!” She covered her ears and frantically shook her head. Her meticulous hairdo sprouted loose.

  Luanne touched Vivian’s arm. “Her son,” she said.

  The lights of the switchboards receded into the background. Mrs. Langtree yelled again, not in words but a howl. The sound was so mournful it echoed off the walls of Vivian’s heart. Then, without warning, the woman collapsed into the colonel’s arms. His forlorn expression implied he had been a friend-of her son or late husband or both-and, as such, would not have allowed a piece of paper to present the news.

  The personalized delivery, however, did not improve the result. For Mrs. Langtree now sobbed as though the last fibers of her world had unraveled, leaving barely a memory to grasp.

  Vivian covered her mouth in an effort to withhold her tears. She managed to succeed, save a few strays, until later that night.

  In the still of darkness, as Luanne slept deeply in the next bed, there was no escaping reality. Not every loss was confirmed by an officer at the door. Nor a telegram with the power to sink a fleet.

  Loss, often the worst kind, also arrived through the deafening quiet of an absence.

  Vivian sat down on the cold tiled floor with her back against a wall. From the lower compartment of her jewelry box she retrieved Isaak’s letter. Along with the wrinkled page came a season-old clipping from the Brooklyn Eagle. It drifted, light as a feather, onto her lap. The article reported that a year had passed since a little girl had vanished; an FBI agent sought out clues long after police ruled it a dead-end case and now every lead had been exhausted.

  Vivian wasn’t entirely sure why she had saved the piece. Maybe she was drawn to the father’s quote, testament to his unrelenting faith: “We’ll never stop searching. No matter what, we’ll never stop.” A grainy photo captured weary determination in the faces of both parents.

  Vivian touched the picture that typically embodied hope. Tonight, she saw only fervent denial. Denial of a truth that to everyone else was glaringly evident.

  She pulled the golden chain out from the top edge of her nightgown. Moonlight through the window glimmered off the charm. She thought of the strolls, the kisses, the day in the cellar. Images she once recalled with the vividness of a feature film had become gray-toned snapshots of a previous life. How long before they faded to nothing?

  Though difficult to imagine, at one time her parents, too, could have shared such a passion, gradually leeched by time and duty. Perhaps only in picture shows did that type of love survive. Everything else, she was learning, came to an end.

  Slowly Vivian unclasped the necklace, accepting what she had been dreading since the day she left London. She bowed her head to meet her knees and soundlessly w
ept until her tears ran dry.

  21

  For a full day since the soldier’s visit, the engraving on his necklace never left Audra’s mind. If she had conveyed even an ounce of coherence in her interview, it was only from rehearsing beforehand. How else could she have asserted her abilities to treat and nurture and solve when she was failing to do those for her son?

  Desperate for a remedy, she was grateful Dr. Shaw had a last-minute cancellation. She left Jack in Tess’s care, so she could see the therapist alone. Their last appointment had done nothing to improve Jack’s nightmares. But the fact remained: At Dr. Shaw’s prompting, her son had spoken more in ten minutes than he had in ten months.

  Perhaps the escalation of his dreams indicated they were closing in on the core of the issue. The same applied, Audra realized, when diagnosing the cause of physical pain; the most discomfort arose when pressing down on the ailing spot.

  She certainly felt that discomfort now, if that was any sign.

  At his desk, facing her chair, Dr. Shaw made notes from her update on Jack—about the German inscription and Sean Malloy. A connection still seemed ludicrous, but without a rational answer she was willing to consider anything.

  Within reason.

  Heater vents on the ceiling stirred the opened sunburst curtains. The windows served as frames for the Saturday morning grayness. In the play area, a tea set and doll clothes were strewn over the floor, remnants from a prior session.

  Dr. Shaw pressed up his glasses. He crossed his ankles below his plaid pants and flipped through the pile of Jack’s drawings. Though the man had asked to review them again, he had yet to detail the purpose. He had yet to say much at all.

  Every minute accrued a billable charge. Wasn’t he financially obligated to speak?

  Finally, he exhaled, pen over his notepad. “So, Jack’s added nothing about all of this when you’ve asked him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that word you heard during his nightmares?”

  “Himmel.” A few times now he had repeated it in his sleep. While serving pancakes one morning she’d revisited the question. “He says he doesn’t know what it is or where it’s from. I also asked him again about the German adage, but says he doesn’t know that either.”

  “And you believe he’s telling the truth?”

  “Honestly? I’m not sure what to believe. The only thing I can figure out is he may have seen some things on TV, like you suggested.” During a visit with Robert and Meredith tomorrow, Audra planned to reiterate her request that they not subject Jack to military shows. Of course, she would ask them kindly and at the end, to avoid dampening the celebration of Jack’s eighth birthday.

  Sadly, with the burdens her son carried, he already seemed much older.

  “That still doesn’t explain everything else though,” she admitted. “Which is why I’m here.”

  Dr. Shaw scribbled some more. He glanced up at her, then down, as if debating on expressing a thought. “How about ... birthmarks?”

  “What about them?”

  “Does he have any you’d describe as unusual?”

  Although puzzled by the relevance, she scanned Jack’s body from memory. On the backside of his shoulder was a small hemangioma, a common enough mark. It was flat and smooth, and the majority of its red hue and strawberry shape had faded over time. Devon used to say it was proof they had originally picked Jack in a berry field and taken him home to make cobbler.

  “Nothing unusual that I’ve seen,” she replied in truth.

  Dr. Shaw nodded. “When he was younger, did he happen to have imaginary friends?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  In a room set for the Mad Hatter, Audra was being lured down a rabbit hole. She’d had her fill of trudging through the dark without direction.

  “Dr. Shaw, if you’re going somewhere with this, I’d appreciate if you could tell me.”

  After a quiet moment, he closed Jack’s file. He walked toward the door in a distracted manner.

  Audra started to wonder if clothing wasn’t his only indulgence that trended in the seventies.

  But then he stopped at a shelf and slid out a book. “I know this might seem unconventional—and it’s not often I would suggest it. But with everything about Jack I’ve heard and observed, I think it would be worth taking a look.”

  “What is it?” she said eagerly.

  “An old professor of mine wrote this, based on interviews with literally thousands of children.” Dr. Shaw handed over a paperback titled From Beyond. Smudges of fingerprints tinged the glossy black cover. Its corners were curled from use. A sprinkling of stars implied a book of ... astrology.

  Perfect. Just what Audra needed: a summary of Jack’s celestial traits. Combine that with his lucky numbers from a fortune cookie at Chow Bello, and their problems would be over.

  “So you’re saying, you want me to read about children’s Zodiac signs?”

  “Past lives, actually.”

  Even better.

  Now her son was—what? A German pilot who died in a crash during World War Two?

  She came here for guidance, yes, but not the Ouija-board variety.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Shaw. But I don’t believe in reincarnation. Not any more than I believe in voodoo dolls or psychic hotlines.” She tried to give the book back, but he gently refused.

  “What you or I believe isn’t important here. What matters is what Jack believes, and finding out why.”

  The point was difficult to argue. Borrowing anything from the man, however, would guarantee another visit, and she strongly doubted she would return.

  As though sensing this, he said, “If I don’t see you again, drop the book in the mail. But before then, for your son’s sake, please give it a try.”

  22

  The solution was clear. Vivian would start with a new outlook. Granted, she had no misconceptions when it came to her heart; part of her would always yearn for Isaak. So much so, she could not fathom loving so fiercely again. In fact, she flat-out refused to allow it. But that wouldn’t stop her from recovering at least a semblance of happiness. Life was too brief to waste.

  Nothing had clarified the point more than the death of Mrs. Langtree’s son. The casualty of a training exercise, he hadn’t even left the States. He was supposed to be safe. But that word, safe—like innocence, according to Vivian’s father-did not apply to wartime.

  She sat on her coverlet now and gazed about her room, at the walls painted buttery yellow. Since the addition of blackout curtains, the place resembled a hive. And Vivian felt the restlessness of a bee.

  “I have an idea.” She tossed aside her magazine as Luanne came through the door. “We,” she declared, “are going out.”

  “Out? You mean, tonight?”

  “Not just tonight. Right this very minute.”

  Luanne laughed, setting her toiletries down. “Then I hope it’s a pajama party.” She made an obvious point, with a pink scarf binding her hair and a robe on her small frame. Her evening soak in the claw-footed tub had cleansed her of powder and lipstick. In this state, she looked no older than the day she and Vivian met in home arts class. It was only from Luanne’s help, with sewing and cooking and diapering a doll, that Vivian had passed that tedious course.

  “I suppose we do need to spiff ourselves up first,” Vivian said, noting her own work attire. She charged over to the closet and began to undress.

  “What on earth’s gotten into you?” Luanne smiled from the vanity stool. She blotted lotion onto her hands. “I thought Fridays were your laundry nights.”

  Sadly the remark was not an exaggeration.

  Vivian deplored the thought of how dull she had become. “Not anymore,” she replied simply.

  Weekends were hereby reserved for adventure. She was through eking out her days like a widow, cautious and passive and wallowing in grief. With Isaak’s necklace and letter forever stored away, she would behave as any spirited twenty-two-year-old sh
ould.

  “Ooh, I’ve got it,” Vivian said. “How does roller-skating sound? It’s been ages since I’ve done that.”

  “Sounds horribly painful. I’m awful on those things.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll do it together.” Vivian plucked out a peach skirt and modeled it over her slip.

  “Even so, I really should stay in tonight. I need to finish packing.”

  “Packing?” Vivian glanced up.

  “For the morning train. Remember? I’m helping a friend in Poughkeepsie with a bond rally this weekend.” Luanne paused from applying lotion and sighed. “Have you truly forgotten?”

  “Of course not,” Vivian tsked, although she had. Her mind had been much too preoccupied. “Tell you what. We’ll just catch the first half of a double feature. It’ll be good for us to get out, even for a little while, after being cooped up all week.”

  The lingering bereavement in the switchboard room, despite Mrs. Langtree’s temporary leave, had made their workspace even more confining.

  “Now,” Vivian said, riffling through blouses, “which outfit shall I grab for you?”

  “I wish I could say yes, Viv. But with traveling, too, I’d be useless tomorrow.”

  Orchestral notes of a drab classical tune reverberated through the hall. The landlady’s radio would be stuck on that station all evening.

  Vivian had no choice.

  “Okay. Dancing,” she said. “We can go dancing.”

  Luanne slowed the rubbing of her elbows. “Mmm, that is tempting,” she cooed, and Vivian knew it was settled. “No. No, I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to show up looking like a hag tomorrow. Nobody will want to buy bonds from me.”

  Vivian didn’t return her friend’s smile. She felt like a child finally permitted to swim, only to discover the pool had been drained.

  Defeated, she dropped down on her bed. For certain, she would bring this up the next time Luanne begged her to go dancing at some servicemen’s club....

  The thought jostled Vivian’s memory.

  “The USO at Times Square,” she said, remembering.