I took the hand towel and dabbed at my face, rubbed it around my neck and down my arms. “I have something to tell you. Something important.”
“You went to the house like I knew you would.”
I nodded to her gaze that passed from me to her hero, to the rest of Non Bookends, to the volumes of carefully selected titles, and then to the row of framed somethings around the ceiling. I glanced up at what looked like a border of pictureless frames holding nothing but glass, the lights turning them into a ring of mirrors.
“Look at me, Grandma. Yes, I did, and that’s another thing I need to tell you. Those three envelopes I took…”
The bells clanged as the front door opened. Emerson’s voice rang with them, masculine and pleasant, greeting Grandma’s customers in his way that brought eager hellos racing back. I paused. I loved Emerson’s voice, along with his pace, his finish line, and his determination to win. I made it a point to slow my run to a trot when we jogged together. I did it for him, slackening enough that newspaper photographers could catch his smile and wave. Then after we were done I ran hard. I glanced at my watch. He had a political dinner tonight. We were to catch up afterwards and talk—about his night, his campaign, and about my day, the pictures I had yet to take. But not about my family…not yet anyway, but with a couple more minutes alone with Grandma we might be able to. “He wasn’t supposed to come here.” I tapped my watch. “Don’t run off, Grandma.”
“I’ve no reason to run off, but maybe you should.” Grandma eyed my wet shorts and T-shirt. Emerson never looked like this, even after he ran.
“Catharine?” Emerson, black hair, dark eyes, a handsome smile above his even blacker tuxedo, stepped around a shelf to Grandma’s center, to Ibsen whom she’d introduced Emerson to when we first dated. He hadn’t hailed Nora and Ibsen the way Grandma thought he should, putting her into a perpetual pounce position, ready to spring on the man who’d disregarded her heroes. I stepped between them, touched his arm, and searched for a safe place he could wait until I talked to her. “I tried to find you at home, Catharine. But since I couldn’t…well…I hoped I’d find you here.”
I paused and looked at him. Emerson was handsome and impeccably dressed for his political gathering. We traded looks, he at my running clothes and me at his tuxedo, my frantic sweating beside his black and flawless.
“Either your grandmother’s working you way too hard, or you slipped in a run.”
“Neither. I mean, both. Grandma and I were about to…”
He lifted a sopping strand of hair from behind my ear and snaked it around a finger. I felt the warmth of his hand and then the cold of my curl as he let it go. “Here,” he said. He dried his finger and then my cheek with a white handkerchief that was there and then gone as he folded and tucked it back inside his jacket. He glanced at his watch, then back at me. “Speaking of running, Catharine, you have just enough time to run and get ready for my dinner. I want you to go with me.”
“Me? At your dinner?”
“Yes, you, especially you, at my dinner. But I’d like to talk to you first. Privately, if we could.”
I glanced around us, Grandma’s pounce amongst the faces looking our way and then his profile as I turned back. Emerson’s was truly one of the faces I intended to photograph for my display, and his hand also as it gripped a potential voter’s.
“Over there.” I nodded toward a tier of shelves far from Grandma, leaving her with a look to stay where she was.
He laced his fingers through mine, and I led him to the shelf of books, stopping below one of Grandma’s hand-printed quotes on its side: “An illusion which makes me happy is worth a verity which drags me to the ground.” Idris and Zenide. I frowned and drew Emerson two steps farther.
“I preferred to do this at your apartment…” He glanced at the spectators who had streamed his way, then looked back to me. “But since time is short and you’re…so…” He smiled at my sopping hair and soggy clothing. “So beautiful, I couldn’t wait to ask you to be with me, to be beautiful and dazzling at the most crucial of my political dinners…” He lifted my hand, my left hand, and threaded a ring over my finger. “As my fiancée.”
I stared at the hand he held, the shiny brilliance he’d placed on my finger.
“Catharine, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
His wife…I’d worked so hard as his girlfriend, even harder as the photographer for this attorney running to be a senator, to protect him from the damage my family could cause…
Applause broke out behind us from Grandma’s flock. I turned to see them flocking our way.
“Wait.” Emerson raised a hand. “She hasn’t said yes yet.” Emerson did what he was so good at, managing the advance of the circle of happy onlookers with one of his winning smiles.
He took both of my hands in his then, faced me, and held tight. Eager sounds rippled around us. I listened for Grandma amongst them, the one voice that would say I shouldn’t…when really, I could. Just as she could, and she would as soon as I told her what Grandpa had said.
“I will,” I said to Emerson. “Yes.” I saw his relief, his dinner and the importance of it, his excitement, and the race he’d asked me to join him in forever.
Emerson’s face, his handsome face, raised above the squeals and arms that wrapped around us. “I’m sorry this wasn’t a more private moment.” He winked. “Maybe at your apartment later. My car is out front. You have just enough time to clean up and be the beauty I know that you are.”
I would. And I was. The same things my grandparents would do and be for each other now that we were all finally grabbing hold of love. Grandma had to know before I left, though. I scanned her congratulating flock for the one set of eyes that had marched away from marriage earlier today. I spotted her, the reluctant bride gazing back at me.
“Ready, Catharine?” Emerson, with his finesse, extracted me from the revelry, his fingers finding mine and drawing me his way.
I glanced back. Grandma had to hear about the three pieces of mail and the lie I’d told Grandpa, but more importantly…
“Catharine.”
“I need just a moment.” It was for him, for the race he’d asked me to join. The chaos of warm wishes separated our fingers as potential voters’ hands clapped him on the back. Voices around us rang with plans we hadn’t yet made when one voice, a store voice, spoke behind me.
“The books you took earlier, I assume you wanted to tell me how I am supposed to get them back.”
“Yes, I did want to tell you how.” I turned to Grandma. “I thought the one I read by Amabile wouldn’t be something you’d like, until Grandpa told…”
“Amabile?” Grandma’s store voice vanished and her real one exploded.
“Yes, Amabile. That’s one of the books you ordered. It’s over there. Just go to the house and ask for it and the other books,” I said. “And ask Grandpa for some of his army mementos while you’re there.” For my wife. I heard the sentiment again, Grandpa’s voice, while Emerson’s called my name behind me. Grandpa had done this for his wife, and he had done it in love. I turned and looked across the room where Emerson waved, beckoning me his way. What Grandpa had done was for Emerson too. Grandpa had left behind what mattered because to someone else it mattered more.
Grandma sputtered behind me. “What were you thinking, Cate? What have you done?”
“Well, I lied to Grandpa, for one thing, so please go along with it. Tell him you wanted me to read those books there. And as for the books and his military souvenirs, just ask.” I looked from Emerson to her, and back to Emerson again. He gripped the shoulder and hand of a vote he hoped to gain, but he pointed to me, made his excuses, and came my way. “See that, Grandma?” I nodded toward my fiancé, then looked at her. “Grandpa did something like that for you.”
She watched Emerson, her arms planted across her chest. “You don’t realize what you’ve done, Cate.”
“No, you don’t. Just go ask Grandpa. You’ll be surprised.”
Chapter 6
I ran my hands down the front of my dress, the same one I had worn the first time Emerson asked me out.
“Wow.” He said it as I thought it. The dress was perfect. Emerson’s reflection appeared behind mine in the full-length mirror I stood in front of, the black of his tuxedo becoming one with my dark dress. “This is just what I need when I announce our engagement. Beautiful dress for my beautiful fiancée. But we’ll get you more. Can’t have you wearing repeats on the campaign trail.”
I glanced again at Emerson’s reflection, his handsome face near mine in the otherwise black background. He belonged on the campaign trail, at dinners like tonight, on fliers, and on billboards. His parents’ money would make sure he was there. It’s what families did.
“I’m ready.” I glanced at the shiny ring. I was a fiancée now, a part of his family and he a part of mine. Grandma would put a stomp into her march over to Grandpa’s house for her books, likely make a show of tossing romantic Amabile into the trash. But when she asked him what I told her to, she would hear what I had heard. For my wife. It spoke of love, and she would be pulling Amabile back out. I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress. “I’m very ready.”
****
“Mr. Marcus.” I lifted my hand, my right hand, to Emerson’s fellow attorney and campaign manager. He took it in his and brushed his lips across the back of my fingers.
“Let me reintroduce you, Miles.” Emerson cut in and lifted my left hand. “She said, ‘Yes,’ so I want you to welcome Catharine Hunt, soon to be Catharine Cosnik.”
Soon…I glanced at Emerson as Mr. Marcus pulled me into a light embrace. Smooth congratulations and chortles of, “I told him you had what it took to be the right woman,” were whispered in my ear. “You have a way of making bad look good, ugly fetching. Even beyond the pictures you take.”
I frowned my thanks into Miles’ ear. Had what it took? Made bad look good? And ugly fetching? I pulled back and checked my dress, then looked in Miles’ eyes for the only other possible bad and ugly—my grandparents. “Is that a campaign manager’s observation, a man’s, or a friend’s?” I asked, as Emerson took my hand. He excused us and led me away. I checked my dress again, and patted my hair, then glanced back at Miles, who was greeting newcomers to Emerson’s dinner, his compliment apparently best left behind. “Soon?” I turned to Emerson. “Did you really mean we’d be marrying soon?”
“It doesn’t have to be an elaborate wedding,” Emerson whispered as he led me toward our table, a smile going to a banker he greeted on the way. “That way we can work it in around the election.”
I shook my head, then nodded. I held onto my ring. I’d gone from girlfriend to fiancée to nearly a bride in too short a time. Emerson looked down at me as I wagged my head every direction.
“Catharine…” He stopped, took my hands, and squared himself in front of me. “I’m so sorry. You’re overwhelmed. Here I am sweeping you along as if you’re nothing more than a part of my evening, when you’re to be a part of my whole life.”
A warm wash of the anxious, new fiancé overtook Emerson’s serious attorney look, his heightened senatorial one also, as we stood toe to toe like we had in Non Bookends. He held us there, and turned us into the only people in the room. “I don’t want an elaborate wedding. It’s just you I want. No distractions, just us.”
My heart beat within a ring that formed around us, a more cultured circle than Grandma’s flock had been at her store. Miles became a part of this one, watching and starting a round of polite applause. Emerson’s hands tightened on mine. He bent and kissed the top of my head, burrowed his lips into my brown waves. Then he let go, one hand with me and the other extended to the onlookers around us. “My beautiful bride-to-be,” he announced. The applause grew with the warmth in my cheeks as he eased me forward, led me past Miles, through the ring, and guided me to our table. “Let’s sit,” he whispered.
I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to stand, to hold his hands, and feel his kiss on top my head again. But I took the chair Emerson held for me, faced the crowd that followed Emerson’s lead, heard their congratulations transform into conversations as tuxedos and evening dresses found tables for themselves.
Emerson sat next to me. He looked composed, his romantic notions appropriately contained, completely unruffled by this gathering and the announcement we would marry. Soon. I glanced at him, the man I was the right woman for, his hair flawless, his clothing without a crease, no bad, no ugly, nothing to make look different. “Thank you,” Emerson leaned close and whispered. “You are the perfect touch to my evening.”
“Thank…” I leaned even nearer, but he was gone, speaking to the man next to him. Emerson’s arm stayed with me, draped across the back of my chair. He laughed, and the man joined him. So did the man’s wife at his other side. My legs bounced beneath the table, I felt like running. I slowed them as Emerson said my name, leaned back in his chair to introduce me to the couple at his far side. Soon. I heard it in Emerson’s praise of me and the couple’s congratulations. Soon, faster than his usual trot. My legs picked up his new pace and began to bounce again.
Chapter 7
“Mr. Williams? Thank you for meeting me.” Dietrich extended his hand, saying everything the same way he had two times previously except for the man’s name. “I’m Dietrich Schmidt with Der Spiegel, and contributor to Süddeutsche Zeitung, doing research on our 1936 Summer Olympic games, as I told you on the phone. Your input is greatly appreciated, and I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
For the third time a thin, weathered hand reached for and clasped his, cool to the touch, an equally weathered smile much stronger. These were star athletes he was meeting, men who were proof of what time could do to even the most fit.
“Come in, come in.” Mr. Williams was eager, just like the others had been, his eyes sparkling with watery excitement, ready to talk about his day…their day. A day that lived on in all of them. Dietrich let go of Mr. Williams’ hand. Someday he would write an actual article on these men. Good truths worth being told.
“Please come in and sit down.” Mr. Williams’ voice crackled with that airy sound that came with age.
Dietrich entered the man’s modest home, not markedly different from the first two he’d visited for pretend interviews, men he hoped could help identify the nameless runner so Dietrich could eliminate him as a possibility and go home. The house felt comfortable, although the slightly worn, modern furniture scattered throughout was no longer modern.
“You can sit here. Can I get you anything?”
Dietrich sat where Mr. Williams indicated but refused the offered refreshments. “Like I said, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m happy to just sit and hear about your experience at our Olympics.”
Mr. Williams smiled as he took his seat. He continued to smile as Dietrich led him through the same questions he had the first two US Olympic runners from Berlin’s summer games…the trials, the ship, the residences for athletes, and the games themselves. The war that followed, and the fellow athletes who fought, died, or were captured in it. Everyone had heard of the two captured. Their stories were personal to these men, heroes innumerable times over as fellow athletes suffered as if with them. Dietrich waltzed Mr. Williams on to other heroes, the victories, and the disappointments. And finally to the man who’d taken Carlson’s place, but hadn’t. A face, a number, the name of Marvin Shanks, according to the other two men.
“Shanks,” Mr. Williams said. “Unconventional the way they let him in.” He leaned close, his crackling voice dropping to a whisper. “He was Aryan, that’s what some of them thought. Rumor had it he fit the Aryan ideal. That’s why the Germans…I mean, you…let him in.”
Dietrich glanced up from the notes he’d been pretending to take. Notes he’d pretended to take two times before.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was notably tall, very blond, fit, and good-looking. He was where Germany was headed. E
ven found himself a German girl right off. No wonder, since he was their type. Some thought the whole thing odd.”
Dietrich nodded, relaxed the clench on his pencil. “Another runner? Was she one of the female competitors?” He kept his tone level; he knew how to be the disinterested third party. But the girl, an observation the other two Olympians hadn’t noted, spiked his interest, setting off an explosion inside.
“No, she was one of the ones brought in to entertain us. Local folks, artist types who came to Hindenburghaus in the evenings, where we athletes stayed. I never actually saw them out together, but I noticed the way he watched her there, the way he singled her out when he first spotted her. He disappeared sometimes, probably to be with her, but sat whittling little flowers when he was around the rooms. I teased him about them being for the girl. He never said.”
“He ran.” Dietrich’s professional mien began to slip, his comment too quick. He took a breath. “Yet there is no record that he did, other than what I’ve been told in interviews. And saw in one photo of the group.”
“Yep, he ran. And medaled. But they took it away from him. Someone reported him as a money-making ringer. Paid when he won. So much for Aryan. He was a disgrace instead, and stripped of his prize. I saw it happen. Well, overheard it. But I did see Marvin walk out with someone. Some man. Stiff, like a cop.”
Amabile’s lover ran, he didn’t walk. And he wasn’t escorted away. “That must have happened near the end.”
“It was. He was a good fellow, actually, even took it well when some of the athletes teased him about his last name. Shanks. Perfect for a man built on stilts while most of us had more muscle. He was quiet and considerate, except for what he did. He looked bad even before he lost his medal. White. Shaken. Almost like Carlson looked when he took sick.”
“He maybe knew what was coming?” Or what had happened in the explosion. Dietrich tapped his pencil. He was getting fact mixed up with fiction.
Mr. Williams shrugged. “Maybe. Losing a medal is quite a blow. But as bad as he looked after, he sure squared himself when he walked away with that man. Like soldiers, is what I thought as they passed. Made me think of a court martialing.”
Out of Splinters and Ashes Page 5