A Star for Mrs. Blake (41 page)

“You can take off the mask and I won’t see.”

“It’s still there, isn’t it? Say, do you have a cigarette?”

Still with the scarf blinding her, Cora went through exaggerated motions of finding the cigarettes in her skirt pocket and holding them out toward him. His warm assuring fingers closed around hers as they had at the
pâtisserie
. He took a cigarette. His hand was gone. She clutched the pack with the scarf still over her eyes and hand outstretched, poised. Untaken. She heard the swipe of the match, smelled sulfur in the air and then smoke, and then the crackle of burning tobacco shreds as he drew in deeply.

“It doesn’t matter.” He exhaled. “Because life is a hallucination. Everything’s in pieces and we can’t put it together. The only purpose of life is to create an exquisite corpse and I think I’ve done an excellent job, don’t you?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Cora said.

She untied the scarf and arranged it back over the lamp, then stood and moved the chair back into place, leaving the underthings on the floor.

“I hope everything goes well in London.”

“I have the best doctor in the world.”

“Good. Well. Stay in touch.”

“How?”

“Write to me at the library.”

He gave her the “okay” sign. She quietly closed the door.

He sorted through the letters from the French war mothers. The one he’d just received from Bar-le-Duc interested him the most. It was from a Mademoiselle Champaux, who claimed to have known Sammy Blake, a private in the American army, during the war.

The last day felt like the first day, like quickening in the weather when the season turns. You could feel the change in the windy hallways as the rooms were aired, and see it in the eager faces of the extra staff that was hired for the midsummer crowds. Business would be picking up; despite the ominous signs in Germany, Europe was going on vacation. A regatta was scheduled to spend a week docked on the river and a classical music festival was opening in town. Taxis and tour buses were active and the temperature climbed. Party A of the American Gold Star Mothers Tour was soon to be a past entry in the ledger of the Hôtel Nouvel.

Perkins was needed back at the office for the next round of pilgrimages. He notified the burial service as Hammond had requested—insisted, the cheeky little snot—on the grounds that it was more expedient to delegate the matter of Party A to another senior officer.

The final visit to the cemetery was postponed until the afternoon due to the arrival of the chief American burial officer, Major Arlen Wistosky, a soft-bodied and mustachioed career man from a family of ironworkers in upstate New York, who arrived from Paris under stormy skies. His job was to oversee the administration of the U.S. war memorials in Europe. He’d brought two official cars to carry the pilgrims to the field where Private Bradley Russell was killed. He’d never been required to fill a request like this from a family member before, but having served in these same chaotic conditions, he understood why it might be asked, and having himself climbed out of the trench under fire to retrieve his best friend’s body, he felt deep pride and a personal obligation to make sure the public knew that the burial records were clean.

Major Wistosky had the documents to prove that the remains of Bradley Russell had been accurately tagged. The problem was, the young soldier had suffered a direct hit and his body parts had been so widely scattered they had been impossible to retrieve. Wistosky, wearing a full dress uniform and standing with his aides by the lobby entrance as the women of Party A filed out of the breakfast room, identified himself and shook hands with each one, hoping, as he looked into their dignified faces, that he would not be called upon to explain these details, especially to the boy’s mother, a tall blondish lady whose stare was vague and whose fingers, when he gently took her hand, were cold as ice.

The young liaison officer, Lieutenant Hammond, looked like he knew the score.

“What about your Mrs. Russell?” Wistosky asked while the ladies were being ushered into the cars.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Hammond told him.

“I hope she’s up to this.”

“We’re usually accompanied by a nurse,” Hammond said, glancing furtively at the closed parlor door. Lily had been summoned by the great man at breakfast and he hadn’t seen her since. “I believe she’s having an interview with General Perkins about another case.”

“Well, not to worry. I always carry brandy for emergencies.” Wistosky patted a hidden flask. “In case she becomes hysterical.” He clapped Hammond on the back. “Buck up, son. You’ll see worse.”

Once they were out of town and on the country road, the headlights on the official cars could barely penetrate the mist that had settled over the fields. They stopped at a place along the front where the ground was still spongy and pockmarked by shells. They climbed out and stood by the side of the road, empty in both directions. The pilgrims stood close together, forming a subdued-looking group in the dark formal clothes they’d worn for the final visit to the cemetery later that day. The clouds were spreading. In the distance were a few charred trees like hasty slashes of charcoal against a paper-white sky.

“We’d better proceed,” Hammond advised the major.

Wistosky unfolded a map.

“Private Bradley Russell’s division was stationed all along this sector. We don’t know exactly where your son fought, Mrs. Russell, but we do know where he died. Our burial files indicate it was Trench 8, Hill 295.” He showed them where Hill 295 was identified on the map, and then pointed to a rise in the landscape. “That spot, right there.”

Wilhelmina was blinking rapidly. “Yes?”

“Do you really want the details, madam?” To Hammond he said sotto voce, “Lieutenant, you may not be aware, but this was a bottle burial.”

Minnie heard. “What does that mean?” she asked.

The wind had picked up and light mist was dampening their clothing.

Wilhelmina spoke: “It means they didn’t have enough to bury, dear. All that was left of my son, Bradley, fit into a bottle.”

The eyes kept blinking as if unaware that two large salt-colored tears had rolled down her ashen cheeks. Hammond, who had come prepared, took several folded handkerchiefs from his pocket and distributed them to Wilhelmina, Cora, Katie, and Minnie—who already had her hand out.

“Would you like Major Wistosky to go on, Mrs. Russell?” Hammond asked gently.

“I would.”

Wistosky read from the file: “On September thirtieth, Private Bradley Russell was killed by a high-explosive shell. The skeleton was disarticulated, with fractures of the legs and pelvis. The head was shattered. The dog tag was nailed to a post above the remains. Final identification was made from dental records and a button from the uniform.”

Wilhelmina was worrying at her blouse again.

Cora said, “Stop, Wilhelmina, you’re going to rip that right off—”

And then she did. The thread broke and the top button of the pink blouse fell to the ground. Cora picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand. Small, compact, and made of brass. She recognized it as a button from the epaulet of a U.S. Army field jacket, just like the one Sammy wore in his photo.

“Is that the button—?”

“They sent it to me. It’s all that was left.”

Cora remembered receiving the shredded remains of Sammy’s uniform. She knew now exactly what she’d done with them. She’d wrapped them up with rocks and buried them at sea. If she’d had only a button, she would have surely drowned herself in madness like Wilhelmina.

The wind picked up. Dirt was blowing from the open field, mixing with rain and the smell of earth.

Hammond asked if they were finished.

“You want the rest of the story?”

“Yes,” they chorused, strongly and without hesitation.

Katie was fingering the beads of her rosary.

The burial officer read on: “The remains were disinterred from Grave 18, American Battle Area Cemetery Malancourt, and reburied April 26, 1919, in Meuse-Argonne American cemetery located at Romagne-sous-Montfaucon, Meuse, France, Grave 6, Row 12, Block E.”

“May I see your memory book, Mrs. Russell?” Hammond opened the leather folio with the photo of the Negro soldier that had caused Wilhelmina to faint. He read off the coordinates listed as his gravesite, and they were the same as what the major had just said.

“It’s true,” he told Wilhelmina. “This is where Bradley fell, and here’s the proof of where he’s buried. You can rest easy now. They gave you the wrong picture, that’s all. Bradley’s whereabouts are accounted for. He is where they say he is.”

Cora spoke up: “Wilhelmina got a letter from the sergeant saying Bradley died near a farmhouse and a cannon. Where are they?”

“Couldn’t say for sure,” said Major Wistosky. “That’s not the types of things they put on the map.”

“Let’s sort this once and for all,” Hammond decided.

He took his binoculars out of their case. Rain blurred the lenses, but two hundred yards back, by an old tree break, he could see a stone farmhouse, recently rebuilt.

“There’s the farmhouse.”

As he moved the glass across furrows of wet mud, his heart skipped. He focused in on the nose of a half-sunk barrel. It looked like an 18-pounder field gun.

“Any way you put it, that’s a cannon. Just as the sergeant said.”

Wilhelmina was tugging on the sleeve of Wistosky’s uniform.

“Is my Bradley in the cemetery? In his proper resting place?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” said the burial officer.

When Griffin Reed and Florence Dean Powell came downstairs to check out of the hotel, he surprised her by asking the desk man to order a taxi to Bar-le-Duc.

“That’s a very nice town,” the desk man told them. “It has many old buildings from the Middle Ages. Lots of history. You’ll enjoy it.”

“What is this about?” Florence asked.

“I’m going there.”

“Now? We don’t have time for sightseeing. We have to make the train to Paris.”

“This is important.”

“Darling, if we miss our connection from Paris to Calais, we’ll miss the last boat to Dover and your appointment at the hospital. This is silly. We have to leave right now.” She turned to the desk clerk. “We need a taxi to the train station.”

“Bar-le-Duc,” Reed insisted.

The desk clerk looked back and forth between them, mildly amused by the kind of domestic disagreement he saw a dozen times a day. “Um, well, they’re in opposite directions, madame—”

“Get two taxis,” Reed told him.

“Of course, monsieur.” He was looking over their heads. “Good morning, General.”

Behind them the parlor door had opened and General Perkins strode out with papers under his arm. A moment later, Lieutenant Lily Barnett followed and resolutely crossed the lobby with a determined look on her face, eyes fixed on the staircase straight ahead, which she mounted quickly.

Perkins and Florence greeted each other with double kisses, great friends after enjoying dinner together the night before.

“You’ll be relieved to know the matter we discussed is taken care of,” he told her.

“That’s wonderful, Reggie. I’m very grateful, and I’m sure the family will express its appreciation to the army.”

“Please, madam, it’s my job. I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but at least it’s over, and Mrs. Olsen can be laid to rest.”

“Poor Bobbie. She didn’t deserve this.”

“Clear your mind of it. You’ve done all you could.”

The bellboy came to load their bags.

“Grif?” said Florence. “Stop dreaming. We have to go.”

Reed had been absorbed by the letter. He’d already read it multiple times.

“You go on ahead.”

Florence let out a patronizing sigh. “All right. What’s in Bar-le-Duc?”

“A lead on a story.”

“Is it really important?”

“I don’t know—that’s why I have to talk to her. She’s a Frenchwoman named Mademoiselle Champaux. She read the story on the American war mothers and recognized the name Mrs. Blake. She claims to have information about her son, Samuel.”

“So what does she want? Money?”

“No, for God’s sake, Florence—”

“It’s very possible that she knew him,” Perkins interjected. “Bar-le-Duc was a staging area for the Allies, the beginning of La Voie Sacrée, the Sacred Way. You’ve heard of that? It was the main supply route to Verdun. If this woman was there during the war, she would have seen the Americans marching right through town. Believe me, the French were happy to see us.”

“But he’s already done the article—” Florence began.

“The editor wants more,” Reed said impatiently.

“Sounds damn interesting,” Perkins agreed. “Everyone loves a wartime romance.”

“I’m not so sure it’s a romance. She could be a grandmother.”

“But, Grif.” Florence was close to pleading. “You have to see Dr. Blackmore in London—”

“We will, we will. Give me the tickets. You go ahead.”

“No, you’re in no condition. I’ll go with you. I’ll wait in the taxi.”

“Absolutely not,” said Reed, horrified by the notion of Florence getting near a source. “This is work. If I have to, I’ll take a later train, but in any case, I’ll meet you in Calais in time to make the Channel crossing.” He waited while she fumbled through her purse.