The Bungalow: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  “Good,” I said. “I like our floorboards.”

  He ran his finger along the nape of my neck. “Me too.”

  “And besides,” I continued, “new floorboards would mean we’d lose our mailbox.”

  “It’s unanimous, then,” he said, striking an imaginary gavel. “The creaky floorboards stay.”

  He took the gold locket into his hands and carefully opened it. “Still empty?”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve been trying to think of the perfect thing to put inside, but I haven’t been struck with inspiration just yet.”

  Westry’s eyes darted. “It needs to be something that reminds you of here, of us—something that will warm your heart with the memories of our love.”

  I frowned, snatching the locket from his hands. “Memories of our love? You talk as if our days are numbered, as if this is just a—”

  “No,” he said, putting his hand to my lips. “I intend to love you for the rest of my life, but I have another tour of duty ahead; you know that. While I’m in Europe, however long this war lasts, I want to know that you can find me, and this place, in your memories. It will help sustain you while we’re apart.”

  Westry stood up and searched the room, running his hands along the desk, the woven walls, the curtains, before crouching down to the floor. “I’ve got it,” he said, prying a tiny piece of wood from an edge of a warped floorboard. “A piece of the bungalow. You can carry it with you always, and with it, there I will be.”

  My eyes welled up with tears as he opened the locket and placed the piece of floorboard, just a mere splinter, inside. It was perfect. “There,” he said, patting the locket against my chest. “You will always have me with you.”

  My kiss told him how much I appreciated the gesture.

  Shortly after the sun set, Westry lit a candle on the desk, and we huddled together just listening to the breeze and the crickets chirping in the moonlight, until a startling sound caught our attention.

  A man’s voice, angry and determined, followed by a woman’s desperate scream rang out in the distance. The voices sounded far away at first, perhaps deep in the thick jungle brush—far enough away to ignore, but when the screaming grew nearer, I instinctively clutched Westry’s arm. “What do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, standing up and quickly slipping his arms into his shirt. “But I think she’s in trouble. Stay here,” he directed me.

  “Be careful,” I whispered. I didn’t know what worried me more—Westry going out there by himself, or me staying in the bungalow alone.

  He slipped through the door quietly, listening as he pushed his way toward the brush outside. We heard another scream, and then more footsteps. Someone is running.

  I stood up and put on my shoes, wishing I had some sort of weapon in the bungalow. Did Westry bring his gun? It wasn’t likely. The men didn’t normally take their weapons out beyond the base. I swallowed hard. Westry is out there all alone. What if I need to protect him? I couldn’t just stay in the bungalow and wait, I decided.

  Quietly, I stepped outside, and when I noticed a two-by-four propped up against the bungalow, I picked it up. Just in case.

  I crept toward the beach, but turned around suddenly when I heard a branch breaking nearby. Was it behind me? My heart pounded in my chest. I sensed danger lurking. Something evil was in our presence.

  Then, another scream rang out, this one near the beach.

  “No, no, please, please no hurt me, please!”

  I gasped. I knew that voice. Dear God. Atea. Was she trying to make her way here, to the bungalow, as I instructed her to? Lance must have followed her. Where is Westry? I pushed through the brush to the clearing on the beach and saw the scene that would be burned in my memory forever.

  In the shroud of darkness, it was difficult to make out faces, but as my eyes adjusted, the horror came into view. He held her by a clump of her hair; I could see that. Then a flash of steel shone in the moonlight. God, no. A knife. He sliced the blade along her neck, and I watched, mute, as her small, limp body fell to the sand.

  “No,” I muttered, unable to find the strength of my voice. No, this can’t be.

  The shadowy figure tossed the knife like a football deep into the jungle, before pitching a jog down the beach.

  I ran to Atea, choking back tears. “Atea, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” I lifted her blood-soaked head onto my lap. She gurgled and choked for breath.

  “He, he,” she sputtered.

  “No, honey,” I whispered. “Don’t try to talk. Don’t say anything.”

  Blood pooled in her mouth. She was dying. If we could get her to the infirmary in time, Doc Livingston might be able to save her. We have to save her.

  Atea gestured to her belly, swollen, round. She’s pregnant. Oh my God.

  “Westry!” I screamed. “Westry!”

  I heard footsteps approach from the direction in which Lance had left, and I prayed he wasn’t coming to finish the job. “Westry!” I called out again.

  “I’m here,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “Oh, Westry!” I cried. “Look at her. Just look at what he’s done to her.” I gasped. “And to her baby.”

  Atea lifted her hand in the air, as if to reach for something or someone.

  “She’s not going to make it,” he said.

  “What are you saying?” I screamed desperately. “Of course she’s going to make it. She has to. I promised I’d protect her from that monster.”

  Atea’s breathing was reduced to a sporadic gurgle and gasp. “She will pull through,” I sobbed. “We have to save her.”

  Westry put his hand on my arm. “Anne,” he whispered. “Her neck is half-severed. The best we can do for her is ease her pain, end her misery.”

  I knew what he was referring to, but could I actually go through with it? It went against everything I’d learned in nursing school, and yet holding Atea’s dying body in my arms, I knew it was not only the right choice, but the only choice.

  “Go grab my bag under the desk,” I said. “Hurry!”

  He returned with my knapsack and pulled out the supply of morphine that every nurse kept on hand in wartime. There was enough inside to sedate a 280-pound man, or to send a hundred-pound woman to the gates of heaven.

  I kissed Atea’s forehead, and injected the first dose in her arm, rubbing the spot where the needle had pricked. “There now,” I said, trying to hold back my tears and keep my voice calm and steady for her sake. “The pain will be over soon. Let yourself relax.”

  Her breathing slowed from choking gasps to shallow gurgles. When I injected the second dose, her eyes turned to the stars, then fluttered and shut. I checked her pulse, and then pressed my ear to her heart.

  “She’s gone,” I said to Westry, tears streaming down my face. “They’re gone. How could he do this?” I screamed. “How could he?”

  Westry slid Atea’s limp body onto the soft sand, and helped me to my feet, holding my trembling body in his. “I should have saved her,” I cried into his chest. “I promised I’d protect her. I promised I would.”

  Westry shook his head. “You did the best you could. She went peacefully.”

  “How could he?” I said, feeling overcome with anger. “How could he do this to her?” I turned to the beach where, just minutes before, the man, presumably Lance, had fled. I pried myself out of Westry’s arms and started to run in the direction the man had left in.

  Westry ran after me, however, and held me back with a firm grasp on my waist, which made me buckle over, planting my hands on the cold sand. I tried to break free, to stand again, but Westry’s strength prevented further movement. “Anne, stop,” he pleaded. “You can’t.”

  “What do you mean I can’t?” I screamed, throwing a clump of sand toward the lonely stretch of beach where the killer had escaped. “We just watched him murder a woman and her child. We have to find him, Westry. We have to take him to the colonel. He needs to pay for what he did.”

&nbs
p; Westry knelt beside me, stroking my face. I felt tears on my cheeks, and he wiped them away. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “What we saw here tonight was tragic. But I need you to believe me when I tell you that we can never speak of what we saw—not to anyone.”

  I shook my head. “No, this makes no sense,” I said. “A murder was committed; we must report it. We can bring him to justice.”

  “We can’t,” Westry muttered. His voice sounded strange, thick with defeat. “For one, an assault was committed.” He paused. “We committed the murder.”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “But it’s how it would be viewed,” he said. “And there’s something else, something far worse that could become of us, of those we love, if this secret gets out.”

  What does he know? What is he hiding?

  I stood up, brushing the sand off my dress. “This makes no sense,” I said. “How can I go back to the base knowing there’s a murderer on the loose?”

  He searched my eyes. “Tonight,” he said, pointing to the bungalow, “you said you loved me; you said you wanted to spend forever with me.”

  I nodded.

  “Then will you trust me?”

  I held up my hands in confusion. “Westry, I just, I—”

  “Just promise me you won’t say anything,” he said. “One day you’ll understand. I promise.”

  We both turned to look at Atea. Even in death, she exuded beauty and gentleness. I exhaled deeply and looked at Westry’s strong, steady face. No matter how uncertain his plan seemed, I trusted him. If he said this was the right course of action, I had to believe it would be.

  “I won’t say anything,” I whispered.

  “Good,” he said, stroking my cheek. “We’ll have her buried by sunrise.”

  Chapter 12

  It wasn’t a grave worthy of her short, beautiful life, but we laid Atea to rest forty feet behind the bungalow in a makeshift plot under a plumeria tree. Fortunately, we had a shovel; Westry had brought one over a week prior in hopes of resetting one of the bungalow’s foundation beams. It took him an hour to dig the grave. I watched him for a long while, then slipped away to the beach when I could no longer stomach the gritty sound of the shovel hitting the dirt again and again.

  Once my feet hit the sand, I collapsed to my knees. Never in my life had I seen such horror. And while I had agreed to trust Westry, I couldn’t deny the longing in my heart for justice. I replayed the scene in my mind over and over again, hoping to find some clue, some frame I’d missed, which is when I remembered the knife.

  Lance had thrown it into the brush before exiting the scene. I remembered the flash of steel in the moonlight, and my heart began beating louder in my chest. If I could find the knife, I could at least secure proof that he did it.

  I ran back to the bungalow and retrieved the lantern, then cautiously walked to the edge of the jungle. Animals howled and snickered in the distance. The wind rustled the bushes. What used to seem like a place of beauty and serenity now felt like a safe haven for evil. I considered turning back, but I found my strength. Atea. Remember Atea. I nodded to myself and took one step forward, and then another. The crunch of my feet on the earth below me seemed to amplify with each step.

  I shone the lantern farther down the path. It has to be close. Just a few more steps, perhaps. A snake slithered by, too near for my liking, and I gasped, taking an exaggerated step back, before continuing on. Keep going, Anne. I looked back toward the beach and tried to mentally calculate the distance the knife may have traveled. I eyed a large palm to my left, moving my search there. It had to be near.

  But after several more minutes I wondered if the jungle may have swallowed up the knife, a coconspirator in the gruesome crime. I leaned against the palm and set my lantern down, and when I did, it made a little clinking sound.

  I knelt down and immediately noticed a familiar shimmer of metal. My hands trembled as I pulled the bloodied knife from its hideaway in the soil. I inched the lantern closer to read the inscription on the army green handle: Unit #432; Issue #098.

  “Anne? Anne, where are you?”

  Westry’s voice filtered through the thicket. How long have I been gone? What would he think of me searching for the knife like this, especially after I promised to trust him?

  “Anne?” His voice was nearer now. I reached down to the edge of my dress and ripped off a piece of the light blue linen fabric. Quickly, I wrapped the knife inside, then dug a little crevice with my bare hands, deep enough for adequate protection, tucking the blade inside. I covered it with dirt and a pile of leaves before standing up, just as Westry approached.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said. “What are you doing out here? I was worried.”

  “Just thinking,” I said, brushing off my dirt-stained hands on the back of my dress.

  “Come on,” he said. “I know this has been a hard night, but we need to”—he paused to find the right words—“see this through.”

  I nodded and followed him back toward the makeshift grave, where I waited while Westry went to get Atea. He returned with her in his arms, and tears streamed down my face again at the sight.

  He set her body inside the hole, and we both stared in silence. After a few minutes, Westry reached for the shovel, but I pulled his arm back. “Not yet,” I said.

  I picked three pink plumeria blossoms from the nearby tree, then knelt at Atea’s grave. “She deserves flowers,” I said, without looking away from her face.

  I scattered the blooms across her body, then looked away as Westry began shoveling the earth over her. I couldn’t watch, but I forced myself to stay until he finished. We walked back to camp in silence, for our world had changed—forever, perhaps.

  It was close to three when I snuck into the room that morning. Kitty didn’t stir, and with a ripped, blood-and-dirt-stained dress, I was glad of that. I slipped off my clothes, tucking them into the wastebasket, then pulled a nightgown over my head and crawled into bed. Sleep didn’t come, though. I knew we hadn’t committed a crime, but I was plagued with the horrible and yet very real fear that we were guilty.

  The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a fist pounding on my door. I sat up in bed, disoriented, and glanced over at Kitty’s bed, which was neatly made. I covered my face when the bright light from the window hit my eyes. What time is it?

  The pounding at the door persisted. “Yes, I’ll be there in a minute,” I muttered, stepping one foot out of bed and then the other, stumbling to the door. Stella stood outside, with a disapproving frown.

  “Anne, look at you,” she said. “Asleep at half past eleven? Nurse Hildebrand is fuming. She sent me up to find you. Your shift started at eight.”

  I peered at the little alarm clock on my bedside table. “Oh my,” I said. “I can’t believe I slept this late.”

  Stella smirked. “Must have been some night.” She gave me the once-over, and her eyes paused at my hands. “What were you doing—making mud pies?”

  I looked down at my dirt-caked nails and hid them self-consciously in the folds of my nightgown. As I did, the memories of the night before came swirling back. The murder. The knife. The cover-up. Westry’s words of caution. I hoped Stella couldn’t see the goose bumps that had broken out on my arms.

  “Please tell Nurse Hildebrand that I’ll be over just as soon as I can dress,” I said.

  “And wash,” added Stella, grinning accusatorily before walking away.

  I nodded. “Stell!” I called out to the hallway after her.

  “Yes?” she said, turning back to the door.

  “Why didn’t Kitty come wake me?”

  “I wondered that too,” she said, her voice free from sarcasm, rare for Stella. “Something’s not quite right about her. It’s like she’s—”

  “Like she’s not my friend anymore?” I said. The words felt like grenades hitting my tired heart.

  Stella put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, hon,” she said. “I’m sure whatever it is will blow over soon.
”

  I hoped she was right.

  Ever since Kitty had given birth, she and Nurse Hildebrand had struck up an unlikely friendship. Kitty would often stay late in the infirmary to help our superior with special projects, and her name was always first on the list when a special assignment or patient needed tending to.

  It was good to see Kitty excelling in her work. It was what she’d wanted for her life, after all. And here, she could do something of meaning. Yet the more she poured herself into nursing, the more distant she became.

  Such a division would have felt more pronounced at home, in Seattle, but in a war zone, we could push it aside and let the fighting, the news, the misery muffle our personal problems.

  “Liz heard from a corporal down at the docks that things are heating up again out in the Pacific,” I said to Kitty that night at dinner. We talked about little else besides the war.

  “Oh?” she replied, without looking up from the book in her hands.

  “Do you think we’ll have a few busy shifts ahead?” I asked, hating the formality of our exchange.

  “I suppose,” Kitty said, yawning. “Well, I better be off. I’m working on a project for Nurse Hildebrand. I’ll be in the infirmary.”

  I spotted Westry on the other side of the mess hall, laughing with Ted and a few other men. How can he be so calm, so jovial, after what we went through just hours before?

  I carried my tray to the kitchen, and waited for him outside on the path.

  “Hi,” he said when his eyes met mine. We walked a few paces together, toward the marina. “How are you doing?” he whispered when the other men were out of earshot.

  “Not good,” I said. “I keep having memories from last night and praying that it was only a nightmare. Westry, tell me it was all a nightmare.”

  He pulled my head close to his. “I wish I could.”

  “Have you seen Lance?” I whispered.

  “No,” he said, looking around uncomfortably. “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “He shipped out this morning, on a special mission with a dozen others.”