The Pieces We Keep (8 page)

T
he simmer had heated to a boil. On September 1, Hitler waltzed into Poland with the confidence of Fred Astaire. In the two days since, herds of civilians had evacuated from London in anticipation of aerial bombings. The German embassy advised all German residents to clear out of Britain; Brits in Germany, Vivian heard, were urged to do the same.

Keeping her promise, she passed along such snippets at her daily meetings with Isaak. While she hated to heighten his nerves, he repeatedly assured her: It was always better than not knowing.

Vivian didn’t necessarily agree. A large part of her wished she had not learned of the update over breakfast.
Our plans have been set,
her mother said while buttering a slice of toast.
We’ll depart for home next Sunday.

We,
however, did not include Vivian’s father. From behind his newspaper and between sips of coffee, he claimed he would follow once affairs allowed. This, Vivian realized, was the reason he had been so grave that night when inquiring about her
feelings
over moving back. She had answered him without knowing what he was truly asking.

After breakfast, on the way to church, she had voiced her wish to stay, to wait and travel as a family. He told her a delay would be too dangerous.

Yet if that was the case, should he not retreat as well? The same went for Isaak. How could she possibly leave him behind?

All morning these were the thoughts that plagued her, through the drone of hymns and now the solitude of her room. The clinking of china and rustling of paper traveled from downstairs, where the maid was busily packing.

Vivian sat at her small desk and flipped her diary to a clean page. She penned her dilemma in hopes of conjuring an answer. Time was running short. Isaak would be waiting by the river at half past eleven. Their frequent meetings had required an equal number of alibis to excuse Vivian from the house. Thankfully today, with political urgency trumping the Sabbath, her father was at the embassy, leaving only her mother as an obstacle.

Vivian scrolled through her options. It had been a while since she and Alice, a British diplomat’s daughter, had shared an outing in the city. It was plausible they would have made plans for ... a picnic ... or lunch in Piccadilly ... to say good-bye.

“Vivian, honestly.”

At her mother’s voice, she covered her diary with a magazine.

The woman appeared in the doorway wearing a yellow sweater and brown A-line skirt. Face powdered and rouged, she posed a cigarette like Greta Garbo. In fact, much about her resembled a film star, but aged from being too long on display.

“We’re not waiting until the last minute to pack all of our things,” she said. “You haven’t emptied a single drawer, have you?”

Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of
London Life.
“Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.

“Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”

Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.

“You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”

“Most of those are my
work
dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.

Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.

“So be it,” she murmured.
For now,
her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”

“You’re leaving now?”

“Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”

Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.

“I did not pout.”

“You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”

“I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.

“Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mothers never do.” When she turned to leave, Vivian’s frustration sharpened, an arrow of unsaid words. She could hold them in no longer.

“Aren’t you worried at all about Father staying here? Or are you secretly hoping something will happen to him?”

Her mother froze, facing the doorway.

Vivian girded herself for a glare, a reprimand. Perhaps even a slap, partly aware she deserved it. Instead, a sheet of silence erected, so brittle it could shatter from a single tap.

When the woman eventually spoke, she did so over her shoulder in a tone cool as steel.

“I was once your age, Vivian. Believed I knew everything about life and love, how the world worked.” After a pause, a wrenching mournfulness entered her voice: “Enjoy it while you can.”

 

Vivian did her best to shake off the remark. She realized how greatly she had failed while ascending from the Underground, having little recollection of the trip.

On the sidewalk, someone bumped her from behind and shot forward to pass her. No apology. Such rudeness was more typical of a kid in knickers than a gentleman in a suit. Her gaze trailed him to a barbershop, where a group had assembled outside. The presence of women made it clear that something other than a free cut and shave had beckoned the crowd.

Vivian warily approached. The people held in place, still as stone, listening. The stout barber in a white apron adjusted the radio on the counter. The speaker’s voice belonged to Prime Minister Chamberlain. Through the crackling static came the formal announcement: Britain had declared war.

War ...

It was now official. Inevitable, really. The ultimatum had been made; the treaty had been breached. Nevertheless, the surrounding expressions confirmed Vivian was not alone in her shock.

As if that weren’t enough, France, Australia, and New Zealand had also joined the cause. Another world war was upon them, all thanks to Hitler and his Nazi regime, dragging with them the populace of Germany.

Isaak. She had to reach him.

She glanced at her watch-eleven seventeen-and made her way toward the Thames. Storekeepers mounted sandbags and crisscrossed windows with fresh tape. Strangers toted boxes stuffed with gas masks on the ready. Optimists would no longer view these as overly cautious measures.

From Vivian’s childhood, a nursery rhyme echoed in her memory. “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” She dreaded to think the same fate could befall the city. The whole country.

She increased her pace, bordering on a run. When she reached the designated lamppost-no longer
her
special spot, but
theirs
—she checked her watch again.

Eleven twenty-six.

Four minutes to wait, at the most. Isaak was never late.
Punctual as a German train,
he’d once boasted. Though she hadn’t considered how telling the phrase was until this moment.

A growing rumble caught her ear. She turned toward the water, where boats had become rather scarce. The image of a German bomber flashed in her mind. She scanned the overcast sky. Patches of clouds were stitched into a quilt, a convenient disguise for the Luftwaffe.

But then she traced the sound. The muffler of an old Ford grumbled down the street.

“Just a car,” she sighed. She almost laughed from relief, when a siren wailed. An actual warning. Not a practice drill. A passing mother yelled at her child to keep up. Couples set off in a sprint, retreating to shelters.

Where was Isaak? Vivian searched for his face. Panic coursed through her veins. The siren pierced all thought. She cupped her ears, muting the nightmare, and prayed that any second she would wake.

Audra looped the declaration, a flimsy weapon against the images emerging from her memory. They were alerts of missing children—posters and billboards and five o’clock news leads—a collection she had unknowingly accrued since the day of Jack’s birth.

“I repeat, we’ve got a Code Adam,” the security guard said into his walkie-talkie. He released the button, and a voice confirmed receipt of the message. He addressed Audra again, his tone and appearance straight from any crime-fighting show. “Do you remember what your son was wearing?”

Jack’s entire wardrobe tumbled around in her mind, as if viewed through the window of a clothes dryer. She glanced around the food area, at the outfits of strangers, to jog her recollection.

“He’s got jeans on. And sneakers. He has a cast on one arm, but it’s covered by his blue raincoat—no, green. It’s dark green.”

Audra waited as the man relayed the description to the control center. Why hadn’t she dressed Jack in something more distinct? For public places, Devon used to put him in bright colors, fluorescent orange and yellow. She just didn’t think it would be necessary at his age.

“Did you agree on a meeting spot?”

“We did. The table—I was bringing food. He was supposed to be there with my friend’s daughter.” She motioned toward Grace, who stood with Tess a few yards away.

“But what about a place for you two to meet up, if he got lost?”

A basic precaution. How had she missed it?

She admitted her negligence by a stiff shake of her head.

“Not a problem.” He waved his hand as if to quell her rising shame. “We’ve already got guys combing the grounds. I’m gonna go check out the carnival booths. Kids wander over there all the time. Those big stuffed-animal prizes are like magnets.”

“I’ll go with you.” She couldn’t bear staying idle. She signaled to Tess that she’d be back.

Audra and the security guard traveled past the dart balloons and shooting gallery, the milk-bottle pitching booth. Between the ducky pond and ring toss, a little boy burst into a fit. His father looked to have reached his wit’s end.

Would bystanders dismiss any child’s screams as a tantrum, even if he was being abducted?

Applause soared from the stage, the sound of celebration. A man was talking to the crowd.

A microphone ... speakers ...

She asked the guard, “Could we make an announcement up on stage?”

“We’ve actually got someone about to do that right now.”

Audra’s mobile buzzed in her pocket. The screen read:
Private caller.
Tess could be borrowing a person’s phone.

“Is he there?” Audra demanded.

“Audra? It’s Meredith.” A quick pause. “Is everything all right?”

The question threatened to break her.
No, it’s not all right!
She could hear the sound of her own heartbeat. “It’s Jack. We can’t find him.”

“What? Where are you?”

“The park. At the waterfront. He wanted to sit and he, he left—” The answer collapsed as she caught sight of the river.

She hadn’t considered that Jack might wander past the jogging path and down to the docks, baited by the boats and Jet Skis zooming under the bridges. He had taken swim lessons years ago, but only the basics. Not strong enough for a cold, deep river.

“Audra? Audra!” Meredith’s voice. “Robert and I will come down there. Tell me where exactly you are.”

“Copy that,” the guard replied over the airwaves, and turned to Audra. “I think we found him. Over by the stage—”

That was all Audra heard before she took off running. She cut around obstacles, the guard trailing behind, until the profile of a boy swam into view.
Jack.
It was definitely him. There he was, talking to a uniformed soldier who had just stepped down from the stage.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she said under her breath, a chant of boundless gratitude.

Meredith’s voice reached out from the phone, held low in Audra’s grip.

“We’ve found him,” Audra told her. “I’ll call you later.” She zipped between people reclined on their blankets, over trampled grass peppered with litter, and through wafting bubbles blown by a little girl with pigtails.

The band returned to the stage and proceeded to tune their instruments.

“Jack!” She threw her arms around him. She wanted to scold him, to shake him, to keep him close forever. “My God, you have no idea how much you scared me.”

The security guard caught up and fed a report over the radio.

Audra pulled back just enough to look into Jack’s eyes. “You can’t wander off like that. Ever, ever. Do you understand me?”

He nodded, and finally her tears dared to fall. She glanced up at the guard, then the soldier whose confusion constricted his features.

“I’m sorry,” she said to them both. “I’m ... so very sorry.” She grabbed Jack’s hand and briskly led him away, desperate to shed thoughts of
what if.

 

With each mile that distanced them from the festival, Audra’s relief gave way to aggravation—less at Jack than herself. In a a place like that, she shouldn’t have let him out of her sight. Not for a second.

She recalled the child at the park harnessed by a leash. She and Devon used to condemn those inventions. Mostly, she now realized, because Jack never needed one. Even as a toddler, he always stayed near, always asked for permission.

So why had he ventured off?

She studied him in the rearview mirror. He stared wordlessly out his window, rubbing his little toy plane. She preferred not to relive the incident, but neither did she plan to let it happen again.

Taking the exit off-ramp, she rolled up to the red light. The ticking of her turn signal compounded the tension. “Jack?”

He connected with the reflection of her eyes.

“You know you’re not supposed to walk off without telling someone, right?”

He nodded.

“Then why on earth did you do that today?”

Jack parted his lips to reply, then pursed them and returned to the window.

She reviewed her own tone, firmer than intended. His disappearance had upended her emotions; though it all came out well, the effects were difficult to shake. She exhaled before trying again.

“Buddy, I’m not upset anymore. I just really want to understand why you’d do that.”

He didn’t respond, just stroked his personal worry stone.

Considering Jack’s military interest, like that of most boys his age, the Gl at the fair would have easily caught his eye. After all, the man had been a recruitment poster for valor, all spiffed up in an Army dress uniform.

“Did you just want to say hi to the soldier? Is that why you went over there?”

After a pause, he answered softly. “No.”

“Jack, I saw you speaking to him.”

It then occurred to her that he might be avoiding a confession: that he’d broken a basic safety rule by talking to a stranger.

“Could you please just tell me what you said? I promise, you won’t get in trouble if you’re honest with me.”

He gazed down at his plane, as if the answer lay in the grooves of its wings. He seemed to be growing even more introverted since his nightmares began. When he raised his head, he looked straight into the mirror. “Feel find feel air.”

At his altered voice, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shot up. She twisted to face him, her foot still on the brake. She would have taken the words for gibberish if not for the distinct, purposeful syllables and guttural vowels.

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged at her.

“Jack, tell me what that means.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

The phrase had sounded foreign. Yet how was that possible? With the prevalence of Spanish, few kids in America wouldn’t be familiar with standards like
hola
or
adios.

But this was different.

“Do you ... remember where you learned it?”

He shrugged again, and a honk blared from the car behind. The light had changed to green. Audra scrambled to find the gas pedal and jerked the car into motion. She made a sharp left through the intersection, straining to remain in her lane.

They passed cars and crosswalks and neighborhood blocks. Her autopilot skills led the way as the fingers of her mind shuffled through Jack’s drawings. The Army plane in flames. The swastika on the man’s chest. And now Jack seemed to be imitating another language. Could it be a European tongue from World War Two?

She’d sat back all this time, not interfering when Robert showered him with fighter planes or reenacted invasions with battalions of toy soldiers, despite their inherent links to violence. She figured it was a normal hobby for boys. Her one condition had been no viewing of programs featuring the glories or brutalities of war.

Once parked in her apartment’s lot, she turned toward the backseat. She did her best not to convey an inquisition. “Jack, I really need you to tell me. Has Grandpa been showing you any war movies? About airplanes blowing up, or soldiers being hurt?”

A crinkle formed on his brow, then he shook his head.

She’d seen that crinkle before, when he tried to keep a secret after a weekend with his grandparents.
They’re supposed to spoil him,
Devon had assured her, regarding Jack’s overdose of donuts.
It’s a perk of the job.
She had let it go, of course, even smiled at the benign tradition.

This, on the other hand, was anything but amusing.

She was about to press harder when her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. This time she had no doubt it was Meredith.

Audra handed the keys over to Jack. “Go on in, buddy. We’ll talk about this later.”

Jack climbed out of the car. She watched him enter their apartment, only a dozen feet away, before she picked up the call.

“Audra, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I just wanted to make sure Jack was okay.”

“He wandered off for a little while, but everything’s fine.”

“Oh, good. I’m so glad. I know how scary that can be.” Her voice lightened, sounding of a smile. “You know, we used to joke that Devon had bloodhound in him. Whenever Robert took him bird hunting as a kid, Dev would always go off exploring—”

The mention of killing animals for sport, combined with such breeziness over a roaming child—particularly after today’s scare—was anything but welcome.

“Meredith,” she cut in, “has Jack been watching any TV at your house?”

The woman stopped. “Once in a while, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“Has he been watching war programs? Like on the Military or History Channel?”

“Gracious ... I wouldn’t imagine so.” Her air of uncertainty only raised Audra’s doubts. “Is there a problem?”

“He’s been drawing some violent pictures lately. Then there’s the nightmares he’s having. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of where he’s getting these ideas.”

Meredith went quiet, either brainstorming possibilities or sensing the onset of an accusation.

Another confrontation was the last thing either of them needed. The easiest way Audra could handle this was to provide clearer guidelines during their next visit.

“I actually need to check on Jack. But we’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Sure,” Meredith said. “That’s fine. Give him our love.”

“I will.”

Audra disconnected the call and leaned back onto the headrest. She gazed at the apartment door, home to a son she could have lost. To prevent that from ever occurring, maybe she did need help after all.

She dialed Directory Assistance.

“City and state, please,” asked the automated voice.

“Portland, Oregon,” Audra replied. “For Dr. Newman Shaw.”