A Star for Mrs. Blake (35 page)

She sprang up the moment Hammond came through the parlor door.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“He wants to see Mrs. Olsen’s medical records.”

“I have them.” But she withheld the papers.

Hammond gave her a hard stare. “Don’t tell me there’s a problem, Lily.”

“There isn’t a problem,” Lily said. “That’s what—”

“All right then,
give
.” He snapped the folder out of her hands. “He wants them
now
,” he said.

“Why?”

“He’s looking for cause of death,” Hammond answered.

The seriousness of the situation had truly sunk in. This was not like the war games they played at the academy, moving toy soldiers around on a table grid, drawing battle plans on a chalkboard. The relics in the field where Bobbie died jumped out at him. That grenade was real.

“But you know what really killed her?” Hammond said, reflecting briefly. “The waste of war.” He headed to the parlor.

“Thomas?”

“What?”

She could see from his tense, drawn face that things were rough inside.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “Nobody will find anything unfavorable in my report.” Meaning she’d made sure that he’d come off well.

“Thank you.” Hammond lowered his eyes and the tips of his ears burned red. “I admit what happened afterward was not my proudest moment as an officer.”

“But completely understandable.”

“I guess I never really watched anyone die before.”

“Even if you had, I can promise that you never get used to it. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who was supposed to save her.”

“But there was nothing to be done.” He meant it as a question.

“No,” she assured him. “There was not.”

“I hope the brass sees it that way.”

She hesitated. “Thomas?” she asked tremulously. “Are we in trouble?”

“I’ll let you know,” he said, and closed the door behind him, feeling the pressure of looking out not only for his own welfare but also Lily’s.

Cora watched from the window of her room as a stream of unusual characters entered the hotel. Normally all you’d see in the mornings were housewives dragging grocery bags and corralling young children, and elderly men shuffling through their worn routines. Once in a while a peddler of knives or cotton goods would pass, leading a
horse-drawn wagon. Today there were more taxis than usual, as trains arrived at the station carrying newsmen and some important-looking officials from Paris. A cluster of villagers had gathered in front of the hotel to ogle the goings-on. Cora longed to get a closer look, to get outdoors and breathe the fresh, brackish air, but not only were the streets in ruins for blocks, they had been told not to leave the hotel, on orders of General Perkins. She saw a postman impatiently pushing through the crowd to the entrance. The sight of him nudged her back to the writing desk, where she’d left a half-finished letter to Linwood. She’d probably be home by the time it arrived, but she had such a craving for someone to talk to; someone who knew her well. She glanced toward Bobbie’s sad, empty bed.

“… I never thought I could be close to such a wealthy lady, but there’s a kind of friendship that goes beyond money or the color of your skin. I’m glad Bobbie got to say goodbye to her boy, which was the most important thing to her and she would—”

There was timid knock. Cora got up from the desk and opened the door to find the little maid holding an envelope.

“Excusez-moi, madame,”
she said.
“Il y a un télégramme pour vous.”

The maid looked emaciated in her washed out too-big black dress, and childlike black stockings and ballet slippers. There were circles under her eyes.

“Aren’t they feeding you enough?” Cora asked.

“Merci. J’espère que vous profitez bien du reste de votre séjour.”

They nodded and smiled, neither understanding the other, and the girl gave her the letter and left. Cora assumed it was from the Adjunct General’s Office—a travel reminder or a change in schedule. She opened the envelope. Inside was a cable from Paris.

When Lily was finally called into the parlor, she could see right away that the General Reginald Perkins she now faced was not the same as the man who had kissed her in the darkness near the river. This Perkins was all official business, the senior mechanic called in to fix
the engine and make the airplane fly. That, and only that, was the mission. He had moved things around so he could station himself behind a card table placed in the center of the room—the flimsiest of barricades—but it served to make clear who was questioning whom.

“Please sit down,” he said.

The only choice was a wicker rocking chair.

“How are you?” he asked in neutral tone that could be interpreted as intimate or completely disinterested.

Lily took the cue and replied as if nothing had happened between them.

“I’m fine, thank you, sir. I’m very sorry that we lost Mrs. Olsen. It was a shock to everyone.”

He smiled a bit as if to put her at ease. “I’m sure that you did nothing wrong—”

“I would hope so, General Perkins.”

“You understand the situation. Questions will be asked.”

She straightened up as best she could in the rocking chair and kept her gaze steady.

“It’s all in my report, but go ahead.”

“I understand Mrs. Olsen went peacefully. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. There wasn’t any pain. She collapsed and stopped breathing. It was over very fast.”

“Did you attempt to revive her? How?”

“Smelling salts.”

“And when she did not wake up, you knew it wasn’t just a fainting spell—”

“I immediately checked for a heartbeat. There wasn’t any heartbeat.”

“Then what did you do?” He waited. “I’m asking what the medical examiner will ask. No need to worry, it’s all a formality. Papers need to be signed so the body can be released back to the family. Hopefully on the next boat.”

“I performed several chest compressions and checked again for vital signs. There were none. We were out in the woods, there was no hope of getting to a hospital—”

“Meaning there was no chance she could be revived?”

Lily solemnly shook her head. “She was gone.”

“And the cause? In your opinion?”

“Cardiac arrest. But I can’t find any indication of heart disease in her record.”

Perkins was tapping a pencil on the papers as if to call her attention to something she’d failed to see.

“It could be her doctor back home missed something. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t sick when she arrived. We have an elderly woman traveling overseas under terrific strain. Nobody’s going to question what happened.”

“Why should they?” Lily asked, trying to hide her alarm.

“They should not,” Perkins agreed, closing the folder. He stood but did not offer his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

She was hoping for a final telling look—a confidential gaze to let her know that everything was all right—but he was studying his papers, eyes downcast. She withdrew smartly, determined not to show what the interview had taken out of her. She was sweating indecently and worn to the bone, as if she’d just passed orals at nursing school but without the thrill. It was more a feeling of cautious relief that they seemed to be on the same track. They’d both played their roles and gotten through their obligatory scene with the unspoken understanding—she hoped—that the whole business at the river was forgotten.

The women of Party A had been told by Hammond not to talk to strangers about the matter of Mrs. Olsen and to be aware that the press might seek them out. They spent the afternoon mostly resting in their rooms, which was a necessity after yesterday’s ordeal. Later that evening they met in the dining room and, feeling very conspiratorial, took a table in the back. After dinner, Lily organized a game of gin rummy, while Hammond, at loose ends, wandered in the hotel garden. Outside he smelled a waft of tobacco smoke. Following the red
arc of a cigarette, he was shocked to discover it was Mrs. Blake who was smoking.

“Have a coffin nail,” Cora said, handing him the pack she had bought at the desk.

“Bad joke, considering the circumstances, eh?” Hammond replied.

Cora folded her arms and inhaled. “Does it matter?”

They stood on a small brick path in awkward silence. The beds of waist-high lavender released a dense oily smell.

“I can’t wait to get out of this place,” Cora said.

“Ready to go home?”

She nodded. “I thought we’d see each other in Maine, and that Bobbie and I would be friends forever.” She sighed. “What about you, Thomas? You never expected to have to face something like this, did you?”

“I’d like to say the army prepares you for anything—but—no, ma’am.”

Cora smiled a little in the dark, feeling warm toward the boy—like Sammy, thrust out into the world so young, and taking on the world’s heaviest burdens. That’s what we do to our kids, she reflected. Give them our failures. Our wars and the results of wars. Abandoned farms and busted banks.

It was a mild summer night and the rear doors to the lobby were open, spilling light. Someone in the parlor was banging out “I Got Rhythm” on the piano, accompanied by a warbling soprano chorus of other Gold Star Mothers who were guests at the hotel.

“This can’t be much fun. Chaperoning a bunch of chattering ninnies.”

Hammond laughed. “I’ll miss every one of you.”

“You can’t wait to get back to your buddies. But you were very brave, and I’m proud of you. What you did. You saved Mrs. Olsen’s life.”

“Almost saved it,” he said miserably.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Hammond rubbed the side of his nose with the hand that held the cigarette in a pose of Continental angst. “Except for crying like a baby.”

“It only goes to show that you’re a human being with a heart.”

The pianist switched to a ragtime version of “I Got Rhythm.” Nobody could keep up with the words, and the whole thing collapsed into dissonance.

“Doesn’t matter in the army. In the army you’re supposed to follow orders and cover your ass.”

“Maybe you’re not suited for the army.”

“Every male in my family has been an officer, going back to the Civil War.”

“Bully for them. What about you?”

He smoked, pondered, cleared his throat.

“I still believe there’s nothing more important than defending your country, and if I fail at that, there’s not much else worth doing.”

“There are other ways to serve your country.”

“But not the Hammond way.”

The music stopped and they heard weak applause.

“Let’s go inside,” he suggested. “I think there’s punch.”

Hammond stepped away so that she could go first through the open doors into the lobby, where Griffin Reed and Florence Dean Powell had just arrived on the train from Paris. She was at the reception desk, briskly speaking in French to the hotel owner’s cowering wife, impatiently tapping a black-gloved finger on the faux marble counter, a magnetizing figure in a sweeping raven-black mourning dress and a black hat trailing black feathers. Her lips were tightened in a disapproving frown. The sight of her caused a sour reaction in the back of Cora’s throat.

Reed, also elegantly dressed in black, looked like a suitable partner to this determined lady, except when he turned his head and you saw that pleasant look of perpetually mild amusement that didn’t go with the tension that was buzzing around Florence like a pack of wasps. While she argued with the wife, the owner of the hotel was sermonizing Reed in French, telling some elaborate tale, having maneuvered his wheelchair so he could offer a hand crippled by war in camaraderie with the wounded man behind the mask. Reed welcomed Cora with relief when she came over to introduce Lieutenant Hammond.

“I admired your story in
Le Matin
,” Hammond said.

“Mrs. Blake was an inspiring subject,” answered Reed.

“All I did was answer his questions,” Cora said modestly.

“I know General Perkins appreciated the good things you said about the tours.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Reed. “Then he’ll be inclined to help clear things up.”

“Is there a problem?” Hammond asked.

“My friend, Miss Powell, was very close to Bobbie Olsen. She’s concerned about what happened.”

“The army sends its deepest condolences, believe me,” Hammond replied.

“Miss Powell won’t be satisfied until she’s assured by General Perkins that everything was done correctly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Hammond, who couldn’t take his eyes off the mask. Then he was unable to stop himself. “Shame about your injury,” he blurted. “Where did it happen?”

“Ypres.”

“Infantry?”

“I was covering the war for AP. There was a gas attack and I stood up in the trench. No air.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I knew the risks,” Reed said offhandedly.

Hammond nodded and offered his hand. “We appreciate your service to the country.”

Reed shook with the young man and Cora was pleased to see that Hammond had regained his self-control. She gave him an encouraging smile, which he ignored, excusing himself to settle whatever Florence had stirred up at the reception desk.

“Are you all right?” Cora asked.

“I could ask the same,” said Reed.

Inside the prison of the mask she found his eyes were alive and warm, no different from the way he’d regarded her from the first; watchfully, even protectively, when they’d sat on the bench in the Luxembourg Gardens and she’d been thankful for his understanding company.

“I can’t get over it,” Cora said, shaking her head.

“Bobbie thought the world of you—”

“Finally!” Florence interrupted, sweeping between them. “The young man says he’ll get his superior officer to tell me exactly what is going on. I’m so upset, I can’t even cry.”

“Cora was there when it happened,” Reed reminded her.

“Terrible,” Florence said, greeting Cora with a quick double kiss. “Just terrible.”

“She was a remarkable lady.” Cora found that her throat was still thick with emotion.

“Very strong,” Florence agreed. “And she very much wanted to go on this trip.”