The Methuselah Project (31 page)

She laughed. “It would be
swell
?”

Roger searched her face for a clue to the joke.

“Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t heard anyone say that word in real life. You might be a brave military vet, but sometimes you talk like Beaver Cleaver. Okay, let’s go check out the museum, then we’ll hightail it to Woody’s place. We need to get you working so you can pay me back!”

When Roger stepped out of the taxi, he couldn’t stop staring at the museum’s white exterior. Would anything inside give closure to the life he’d left behind? Behind him, Katherine was saying something, probably idle chitchat. At the moment, the building before him commanded his full attention. The glass doors practically beckoned.

Tall, slender sentries, a dozen flagpoles stood vigil out front. Atop each fluttered a blue flag bearing a golden numeral “8” with wings sprouting from each side. Except for the patch on the left sleeve of his flight jacket, it was the first he’d seen that beloved symbol in well over half a century.

The Eighth Air Force. Finally something real, something I can understand.
A walk through the museum would provide a welcome retreat from the nightmare he’d been living since escaping. Since escaping? Since 1943.

“Hey, are you listening?”

Roger snapped back to the present. “Sorry, Katherine. Did you say something?”

“Yes, I did. In fact, I said several somethings. For a moment, you were in zombie land. I said it’s a little nippy out. You might want your jacket. Besides, if there’s one place where that antique will look appropriate, this museum is it.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Roger reached into the taxi’s rear seat and snatched up his Air Corps jacket. The russet-brown leather felt slightly stiff to touch, dryer than he’d noticed before. He pulled it on.

“Come on, Mr. Top Gun. Let’s go in. Just to prove what a softie I am, I’ll even treat you on the admission price.”

Despite the early hour, the middle-aged man tending the visitor desk offered a robust greeting. “Mornin’, folks. You two are the first guests of the day.”

Katherine set her purse on the counter. “Two, please.”

“That’ll be twenty dollars.”

Katherine opened her purse, but Roger slid two tens across the counter. “Let me pay this time. It’s tough for a guy to get treated by a girl too often.”

Before they moved on, Roger examined the vestibule. Mounted on the wall were dozens of brass plaques and flags. To the left, he noted the entrance to an eatery called—of all things—Miss Sophie’s. The coincidence put a lump in his throat. To the right, a sign pointed the way to a gift shop.

“Nice lookin’ A-2 you got there, mister.”

Roger turned to see the attendant eyeing the Air Corps jacket.

“Once in a while we get visitors wearing reproductions, but that’s the best original I’ve seen in a long spell. Even better’n what we’ve got on display. Bet it would fetch a pretty penny on eBay.”

Roger blinked.
E-bay?
“Uh, yeah. It’s been in the family a long time. Kind of a souvenir.”

The museum employee handed Katherine two maps. She held one out to Roger. “Come on, ace. We’re in.”

Roger’s heart skipped. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I—” Roger mentally kicked himself. He’d allowed the museum to distract him. Mistakes would invite trouble.

“Forget it. I misunderstood. Let’s see what’s in here.”

The two strolled into the main museum. As they walked from one gallery to the next, Roger still saw no other visitors milling about. He preferred it this way. If he’d purposely planned a stop at the museum, he couldn’t have chosen a better moment to arrive than opening time.

Glass cases contained a treasure trove of memories from World War II: a Norden bombsight from a B-17, .50-caliber machine-gun shells, an oxygen mask, fleece-lined gloves, flying goggles, bits of flak extracted from aircraft, plus uniforms of Air Corps personnel who’d served in England. Black-and-white photographs also adorned the galleries. Some showed grainy enlargements of Flying Fortresses and Liberator bombers. Others featured more agile fighter planes. Still other pictures depicted airmen in various slices of life. Wafting from overhead speakers, big-band music from the war years overwhelmed his heart with nostalgia.

Roger stopped and looked around, soaking in the atmosphere. He shook his head. “You know, it’s almost comical. Objects people use every day eventually end up in museums for others to gawk at. Just imagine people oohing and ahhing over your toothbrush fifty years from now.”

“I never thought about it that way. From now on, I’ll keep my toothbrush clean.”

A sharper edge had crept into Katherine’s voice. Had he said something wrong? He hoped he hadn’t offended her, but right now his excitement at being here prodded him onward. He cocked his head as a new tune began. “Just listen to that music.” He nodded his head in time. “Know what this song is?”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t have a clue. It’s a little before my time.” Again, impatience tinged her voice. Why?

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. That’s ‘String of Pearls’ by Glenn Miller and his orchestra.” He stood still and relished the flowing notes of his favorite big band. Even before the song ended, another glass case caught his eye, and he strolled over to see what it contained.

Katherine studied her passenger as he scrutinized glass cases of outdated Air Force gear. Clearly the organization had sent him. He
must
be the right guy. The photos in her purse proved as much. Plus, he carried the locator chip. But this whole field exercise had degenerated into a pointless detour. Cute or not, this man didn’t behave like a member of the HO. If he wasn’t what they said—and even the HO leadership must make mistakes—then who was Roger Greene?

Once again she took in Roger’s old jacket. She considered the stenciled “Greene” nametag over the left chest. He’d claimed the jacket had been in his family for years, but that didn’t explain why he would wear an heirloom every day. The jacket presented yet another riddle she couldn’t answer. What did the HO expect her to do?

Even as questions swirled through her mind, one truth pierced Katherine’s confusion: she hated charades. Yes, Roger was attractive, but what had begun sounding like a fun diversion had deteriorated into this unplanned detour to the Mighty Eighth, a World War II museum light-years away from her own existence. She had better things to do, a life of her own outside the HO. How could she attract editing gigs when she was gallivanting around Georgia, wasting time?

She yawned and brushed an unruly strand of hair out of her eyes. In contrast to her boredom, mystery man now stood squinting at every individual face in a series of old, black-and-white photographs. From the intensity in his gaze, she concluded that he wasn’t faking. The photos literally fascinated the man. Roger behaved as if he’d forgotten her. How could that be, when the organization specifically stated that
she
was the reason this handsome Yankee had traveled to Georgia in the first place?

The HO isn’t testing any skills of mine. The only thing getting tested is my patience.

She chided herself for proposing the unscheduled detour. She wished Roger hadn’t even spotted that road sign. If she hadn’t suggested stopping, she could’ve delivered him to Woody and been on the highway heading home by now. Katherine glanced at her wristwatch: ten thirty. Half the morning shot, and no end to this game in sight. Could she sneak away and just leave him? No, the organization might interpret that as noncompliance. Maybe even defiance. Worse, Uncle Kurt would view her action as an insult. She must handle this in some other way. Firmly, but still within the parameters of a field exercise.

“Look, flyboy—”

Roger’s head snapped in her direction. He appeared genuinely startled. If he was role-playing, then he was the slickest actor she’d ever seen.

“Just call me Roger, will you?”

“Okay. Roger. I’ll admit you have me more than a little curious. Most of the men I meet in that taxi think only about cars, beer, basketball, football, and sex—not necessarily in that order. Yesterday I meet you—a nice guy who seems down on his luck—so like a good Girl Scout I volunteered to drive you to my friend, who offered you a job, sight unseen. Suddenly the only things you care about are old-fashioned music and antique airplanes. I know you said you served in the Air Force, but … this is weird. What’s with you?”

The hurt in those blue eyes caught her off guard. She immediately regretted her harshness. But mingled with the sadness she glimpsed something else. Not for the first time. Her degree might be in English, but she’d lived long enough to recognize conflicting emotions. Roger bore all the signs of a man stretched in opposite directions. His gaze dropped to the polished terrazzo floor. What secret hid inside that handsome head? Did he want out of the HO or something?

Halfway hating herself for caving in, Katherine broke the silence. “Oh, never mind. Let’s look around. You paid for us to see this place. We might as well get your money’s worth. As soon as you’re done, though, we have an appointment with Woody.”

“You bet.”

“C’mon, Mom,” called a young voice.

Katherine turned. A redheaded boy of ten or eleven sauntered in. Behind the boy followed a woman whose matching red hair pegged her as “Mom.” The boy cocked his head. “What’s that song, Mom?”

The woman looked upward, as if the answer might be posted overhead. “I’m not sure. It sounds familiar, though.”

Roger stepped closer to the boy. “That’s called ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.’ You see, during the war boyfriends and husbands were shipping out for duty overseas. They didn’t know how many years they might be gone. So the idea was for sweethearts to wait for each other until the war ended.”

The mother nodded. “Were there words to go with the music?”

Roger picked up the tune:
“Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me …”
Both mother and boy glanced at each other, all smiles for this impromptu performance. Despite her earlier irritation, Katherine realized she was smiling too. Roger might be different, but he possessed a great singing voice. Almost too great. With his good looks and that voice, why wasn’t this guy in Las Vegas?

Mother and boy broke into applause, and Roger bowed.

“Will you sing another?” the woman asked, her gaze locked on Roger’s eyes.

Katherine noted the woman’s left hand. No wedding band.

Roger cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know—“

Katherine sidled over and linked an arm around Roger’s. “Sorry, end of concert. We’re on a tight schedule.” As she tugged Roger away, disappointment registered on the mother’s face. The sight somehow pleased Katherine.

In the adjoining gallery, a display highlighting fighter planes immediately drove all thoughts of Woody and the temporary job from Roger’s mind. No complaints from his female driver could deflate his thrill at spotting a sleek, life-sized aircraft hanging from the ceiling. Was it the one he most wanted to see? He strode straight toward it.

“So that’s a P-51 Mustang. It’s even more impressive than the photos. I’d give anything for chance to climb inside the—”

Katherine’s expression stopped him in mid-sentence. She stared at him in open-mouthed alarm.