by Hazel Woods
Hensley watches his face turn crimson. “I don’t understand.”
“You probably feel real brave because you’re sad and you brought that on yourself. But sometimes it takes even more courage to be happy.”
Hensley busies herself with untying her boots. “You are a strong man, Arty. I don’t for a moment think you’re a coward.”
“Two different things,” he says simply. “Strength is in the muscles. Courage is in the mind.”
Despite his comments, and the sick feeling in her stomach, Hensley believes that she has been brave. Her arms and legs quiver as she climbs into bed, her entire body afraid of never seeing him again. She holds the stone in her hand, letting her eyes close on this most unlikely of days.
Dear Mr. Reid,
I wish I might’ve known more sooner. I wish I had not wasted my recklessness on Lowell Teagan. I wish so many things were different. Most of all, I wish this stone were your hand.
Charles Reid returns home, his mood fluctuating with every block. Her face—its freckles and pink lips, her slightly curved eyebrows perched atop her perfectly granite eyes—made him euphoric. Just being in her presence, sitting there watching her eat a mediocre dinner, was remarkable. For all the time he’d spent imagining their meeting, he’d never thought it would happen in a circus trailer. He’d also never thought she would be the one ashamed of her circumstances. He’d imagined she might not want to attach herself to him once she saw how much of him had been lost. But it was clear there inside the wood-paneled walls that his injury was not a hurdle for her.
When he arrives home, his father is still up, reviewing contracts in the study. “Charles,” he says when he sees his silhouette in the doorway. “Let’s have a game.”
“I’m exhausted, actually. I really need to take the leg off.”
“Do it in here. I’ll not faint. I’ve already got my first three moves planned.”
“Chess?”
“When was the last time we played?”
“The holidays, I think.”
“Too long. I’ll fix you a drink. You disassemble yourself.”
Dutifully, Charles eases himself into a chair beside the board. He pulls up his pant leg and unbuckles his prosthetic. The release of the pressure is at once a relief and also the beginning of a different kind of pain, obtuse and vague. He massages the skin around the stump, urging it to accept its freedom more gracefully.
His father plays white, beginning with the same three moves he always does. He winds up with one of Charles’s pawns and takes a long congratulatory drink. Charles’s mind wanders to Mr. Dench and the chessboard in Hillsboro, his last move, and their unfinished game. He wonders what Mr. Dench would say about the wisdom of courting his daughter under the current circumstances.
“I’ve just about got your bishop, son. Where’s your head?”
Charles blinks slowly. “I told you I was tired.”
“Is it the girl? The one you mentioned?”
Charles smiles. “Trying to distract me more, are you?” He moves his bishop only slightly out of harm’s way, hoping for an early finish.
“Come on,” his father says. “I take offense that you would attempt to let me win. Do you think I’m so inferior?”
Charles sighs, shaking his head. “She’s more than just a girl. I’m afraid I may be done.”
“And yet we’ve never even had her for dinner? Don’t be impetuous. A match is much more than romance.”
Charles nods, regretting that he’s begun this conversation. “Indeed. Much more.”
“You are the heir to an enormous fortune, son. She must be suitable in every way. Her family, her manners, her sensibilities. Dabble in romance, but do not marry it.”
With his thumb and his middle finger, Charles knocks over his own king. “Conquered,” he says, reaching for his prosthetic.
“Don’t be dramatic. The ending is far from foregone. I’ll go easy on you.”
As he straps the wooden leg back onto his body, he lets the tightness distract him from all that he might say to his father. He stands and puts weight on the prosthetic, cringing. “I think it is foregone. But not in the way you do. I’m really quite tired. Please excuse me.”
His father watches him limp toward the doorway. “Charles,” he says, replacing the chess pieces, “you mustn’t pity yourself. There are much worse things than this.”
Charles hesitates in the doorway. He knows his father must be referring to his injury, but at that moment, the only part of his life that Charles mourns is that he’s left Hensley there in that trailer. He is instantly overwhelmed by the memory of her on top of that stack of chairs, so far above them all, but her smile so wide and genuine that it lit up the tent.
“You’re right,” Charles says, “there are much worse things.” He knocks his cane once against the walnut threshold as a good night.
• • •
The next morning, Charles finds her brother in his office at the Naval Yard in Brooklyn. The smell of sea salt pervades the hallways and waiting areas.
“Captain Dench?” he says, knocking gently on the open door.
Harold’s eyes leave the page and he stands as soon as he sees Charles. He invites him into the small, chilly office. “Charles Reid, sir. Served eight months at CCS Thirteen as ambulatory medic.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reid,” Harold says gravely. His eyes linger on the cane and he says it again. “Thank you. Please, have a seat.”
Charles notices that Harold’s freckles are darker than Hensley’s but their placement is similar. It is a detail of their meeting he will not soon forget.
Harold makes a mark on the paper in front of him and then closes the folder. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reid?”
“First, I wanted to offer my condolences to you on your father’s death. You may know that he volunteered to write letters to some of the men overseas. And I was one of the lucky ones. We were long-distance opponents in a fiercely fought chess game.”
Harold’s face crinkles in confusion. “My father? Sacha Dench?”
Charles has come prepared for the disbelief. In fact, he pulls one of Sacha’s first letters from his breast pocket and lays it upon the desk. “Yes, your father. He was supremely generous with his pen. You’ve no idea how we covet mail over there.”
Harold pulls his shoulders into a shrug. “Huh,” he says. “No kidding. May I?”
Charles nods, looking at the stacks of folders and oversized envelopes atop every surface. The business of war. Effortless signatures authorizing—what? A few extra cartons of cigarettes? The use of cheaper gauze? Another hundred young horses? Another thousand russet potatoes?
When he’s finished, Harold refolds the letter and slides it across the desk. He rubs his eyes with closed fists. When he looks back at Charles, he seems both tired but somehow more alert. “Forgive me if I seem confused. My father was an enigma, even to me. Or, especially to me. But I’m grateful that he was able to offer you some comfort while you were overseas.”
“Indeed, a great comfort. Your sister, too.”
“Hensley?” Harold straightens at the sound of her name.
Charles nods. “In fact, her letters continued after your father’s death. And I’ve actually come here to inquire, if I may . . .”
Here Harold interrupts. Shaking his head, he says, “I will convey your greetings and your condolences to her, as well. I’m sure she will be pleased to know that you’ve returned safely.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate that.” Charles holds his hat in one hand, his cane in the other. The sound of a typewriter reaching the end of its line emanates from another office. He turns and pushes Harold’s door closed with the tip of his cane. “Sir, I’ve come to ask for Hensley’s hand.”
Harold’s face twitches. His cheeks flush to a deep red. He fiddles with his pencil. “Look, Mr. Reid, I am honored by your pre
sence and I’m sure my sister will be quite flattered, but she is not . . .”
Charles interrupts. “I know about Mr. Teagan. And her . . . condition,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Then he adds, “I adore her. I survived everything for this. For her.”
Harold stands, then he sits quite emphatically back down. “You’ve seen her?”
Charles nods. “Last night. Quite by chance. It was extraordinary.”
“Good God, man. I’ve not seen or heard from her since Wednesday. Is that because of you? Have you prevented her from coming to see me?”
“Not at all. I’ve no influence, I’m afraid.”
“Where is she?” Harold stands and lights a cigarette.
“Mending for the circus,” Charles says then watches Harold’s face go crimson. He grips the back of his chair.
Charles stands and walks to the door and back. He taps his cane lightly against the concrete floor. “Your father told me about both of you. Of you, he wrote, Harold has launched himself into the world with envious certainty of our democracy’s impartiality.”
Harold clears his throat and nods. “And he remained a skeptic until the very end.”
“He also told me that you were as decent as they come. He said he admired your commitment to your ideals. He knew you to be kind and smart and frustrated by his own impracticality.”
Harold stubs his cigarette into a brass ashtray. “He was maddening.”
Charles allows a silence to stretch out and build their respective memories of Mr. Dench, so that for a brief moment he is very nearly in the room with them.
“I want to marry your sister.”
Harold shakes his head. “I really don’t think you understand. She’s to have his child.”
Charles grimaces. “I do understand.”
“Well, sir, that is a generous offer, but if you’ve heard something about our family fortune, you’ve heard incorrectly. I’m not in the business of selling my sister’s sin.”
“Aren’t you? How else did you get Mr. Teagan to agree to it?”
“Is that what she told you?”
“She didn’t have to. I saw Mr. Teagan for myself. He’s not the marrying kind.”
Harold hangs his head. “I’ve only tried to do what’s right for her. For this dire situation. We’ve not the benefit of an immeasurable fortune. But he was gullible enough to believe she’d come into one. Sometimes men need reasons to do the right thing.”
On one wall of the office, there is a map of Europe, with the western front marked in small red x’s. Charles moves toward it. He finds Reims, Rémy, Tincourt. Using his index finger, he traces the red line from north to south. “What the hell do maps show us? Possible routes to move troops? Relative distances between battles? Areas of heavy casualties?”
Harold nods silently.
Charles continues. “The place I lost my leg cannot be found on this map. Sure, I know the coordinates. But it’s just a piece of paper. Here’s the difference: I know the way the clouds looked as the rain began even before dawn that day. I will recognize the slight hills at the horizon, rimmed in a grayish lavender, or sometimes blue, until I die. I know the way the mud feels deep in my boot, squished between my toes. I know the taste of that mud because it was all over my lips. But this map is flat and useless like nobody is living or dying at all.”
“Mr. Reid,” Harold begins, gripping the back of his chair again.
“Please, call me Charles. Forgive me. I don’t mean to pontificate. The point is, Captain, I am one of those people. ‘Immeasurable’ applies to me.” He pauses to be sure Harold understands. Then, with an escalating frustration, he adds, “But it is as useless as this paper map if I cannot make a life with Hensley. I might as well hang it all on my fucking wall and point to it every so often, calling myself lucky.” He realizes that his teeth are clenched and his voice is much too loud to be polite. He takes a deep breath. The weight of his prosthetic is pinching him, making his thigh throb. “Please, Captain, if I can persuade her, give me your blessing.”
Harold shakes his head. It appears to pain him as he says it, but he does nonetheless. “There are other girls, you know. Heartbreak is . . . just part of it all. At least that’s what they tell me . . .” He smiles briefly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Charles nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard. They tell me that, too. But they’ve been wrong about so many things. I’m willing to take the risk that they’re wrong about this, too.”
Harold places his hand on his desk, thrumming his fingers several times. “I will have to speak to Hensley.”
Charles nods. “Of course.”
“Mr. Reid,” Harold says, extending his hand.
“Sir,” Charles says as they shake. He leaves his calling card on top of one of the stacks of brown files.
Rarely do the inhabitants of the circus trailers require any assistance before noon. Hensley uses the quiet time to slip out and across town to see Marie. The girls embrace in front of the bakery where they usually meet. Though Hensley has sworn she will not confess anything, Marie squeezes her tightly and Hensley knows she must feel the burgeoning beneath her tunic. She kisses Hensley sweetly on the cheek and says nothing.
Sharing a thick piece of bread spread with butter and jam, the girls sit on the steps of the library across the street. “Marie, I must tell you,” Hensley says, licking her fingers. “I’ve met Mr. Reid. He found me.”
Marie grabs her hand. “Oh, Hen. Is he as lovely as his letters?”
Hensley pushes her foot across a stray leaf on the step beneath her. “More, really.” She blushes, thinking of the stone that is in her pocketbook even now. “But I’m leaving New York. I want you to know. I will send Harold a telegraph when I’m settled. There are other things happening, things that cannot wait. I must disappear.”
Marie sets the bread down on the brown bag beside them. “Hensley, you sound so dramatic! Are you on the run from the law?”
Hensley laughs and Marie leans her head on her shoulder, relieved. “All right, then. You are not a fugitive. What could be so desperate that you have to leave?”
“Mr. Teagan. My brother. They’ve conspired to force me into marrying him.”
“Not Harold. He’s decent. Sweet, even. Why would he want you to marry that creature?”
Hensley shoos a pigeon away with her hand. “For good reason,” she says quietly. When Marie puts her arm around her, Hensley’s eyes fill with tears. For a long time, the girls sit together, not speaking. Hensley wipes at her tears with her linen and a far-off rumble of thunder finally breaks their silence.
Marie lets her hand fall from Hensley’s shoulders. “Where will you go? With Mr. Reid?”
Hensley shakes her head. “No. I would never want him to give up more than he already has. He lost a leg, Marie. The last thing he needs is a scandal. The thrill of actually finding me, or perhaps his sense of chivalry, has made him say he doesn’t mind. But if I’ve learned anything, Marie, it’s to be wary. Our own sympathies can be used against us.”
“Oh, Hen,” Marie says, pulling her shawl closer to her body.
“Let’s walk,” Hensley says, standing up from the step. “The storm is coming. My friend Teresa, from Hillsboro, has written. She is settled in California. Just up the coast from where my mother was born. I’ve a place with her. She’s never been much for convention anyway.”
“When?”
“Tonight. There’s a Twentieth Century Limited. Please don’t tell anyone. At least not for a fortnight. I will write as soon as I’m settled. There will be lots of news, I’m sure.”
They are standing beneath an awning just as the first drops of rain fall. Marie is nodding. “But you love him, don’t you? From the first time you showed me his letters, I could tell.”
Hensley scoots closer to Marie to keep out of the rain. “I’m afraid I lost my chance at love. Bu
t you haven’t. So choose wisely, my dear friend. Don’t marry a man for the shoes he can get you,” she says, smiling.
Marie points her toe out from beneath her skirt to show off her new blue leather pumps. She laughs.
The girls embrace once more. Marie lets her hand rest on Hensley’s waist. “Take care of yourself. I’ll miss you dreadfully.”
Hensley kisses her once more before darting out from under the awning into a taxicab.
• • •
When Harold visits the circus that evening, he ends up standing in Arty’s trailer, watching the strong man wax his mustache. Hensley has already gone.
“Where? You must tell me where,” Harold says, looking around for some hint of his sister.
“I believe she’s decided to run her own life,” Arty says, choosing an apple from the basket on the counter.
“But what can that possibly mean? She is barely eighteen. Tell me now, or I will have you questioned by the authorities.”
Arty bites into the apple, smiling. “I’ve no idea, Mr. Dench. Your sister is remarkably independent. More than you’d like to think.”
“Did she have any money?”
Arty nods. “We gave her two weeks’ wages. She mended everything within sight.”
“So she’s gone out into the night with a couple weeks’ wages from the circus. I suppose that fills you with confidence?”
Arty picks up a scrap of lace from the floor and places it on the table beside the door. “It did her.”
Harold sighs, clasping both hands behind his head. “Damn it,” he says quietly.
“She’s not reckless. She’s got that baby on her mind, that’s all . . .”
“If she did, she’d be married by now.”
Arty shrugs. “I lost my wife to a lion tamer. It’s a good story. True, catchy, cautionary. But in reality, I’d lost her long before.” Arty takes off his shirt and pulls the overalls up over his bare torso. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Mr. Dench. No denying that. When these muscles get too old, who knows where I’ll end up? I’ve not your station in life, and there’s probably not much we’d agree upon, but marrying a man like that would never have ended happily. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due in the big top. Good luck to you,” he says and ducks through the doorway out into the noisy night.