by Heather Webb
Daniel. Such a lovely name for a man. “I suppose we ought to go back to the studio. I don’t want Mrs. Ladd to worry.”
“You’re right. I guess I passed the test.”
“That you did. I don’t think anyone so much as blinked. I’m so happy for you, Daniel.”
They walked arm in arm, back through the side streets, the gaiety of the boulevards a half-heard echo. Before long they were at the gate to the courtyard, and then they were at the bottom of the stairs, where the light was clear and pure, and it seemed to her that he was the handsomest man she had ever known, mask or no mask.
Daniel Mancuso was the nicest man she had ever met, too, and he was funny and intelligent and well-read, and she knew it wasn’t kindness on her part to a man who had suffered so much—it was simply the truth. He only had to turn his head toward her and everyone else in the room faded away.
It tore at her heart, the knowledge that he would soon be leaving for America. Perhaps he might give her an address in America where she might send him letters. Perhaps, one day, she might see him again.
She opened her mouth to suggest just this, but then Daniel was bending his head and his lips were on hers, and he was kissing her so fiercely, so passionately, that she forgot to breathe. When he did pull away they were both gasping.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you kissed me. It was my first kiss, and it was wonderful.”
If only they might stay where they were a little longer. Not forever, not long enough for their absence to be noticed and remarked upon. Only long enough for another kiss or three, and the chance to bask in the comfort of his embrace. But they had been gone far too long already, even taking into account the celebrations outside.
“We had better go upstairs.”
“I know,” he said, and he took her arm and they walked upstairs to the studio.
“Success?” asked Mrs. Ladd when she saw them.
“Success,” Daniel agreed. “Thank you so much. I’m . . . I wish I could tell you what this means to me.”
“You are most welcome, Captain Mancuso. I should like you to return in one week, if you can spare the time, just to ensure your mask requires no further adjustments.”
“I’d be happy to return,” he said, and Daisy knew, without his saying, that he would be counting the hours until his appointment.
“Good-bye, then,” he said, and they all said good-bye, and then he was gone.
Daisy floated home not long after, for Daniel had been the studio’s only client of the day. Her father was at the house when she arrived, and was uncharacteristically ebullient.
“We shall hold a party. Next week, I think, and we’ll have all my colleagues to dinner. What do you say, my dear?”
“That sounds wonderful, Daddy. I wonder . . . I’m feeling a little tired. I think I ought to go to bed.”
“Too much excitement, I’ll bet. Well, off you go to bed, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
As she got ready for bed, Daisy let her thoughts drift to the future. Daddy would wish to return to New York before long, and Daniel would be there, too, and she would introduce him to her father. Daddy would be sure to like him, for Daniel was an officer and an educated man, and after that who knew what might happen?
She slept badly, waking in the middle of the night with a fever that seemed intent on consuming her, and a terrible tightness in her chest that made every breath a painful ordeal. If only she could get to her father. He would know what to do.
She toppled out of bed, only catching hold of the bedstead at the last moment, and by force of will alone propelled herself across the bedchamber. The door was so hard to open, for her palm was slick with sweat, but finally she was in the hall, running in search of her father, calling his name.
“Daisy—oh, God! Daisy, my girl!”
But before her could reach her, the world turned on end, the floor rushed up to meet her, and she knew no more.
IT WAS BROAD daylight when she woke, the fever gone, and with it every particle of her strength. She was so weak she couldn’t even lift her head from the pillow, and it was another fifteen days—on top of the three she’d been out of her mind with fever dreams—before she was able to sit up for more than a few minutes.
She begged her father for permission to visit the studio, for Mrs. Ladd must surely need her there, but he wouldn’t even consider it.
“You’re not well enough, and I doubt you will feel like yourself for some time.”
“But Daddy—you know what it means to me. I loved my days at the studio.”
“It’s simply too taxing. Besides, Mrs. Ladd is returning to America. The Red Cross has cut its funding now that the war is over.”
So she wrote to Mrs. Ladd, thanking her for everything, wishing her well, and only at the end, in a postscript, did she dare to ask after Captain Mancuso. A reply was delivered the next morning.
December 2, 1918
My dear Miss Fields,
Such a relief to receive your note—I have shared the news of your recovery with everyone at the Studio, and they all extend their warmest regards. I return to Boston in several weeks, which is a great disappointment as I had so hoped to continue my work here, but with our funding reduced so dramatically I cannot bear to go on.
If you do return to America I should be very happy to see you again. You have the makings of a fine artist in you and I do encourage you to develop your talents so far as your interest allows.
I’m afraid I have no information on Captain Mancuso’s current whereabouts, for those details are kept by military officials and were never freely shared with me. He did ask after you when he came for his last visit, and was visibly unsettled by the news of your illness. I do hope you are able to find him again.
With my fond regards,
Anna Coleman Ladd
All she had was his name, the knowledge that he was an engineer, and a neighborhood in New York that was one of the most populous in the world. Besides, he didn’t even live there anymore—he had moved to a town outside the city, and as he’d never told her its name she had no notion of where to even begin.
After another two days, she worked up the courage to ask her father if he might help her locate Captain Mancuso. Though normally an even-tempered man, her father refused her request before she’d even finished explaining herself.
“This illness has made you soft in the head, Daisy. There’s no way of knowing where he’s gone, or who he truly is. How do you know that’s even his real name? I cannot use my connections to find him, and you ought to know better than to ask.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy, I only—”
“If he had any real interest in seeing you again, surely he would have left a note with Mrs. Ladd. Take my advice and forget him. You’ll be happier for it—I know you will.”
PART THREE
New York City
October 20, 1925
EXACTLY SEVEN YEARS ago, around about this time of day, she had met Daniel for the first time. Seven years, and they had been parted for nearly all that time.
She had been searching for him for months, ever since her return to America that spring. She’d arranged her father’s funeral, sorted out the muddle of his finances and properties, and even taken part in the wedding of her best friend in June. All the while, her search for Daniel had occupied her every waking hour, and had been the cause of many sleepless nights, besides.
She had begun with the veterans’ offices in New York, all of them, but none had been especially forthcoming, citing privacy concerns as a deterrent. She then turned to a private investigator, which seemed sensible as he might simply furnish her with a list of potential names and other pertinent details. Instead he made off with her money before placing a single telephone call.
Al
most as disheartening was her realization, once the mess of her father’s estate had been untangled, that he had been living well beyond his means for years, if not decades. Once his debts were settled there was little left, apart from the windfall of a small insurance policy. So she moved out of the Plaza hotel, where she had been wallowing in luxury for some months, found a modest ladies’ hotel on the Upper East Side, and set about tracking down every Mancuso in the state of New York.
There were hundreds of them, she soon discovered, and while many lived in Daniel’s old neighborhood off Delancey Street, hundreds more were scattered across the five boroughs of the city and farther afield.
She spent a few precious dollars on classified advertisements in the English- and Italian-language newspapers, with no success. She wrote to every engineering firm in the state, also to no avail. She even considered drawing a portrait of Daniel and walking door-to-door with it through the streets of the Lower East Side, but quickly abandoned that scheme as unrealistic. It had been years since she’d seen him, after all, and her memories might play her false.
For so long she had refused to admit it, but now the reality of her failure was staring her in the face: Captain Daniel Mancuso had disappeared off the face of the earth, and she was unlikely to ever see him again.
It was depressing, but then a lot about her life had turned upside down in the past six months. Feeling badly about it would only make everything seem worse. She needed to get out of her room at the hotel and walk through the park for an hour. Central Park was lovely in the autumn, and once she’d had her fill of crisp, clean air and copper-bright leaves, she would think seriously about what she ought to do next.
When she returned home, the morning mail had been delivered. There were a few envelopes that looked interesting, so she fished them out of her pigeonhole and went upstairs to her room. From Columbia University: a brief letter stating that no Daniel Mancuso had ever been enrolled in their Department of Civil Engineering. From Manhattan College: the same. From the City College School of Technology: the same, followed by the qualification that a Giovanni Daniele Mancuso had been a graduate of the class of 1914.
With trembling hands she opened Daniel’s letter from 1918 and scanned it again. He had signed it G. D. Mancuso.
She had to focus: he had once worked as an engineer at a growing town in upstate New York. She would write to the public works department for every possible town, and this time ask if a G. D. Mancuso were in their employ. It might take months, even years, for there had to be hundreds of towns large enough to merit such a department. But what else did she have but time?
ASTONISHINGLY, SHE FOUND him a week later. He was living in Rome, New York, not far from Syracuse, and was the manager of their public works department. Her letter, which she dashed off in a matter of minutes, went into the post that same day.
October 27, 1925
My dearest Daniel,
I am alive.
I am alive, and I am so sorry that you were led to believe otherwise by my father, whose motivation for deceiving you escapes reason. He died earlier this year, and only then did I learn what he had done to you, and to me.
I am well, and I have been happy enough over these intervening years, but I have never forgotten you, and I have hoped, always, that I might one day see you again.
I am living in Manhattan, at Mrs. Young’s Hotel for Ladies on Lexington Avenue, and expect to remain at this address for some time. If you can bear to renew our friendship I should be very glad of it, but at the same time I promise that I will understand if you prefer not to hear from me again.
All I wish for you is happiness, and I pray that you have found it.
With my fond regards,
Daisy
A week went by, then another, and she received no reply. It was just possible, of course, that there were two men named G. D. Mancuso working as civil engineers in the state of New York, and that one of them was currently puzzling over a love letter he had received from a complete stranger.
It was also possible that the right G. D. Mancuso had received her letter but had decided not to answer, or was afraid to do so. He might be married, or otherwise attached.
These worries and questions carried her through the first part of November, and then she woke up one morning and realized it was Armistice Day. There was a memorial in Central Park to the fallen soldiers of the 107th Infantry, she recalled, and likely there would be some kind of remembrance ceremony at eleven o’clock. She had nothing else to do, and nowhere else to go; and there was a great deal she wished to remember, besides, as well as a great many men who deserved her prayers of thanksgiving.
She was at the front door of her hotel, about to leave for the ceremony, when she remembered that she would definitely need a handkerchief. Had she tucked one into her handbag? Best to make sure, first, before setting off for the—
“Hello, Daisy.”
She looked up, or rather down, at the man who was standing at the foot of the steps outside her hotel.
It was Daniel, and he was exactly as she remembered him. He hadn’t changed a bit, not in all those years, although he now wore a patch over his missing eye rather than the mask she had helped to create. It was Daniel, and he was every bit as handsome as her memories had insisted.
She walked down the steps, her legs trembling so much that she had to clutch at the handrail. And then she was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at him, and for a moment they simply stood and stared at one another.
“I got your letter last week. I wrote back right away. I mean, I wrote a letter to you, and it took me forever. I must have gone through a forest’s worth of paper.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure you had a lot to say.”
“I finished it yesterday, but when I went out to mail it I walked right past the post office and ended up on the train to Manhattan. It took me until now to work up the courage to come here.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said.
“Now that I’m here, though, I’m not sure what to say. I . . .”
“What are you holding?” she asked, noticing the envelope in his hands. “Is that the letter I sent you?”
“No. It’s my letter to you. The one I didn’t mail. Would you . . . would you read it for me now?”
Her hands were trembling, so it took her a few tries to tear open the envelope and unfold the single sheet of paper within.
November 10, 1918
My dearest Daisy,
It’s not a romantic thing to say, but my life has been fine in the years since we parted. I have a good job, I live in a nice town with people who don’t seem to notice or care how I look, and I have enough friends and family to keep me busy on Saturdays and give me company on the holidays. It has been a fine life so far, but something has always been missing—you.
I think of you in the morning, when I first wake and I’m still sleepy enough to imagine I might see you again, and I think of you during the day, sometimes at the strangest moments. I think of you whenever I see daisies growing in a garden, or I drink a cup of crummy coffee, or I hear someone singing that song about the bicycle built for two. I think of you in the evening, as I sit alone in my little house, with only my dog for company—he’s a fine dog, by the way, and I think you’d like him. I think of you as I fall asleep, and pray that I’ll see you in my dreams.
I don’t wear the mask you made me, for it’s chipped and bent and it doesn’t really fit me anymore. Yet I keep it still, sitting on my bedside table, for it’s all I have of you. All your kindness and loveliness and grace is wrapped up in that piece of copper and paint, and if my house were burning down that mask and my dog would be the only things I’d save.
I wish I could hate your father for separating us, but I don’t, for you loved him and he loved you, and I guess he was just trying to do what he thought was best.
I wi
sh I could tell you how I felt when I opened your letter, and realized that you were alive. Alive. I’m not ashamed to say I cried, and I might have cursed your father once or twice. But that’s all in the past.
I want to see you as soon as you’re ready, and I want to try to make up for lost time. I won’t push you for anything more than you want to give—I’m happy just to know that you are happy.
I know we need to begin again, for seven years is a long time, and I’m sure we’ve both changed a lot. So that is all I ask—if we might begin again.
Yours faithfully,
Daniel
She read the letter through a second time, just to make sure, and as she did so the last of her fear melted away, replaced by a calm and wonderfully steady sort of certainty.
“Do you remember the song I used to sing for you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, and he began to sing, right there in front of her hotel, on Lexington Avenue, as bemused pedestrians wandered by. “ ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I’m half-crazy, all for the love of you’—”
“Yes, Daniel,” she interrupted. “Yes. I want to begin again.”
For Claudio
After You’ve Gone
Evangeline Holland
Paris—Late November 1918
FUTURE GENERATIONS WILL look back and wonder what it was like to be alive in the last days of the war. Of the moment when the earth, churned beneath the armies of Allied forces and Central Powers, heaved one last gasp of victorious violence before settling into a silence weighted with exhaustion and death. At the moment, the task of finding my way back home was of greater concern—wherever and whatever home was—and I could not share the elation bubbling forth across the Western Front and in Allied capitals. The end had come too late for me.
But I’ve never been the type to peek at endings, and as Armistice celebrations carried on across Paris, I was in my little garret room packing my meager possessions in the cracked leather kit bag Charles had bequeathed me upon his death, preparing to fling myself blindly into whatever future lay ahead of me. I had little regrets about abandoning this room. It was dank and dark, with a ceiling of slanted, smoke-scarred beams and two small windows that were stingy with light even on the brightest of days, and prone to attracting quizzical, brave mice.