The Night Singers (8 page)

“Well, they'll be great dinner party company,” she joked. “Imagine the conversation between Jimmy Dean and John Donne.”

Brandon cocked his head as he often did when he didn't know if she was making fun of him. “You don't like it.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” she dropped her purse and briefcase into the lap of one of their serviceable arm chairs. “Let me just fix a glass of iced tea. It's sizzling out there.”

She returned a little calmer. “It's just that I was thinking we might find some impressionist prints at the museum. And I hoped to put up one of the wedding pictures.”

“Sure, the wedding picture should go on the mantle.”

“Fine, fine, let's pick out the picture together.”

There were so many splendid photos. Her three sisters and brother clowning on the lawn at the reception. College roommates raising toasts to both of them. The pictures of the nuptial mass itself—the two of them on the altar with Father Morse. She had felt so grown up and so small at the same time. Her favourite photo was one with Brandon standing between her parents, all of them looking as if they'd known one another forever. Her family's initial, almost medieval suspicions about his being an orphan, about knowing nothing of “his people”, had been erased in a few weeks of getting to know the serious, polite, intelligent, sensitive Brandon. When he asked if he might call them “Mom and Dad”, she watched her mother tear up before embracing him and saying, “Of course, sweetheart, of course.”

Sergeant Mackie nodded, “Brandon was a good soldier. He was also a willful man.”

Jennifer closed her eyes and saw her dark, handsome, stubborn husband. “Oh, now I get it. That was the inspiration for the Jimmy Dean retrospective you organised at the base cinema.”

“
Brandon
organised,” Mackie laughed. “Guess he figured that if he couldn't beat up his opponents, he would educate them.”

“Brandon said it was very successful.”

“Especially popular with the wives on the base. That stopped the gay baiting. And Brandon, himself, seemed to enjoy it.”

“You know,” she shook her head, smiling. “I've seen
East of Eden
fifteen times.”

“I'm not surprised, Ma'am.”

They spent their honeymoon driving from Corvallis, where they had gone to college and married, to Arizona. Brandon was posted near Phoenix—repaying the Army for college funding. Luckily, she had been able to find a teaching job in suburban Chandler. It was a hot, slow, tense journey, pulling a UHaul trailer, but each night they dove into each other's arms as if it were their first mating. Jennifer scrupulously used contraceptives. They both wanted children, but knew they needed to wait for a more settled life.

In Phoenix they made friends, some from the Army; some from school. Jennifer developed a flair for Southwestern cooking. Brandon began to enjoy socialising. He read the paper cover to cover and became a provocative, at times authoritative, conversationalist. She knew he would break out of that childhood silence, would blossom. She felt lucky with her life partner, but also vindicated for despite her family's early protests, she knew Brandon was the man for her. She had always looked beneath the surface. (During her freshman year at Oregon State, her weird but fun roommate took her to a fortune teller who extolled Jennifer's sixth sense. She dismissed the old woman's prophecy and her fake Gypsy clothing as overly dramatic, but Jennifer's confidence in her own intuition was confirmed.) Brandon was now blooming in the desert, like so many of those unpromising looking cacti.

“Well, here we are, Ms Petrie,” he lowered his voice.

Jennifer surveyed the ordinary intersection of paved road. How could Brandon have died here, out in the open, in Germany, for Heaven's sake? Not in Somalia or the Middle East. In Germany over fifty years after World War II. Her eyes filled.

Ever resourceful Mackie handed her a Kleenex. He used another for himself.

“It happened late at twilight, you know, when it's hard to see. The ordinance truck was moving in reverse. We had a new man at the wheel, but it wasn't really his fault. The back-up horns weren't functioning. And there was so much construction racket, he couldn't tell.”

She nodded, appreciating his patient rendition. Yes, she had read it in the court martial report. At first she was enraged that the driver had been acquitted, but time loosened her grip on retribution. An accident. Brandon was killed in an accident. Somehow being here, listening to Sergeant Mackie felt more solemn and momentous than his funeral had. That ceremony was held for a dead body. This spot represented the place where he gave his life for another soldier. (Private Landsman had written to tell her how sorry he was, how grateful. He told her he'd never met a braver man. The innocent pedestrian Landsman was now back in Milwaukee working at his father's laundromat.) Sergeant Mackie had raced over to do CPR and then saw that it was too late. In some ways she was grateful to be here with Mackie rather than Landsman. She couldn't help wondering if Landsman's life had been worth it, if you put Brandon and Landsman up on a stage, wouldn't most people pick Brandon?

“Brandon was working over there. When he saw Landsman in trouble, he shouted, but there was too much commotion for Landsman to hear. As I said, it was so noisy that the driver didn't notice the faulty back-up horn. So Brandon dropped his tools and pushed Landsman across the road. And then he tried—this is what I don't completely get but as you say, Brandon could be stubborn—he stood there waving fiercely to the driver to stop before he hit anyone else. Then, oh, what a terrible moment, the truck kept rolling backwards.” His voice broke.

She wept into her Kleenex.

Lightly, chivalrously, Mackie touched her shoulder with his trembling hand.

Her advisor at Oregon State had urged her toward graduate school, said she'd have a flourishing career in biochemistry. He said she was too smart to be a grade school teacher, but she knew the comment just revealed his ignorant, if well-intentioned, mentoring. She wanted to teach science to children for a while and then raise a family of her own, take her kids to dance and art lessons. Brandon was drawn to family from another direction: as much as he loved Jennifer, he longed for someone who was related to him by flesh and blood.

The strain—if it could be called that—occurred several years into their marriage. They both wanted children and weren't having any luck. If ever two people would be devoted parents, it was the Petrie-Tobins.

Half-heartedly he agreed to go to the fertilisation clinic in snazzy Scottsdale. The docs found nothing wrong, but suggested artificial insemination. When that failed, a specialist proposed in vitro. They had just collected the fertilised eggs when the option about going to Germany arose. As he reached the end of his duty, Brandon was called in by his commander. Such an exceptional soldier—stalwart, obedient, brave, bright—should think of the military as a career. Brandon demurred. At least consider a posting in Germany to think it over, the commander counselled.

Neither of them fancied an Army life. Brandon yearned for non-institutional environment after the orphanage, the university, the military. They both wanted adventures. Brandon was eager to enroll in a training scheme at a local microchip firm. He had a solid electrical engineering degree from Oregon State and the company would pay him to learn on the job. Business was booming in the Valley of the Sun. He would soon get a lucrative position; Jennifer could stay home and raise the kids; soon they'd save enough for a little house on the outskirts of Phoenix.

Jennifer felt torn. She ached to move back to the Northwest, to be near her family, return to reasonable weather. She was also drawn toward the posting in Germany. How else could they afford to live in Europe at this stage in their lives? They didn't have any parental responsibilities. The fertility doctor told her sometimes a dramatic change of scene brought surprising results. She was ready for surprises.

“Would you like to see the memorial plaque?” Mackie asked after a respectful period of time.

Jennifer was weeping copiously now. Couldn't help herself. She hadn't expected this. She thought she'd cried all her tears in Phoenix. She'd attended grief counselling. The school had given her two weeks compassionate leave to bask in the cool, wet weather of her family.

Mackie proffered another Kleenex.

“Thank you,” she said, then soaked this tissue as well.

Inadvertently, he checked his watch.

“Oh, I'm keeping you,” she blubbered. How this would have mortified Brandon. “I'm sorry, it's just that I … I …”

“This duty is an honour, Ma'am. I was just thinking that maybe it's been too much for you today. The emotions. The heat. Weather's supposed to break tomorrow and I have some time in the afternoon.”

“Would you mind?” She felt pathetic; but her legs were beginning to buckle.

“Not at all Ma'am. I'd be honoured to show you the memorial and then perhaps buy you a glass of lemonade. Shall we say 3pm tomorrow?”

“Thank you, Sergeant Mackie.” His name was Charles. As much as the familiarity would comfort her, it wasn't the military way.

Brandon loved nothing, no one, in his life as much as he adored Jennifer. She knew this. Although he didn't share her hatred of the desert sun, he understood it. Home to him hadn't been a concept until she entered his life. If she was happy, he was happy. Or close to it. Or getting there.

Of course opting for the Army wasn't like buying a tailored suit. He'd have to leave in January and her teaching contract tied her to Phoenix until June.

They sat one air-conditioned night on the beige couch and cried together. Why were there so many trials—the heat of Phoenix, the intransigent child, the distance from old friends and family? And now—either a six month separation or the prospect of settling in Phoenix for eternity.

“I think you should go,” she sat up straighter.

“Six months is a long time,” he frowned. “One-hundred-eighty-three days. Who would take out the garbage?”

She laughed. They'd been arguing about this silly chore for the last month. All their arguments had been absurd and she regretted each of them now, regretted the discomfort she'd given Brandon, the world's best husband, who underneath his strong, resolute exterior, was still a two-year-old boy wounded by the deaths of both parents, an adolescent troubled by serial foster families, a teenager humiliated by high school years in the orphanage.

“We can write every day!” she looked at him brightly, then amended the plan. “I can write every day. We can use those cheap phone cards.” She swished the throw rug back and forth on the tile floor with her bare foot.

“But how will you deal with the scorpions?”

This gave her pause. She had found only one scorpion in the apartment, but she had barricaded the bedroom until he returned from base to remove it.

“I would hope I've learned some courage from my soldier,” she shrugged. “Actually, it might be good for me to fend for myself. I'll use the time productively. Manfred the new art instructor is from Hanover and he offered to teach a German class for the teachers.”

“You already know Spanish and English,” Brandon looked oddly annoyed.

“They won't do me much good in Germany,” she laughed.

He knew when to give up. He said, maybe she was right, maybe it would give them a broader knowledge of the world, and a deeper connection to each other.

She was sleeping when Frau Muller rapped on the door.

“
Ya, Einen Augenblick bitte
.” She repeated one of Manfred's phrases.

Jennifer rubbed her eyes, almost tearing again at the memory of the accident scene. She ran a hand through her hair.

As she opened the door, she hoped her skirt wasn't too wrinkled. Really, she should have undressed properly for the nap.

“Frau Petrie, I hate to disturb you, but there is a young woman to see you.”

“A woman?” she said thickly. Maybe someone from Distaff Services sent to comfort her. They'd been so helpful back in Phoenix. Really now, she'd prefer to be left alone.

“Will you advise the American lady that I am not feeling well, but thank her for coming?”

“I will tell the
Deutsche
girl that you are indisposed.”

“
Deutsche
?”

“Yes, a young woman with a boy.”

Jennifer's mouth went dry. “I'll be right there.”

After splashing some water on her face and combing her hair, she walked slowly down Frau Muller's floral carpeted stairs. For some reason, she recalled her college roommate and that strange old lady with the gaudy head scarf.

Sitting in the corner of the parlour, looking more composed, was the woman Jennifer had seen with the squirming child in the waiting room. This afternoon, the handsome boy played silently on the floor.

The stranger rose as Jennifer entered.

Jennifer saw beyond the dignity and resolve to a certain shyness, a youthful unease. Again, she wanted to help the girl.

“
Guten Tag
,” Jennifer said.

“Good Afternoon.”

She sat on the edge of Frau Muller's sofa and rested her arm on an elaborate lace doily.

“You are Mrs Brandon Tobin?” She sat straighter and squared her little jaw.

As much as Jennifer was relieved that her “guest” spoke English, she was unnerved by what she seemed to know about her.

“Brandon was my husband,” she said slowly, and then, in spite of herself, began to tear. She pulled out one of Mackie's shredded tissues.

The young woman looked surprised, then distraught.

“Oh, I'm sorry, pardon me, Frau … Fraulein …”

“No, it is I who am sorry. My name is Elsbeth Schmitt. And now I see how I have intruded on your grief. My apologies.” She stood and bowed her head slightly before taking her son's hand and heading to the door.