Reflection (25 page)

“That's Dina,” Becky said as they climbed the stairs to the main level of the church. “I work with her at the bank. She's a good friend.”

They walked a few blocks to a small Italian restaurant on a side street. “It's my favorite,” Becky said as she pushed open the glass door. “Not exactly elegant, but the food's good.”

The restaurant was little more than a small, square room. Eight tables, half of them filled, were packed close together and covered with the requisite red-and-white-checked tablecloths. The fluorescent lighting overhead was too bright, and the posters of Italy on the walls were faded, but the smells from the kitchen held promise.

“I enjoyed that class,” Rachel said once they'd sat down. She could still feel the rush of endorphins.

“Isn't it great?” Becky shoved her menu to the side without opening it. She obviously knew what she wanted. “Suzy's been the instructor for about three years, and she's the best I've ever seen. The manicotti's to die for, by the way.”

They both ordered manicotti, then dove into catching each other up on the twenty-six years since high school. Becky had gotten married a couple of years after graduation, moved to Massachusetts, and had two children. She and her husband had divorced five years ago. “He found someone else.” She shrugged. “It was hard at first, but looking back, I don't think we'd ever really been right for each other. And then I moved back here.” She unwrapped her straw. “This town… While you're growing up here, you're thinking, ‘I can't wait to get out of here.' Once you've been away awhile, though, you can't wait to get back.”

Rachel pondered that thought. “It's the view from Winter Hill,” she said. “Whenever I thought of Reflection, that was always the first image in my mind.”

“Michael said you were widowed?” Becky asked gently.

Rachel nodded. “Twice.” She grimaced. Why did she say that?

Becky wrapped her hands around her water glass. “I'm so sorry about what happened with Luke, Rachel,” she said. “It must have been a terrible time for you.”

“It was. Thanks.”

“I still think about it sometimes. About Luke. He was such a neat guy. I think about how much he must have changed to do something so terrible. How hard that must have been for you.”

Rachel nodded. “The war turned him into someone I didn't know.” She felt freed by the way Becky refused to tiptoe around the topic. “He became…unpredictable.”

“And I know that some people are upset that you're here. You're their scapegoat.”

That word again.

“I just want you to know that everyone doesn't feel that way,” Becky continued. “It's good for you to do things like taking this class. You're a legend in this town, just like your grandfather, only for different reasons. Twenty years have passed, and there are very few people here who remember the real Rachel Huber. They only remember the pumped-up myth of the teacher who…you know…who blew it, they think.”

Rachel tried not to wince at Becky's choice of words.

“The only way to counteract that reputation,” Becky continued, “is to let people get to know you. Michael told me about all the awards you've won as a teacher. People need to hear about that. I'm taking it upon myself to spread the word. Hope you don't mind.”

Rachel smiled. “It means a lot to me to know that everyone doesn't blame me.”

“Hell, no. Just a few people who still need someone to pin their unhappiness on. I don't give them the time of day.”

Their meal arrived, and they ate and talked like the old friends they were, Becky bringing her up to date on nearly everyone from their high school class as well as their teachers and the school secretaries and cafeteria workers. By the time they left the restaurant it was dark outside, and Rachel felt fully satisfied. She'd had a good workout, good food, and good company.

She said good-bye to Becky on the corner, then walked the block to her car in front of the United Church of Christ. She slipped her key into the lock on the car door.

“Rachel?”

She turned at the sound of Michael's voice. He was walking down the sidewalk in front of the Mennonite church, his features barely visible in the darkness.

“Are you just getting out of work?” she asked.

He stopped on the sidewalk, the car between them, and glanced back at his church. “I guess you could say that. Where were you? In the library?”

“No. I took the aerobics class with Becky. Then we got some dinner.”

He looked truly pleased. “That's great. I'm glad to see you out and about.”

“I'm glad to see you, period. How's Jason?”

“Good. We've had a terrific week together.” He looked out toward Huber Pond, and she saw the war going on inside him. She knew the instant he lost it. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “I want to, Michael, but are you sure it's a good idea?”

“Probably not.” He grinned his Michael Stoltz grin. “But let's do it anyway.”

He didn't need to talk her into it.

They walked to the small cafe next to the bank. Brahms Cafe, it was called. The walls were decorated with musical instruments and pictures of composers, Peter Huber included. After feeling so welcome in the aerobics class, Rachel walked into the cafe without so much as a twinge of anxiety.

“You can sit anywhere, Mike.” The waitress glanced at them, then did a double take when she realized who the preacher was with. Rachel felt the woman's eyes burning a hole in her back as she and Michael walked toward a booth.

An older man passed their Formica-topped table as they were sitting down. He shot a look at Rachel, then nodded at Michael. “Michael,” he said, and Michael returned the greeting.

Rachel waited until the man was out of earshot. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,” she said quietly.

Michael shook his head, let out a sigh. “Drew just lectured me, not more than a couple of hours ago, about not being seen with you. So what do I do? First chance I get, I suggest we go out in public.”

“Oh, Michael,” she said in frustration. “We're not doing anything wrong.”

“I know that. And I refuse to act as if we are.”

The waitress appeared at their table. “Rice pudding?” she asked Michael.

He nodded. “And coffee.” He looked at Rachel. “Have some dessert?”

She shook her head and looked up at the waitress, who immediately averted her eyes. “Just decaf,” she said.

The waitress called to an older couple standing by the front door and seated them in the booth across the aisle from her and Michael.

“Hello, Mike,” the silver-haired woman said as she and the gentleman settled into the booth.

Michael nodded. “Hi, Marge. Dow.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “Do you know Rachel?”

Marge nodded. “We met at Hairlights. This is my husband, Dow.”

“Oh, yes.” Rachel remembered the woman as one of the hairdressers in Lily's salon. “Nice seeing you again.”

Marge and her husband lost themselves in their menus, and Michael gave Rachel a rueful smile. “Well,” he said softy. “We might as well have rented a billboard to announce we were going to have a cup of coffee together. Marge is rather notorious for spreading the word.”

“I really like Lily.”

He nodded. “Lily's terrific.”

“She gives me hope. She seems to symbolize something…” She hunted for the words. “She endured the tragedy, and yet she's so alive and strong and well adjusted and…she doesn't seem to blame me.” She was aware of speaking softly, just in case she could be overheard by Marge, but the older woman and her husband seemed engrossed in their menus.

Michael nodded, but she got the sense he didn't entirely agree with her rosy picture of the young hairdresser. “Yes, she's adjusted well, and she's not the type to blame anyone for anything. She's a very forgiving sort of person. It's something the church teaches—to forgive—and Lily's a good example of that. But she still has a wounded side to her. She probably won't let you see it, but it's there.”

“How do you know?”

“When she was in high school, she was in the youth group at the church, and she talked to me a lot about her sister. About the guilt she felt over having survived when her sister didn't. It's common knowledge that she's afraid to have kids. Afraid of losing them.”

“Oh. Poor thing.” Rachel pursed her lips. She had wanted to believe that Lily had somehow been spared the tenacious suffering that had so many people in its grip.

“Hey, take a look at this,” Michael said with an abrupt change of topic. He pulled a newspaper ad from his pocket. “Drew gets the
Washington Post
,” he said, laying the ad flat on the table and turning it so she could see. “What do you think?”

It was a large ad for the National Symphony Orchestra, and it was a moment before she understood. “An all-Huber program!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I've got to take Gram.”

He smiled. “And me, too, all right? If I can figure out a way to swing it. I thought we could get a couple of rooms near the Kennedy Center and stay overnight. It's too far to drive back that late.”

The happiness she'd been toying with all night suddenly flowered again. She wished she could tell him how much she wanted that time with him, how much she'd missed seeing him this week. But she couldn't. It might scare him as much as it scared her.

She studied the ad as he talked about the logistics of getting tickets. There was a picture of the pianist who would be performing with the orchestra that night. Karl Speicer. A handsome man, though quite old. At least in his seventies, judging from the picture. His hair was white, and he wore an engaging smile. The name was vaguely familiar. “I think Gram has some of this guy's recordings,” she said. “He plays a lot of my grandfather's compositions.” She looked up at Michael. “I'm so glad you saw this. Gram's going to be thrilled.”

The waitress appeared with the rice pudding and coffee.

“How are preparations going for the hearing and all?” she asked.

“All right. We handed out leaflets today and talked it up. I think we'll have a good turnout. Just hope we can get some of the Amish to show up.” He ate a spoonful of pudding before speaking again. “I spoke with the student leader of the youth group this morning,” he said. “We're going to meet Friday to start planning the Reflection Day observance. I talked to her about gearing our presentation toward making this the last Reflection Day.” He smiled. “She was a bit shocked at first, I think. I mean, she's only seventeen. There's been a Reflection Day every year of her life. But we talked about it, and I think she understood my reasoning. She actually sounded excited about it by the end of the phone call. That's the good thing about working with teenagers. They're rebels at heart. They enjoy thumbing their noses at an institution.”

Rachel frowned into her coffee. The whole Reflection Day concept struck her as bizarre and destructive. “When is it again?” she asked.

“September twelfth. It's always the second Monday of September.”

She supposed that she, better than anyone, should remember the second Monday of September. She hoped she would be back in San Antonio by then. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “the one aspect of Reflection Day that I
do
like is its focus on the cost of war.”

“Yes. So do I.” Michael slowly finished his pudding. He set his spoon in the empty bowl and looked at her squarely. “I've always felt terrible that I wasn't around when Luke got back. That I wasn't there to help him. And you.”

“You had an obligation in Rwanda, Michael. Besides, you didn't know anything was wrong until it was too late.”

He lowered his eyes to the ad on the table, pushed it around a bit with the tips of his fingers. “Vietnam,” he said, shaking his head. “You know, I've been to Washington a dozen times in recent years and still can't bring myself to go to the Vietnam Memorial.”

She could see the pain inside him. Still, after all these years.

“You were so wise to recognize you couldn't fight,” she said. She pictured him standing on the steps of the Town Hall, facing a small crowd of protesters as he asserted his status as a conscientious objector. He'd said he was unable to accept violence as a solution to any problem. “When I heard you speak that day, it was the first time I had any doubts about my feelings for Luke,” she admitted. “I admired you for taking that stance. And that speech you made… I cried.”

Michael smiled at her. “Do you know who was responsible for me being a conscientious objector?” he asked. “Do you know who helped me write that speech?”

She shook her head. “Who?”

“Your grandparents.”

“
What?
“

“You wondered how I know your grandmother so well. That's how. Both Helen and Peter helped me figure out what to do about the draft. When I decided that I could, with good conscience, be a C.O., they helped me obtain that status, which wasn't too easy, considering I didn't belong to any church back then. Peter spent hours with me, helping me put my feelings into words.”

Rachel was stunned. She leaned back in the booth and stared at her old friend. She would have sworn she'd known all there was to know about him back then. “Why didn't you ever tell me about that? I didn't even know you knew them. I wasn't even allowed to see them myself, and there you were, spending hours upon hours with them.” She heard the hurt in her voice even before she felt it.

“It was very important that as few people as possible knew what Peter and Helen were up to.”

“What do you mean, ‘up to'?”

“They were very well known among the draft-age men—
boys
—throughout the county. You know what pacifists they were. They would have done anything to keep guys from going to fight. Anything, legal or not. And most of what they did wasn't. They harbored AWOL soldiers, they drove draft resisters up to Canada. They doctored medical records, gave advice on how to flunk physicals, and counseled and nurtured C.O.'s like myself. Remember Bobby Mullen?”