Losing Julia (18 page)

GILES AND I
sat in a listening post near the ruins of a farmhouse under a full summer moon, straining to distinguish one sound from another. Coughing. A tap of metal on metal. Creaking wood from the duckboards. Laughter. And much farther, the braying of a mule. We’d been up against the Germans for three weeks with little rest and our nerves were completely frayed.

“What’s that?” asked Giles.

“You mean that?”

“That.”

“That’s behind us. That’s our lines.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Just after four a.m. the Germans fired a few rounds above our heads. I heard them slap into the parapet of the trench behind us. Bullets sound different when they hit flesh. A thouk, thouk, thouk. Then maybe a scream or a low groan.

No word yet from the Maxim somewhere off to the right. They do talk, fast and guttural, their angry messages tapped furiously in a Morse code that translates: HATE HATE HATE HATE. Sometimes, as the bullets sweep back and forth, I hear them inquire, “Where are you, Patrick? We’re coming for you.” When I first heard them, they reminded me of the woodpeckers we had out behind our house. They don’t anymore.

Artillery doesn’t talk, it just screams, convulsing the earth with grand mal seizures. But not tonight. Tonight the 75s and 77s and 155s sounded like muffled barks in the distance; the persistent cough of some primordial beast lurking in the forest, unable to sleep.

“Wouldn’t some venison taste good about now? Say with a side of—”

“Don’t even start.”

He shrugged, then rubbed his jaw. “Did you see that Chaplin picture at the Y last week?”

“Missed it. Any good?”

“Pretty damn funny stuff.” He scratched his crotch, then his back, then his crotch again. “I’ve been thinking about opening a motion picture theater back in Cleveland. Wonder what it would cost?”

“Hell of a lot more than we’re drawing sitting here. ’Course if the war lasts another dozen years or so, you might just have yourself the down payment.”

“Guess I might need some partners.” He scratched himself again, then coughed quietly into his sleeve. I imagined him back in Ohio, all dressed up and standing out in front of his new theater on opening night with a line of people waiting to buy tickets. Even if it failed he’d find something else; Giles was like that, always scheming on ways to get rich. He’d already started a lucrative trade in German souvenirs and French brandy and was constantly trying to befriend the storeroom clerks at the Red Cross canteens. “I just want to be comfortable,” he’d say. “I watched my parents sweat every day of their lives and for what?” His mother died when he was eleven; his father was now bedridden and cared for by John’s younger sister and her husband, who worked the family farm.

“Look at that moon, just sitting there staring at us,” I said. It looked much closer than I remembered the moon being, like a big piece of fruit hanging just out of reach. Squinting, I made out craters and gashes but I couldn’t see the face. I never saw the face on the moon. Under my breath I hummed, “I see the moon, the moon sees me, the moon sees somebody I’d like to see… ”

“Shhh, listen.” He crept up on the firestep.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Shhh.”

A footfall against dirt? I raised my rifle so that the tip of my bayonet was level with the top of the trench line. The sudden nausea and pressure in my bladder. Giles pulled out a grenade, his fingers fidgeting on the serrated metal grip. We waited.

“It’s okay, it’s nothing,” he said, relaxing. “It’s too bright out for raids. They’d have to be fucking crazy.”

“They are fucking crazy.” I slumped down against the side of the trench.

He pulled out his pistol, wiped it down, and placed it back in its holster. A few minutes later he said, “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“My dog. I miss my dog.”

“What kind?”

“A mutt. Named Scratch.”

“Scratch?”

“Her fleas have fleas.”

“Ought to name you Scratch.”

He jabbed me with his elbow. “I’m serious. I really miss her. She’s gonna go nuts when I get home.” He smiled broadly.

I thought of Chester and how we buried him near the base of an elm tree out in the woods behind our house. Katherine and I made a wooden cross painted white with large red lettering that said, “Chester, 1904-1910.”

“Shh.”

“What?”

“Did you hear something?”

“No, I didn’t hear anything.”

WHERE WAS I?
The portrait, that’s right. Let me sit a moment and close my eyes. It’s easier that way, to drift back.

Back to when things were so clear.

AFTER LUNCH I
asked Julia if I could look at her painting but she told me to wait a few more hours. Had I ruined everything with the kiss? And what was she thinking? I studied her face for clues but found none. I lay on the grass daydreaming for an hour and then tried to read a newspaper she had brought along, but I was too distracted.

“You’re being awfully patient,” she said, after a while. “Oh I don’t mind. I like it here.”

“You can come and look now, if you want. It’s not nearly finished, but I won’t do any more today.”

I stood and walked over to the easel. She took a few steps back and watched me.

It was Daniel. He was walking across a meadow, looking right at her. I could see the damaged church steeple in the background and in the foreground I could see the corner of our picnic blanket. Daniel was in his uniform, dirty and slightly bent under the weight of his pack. He held his helmet in his hand and his rifle was slung over his shoulder. But what was that look in his eyes? I couldn’t tell if he was sad or happy, but I didn’t dare ask.

Julia asked me what I thought but I couldn’t say anything at all so I just looked at her and nodded and she nodded too.

Calm fell. From heaven distilled a clemency;
There was peace on earth, and silence in the sky;
Some could, some could not, shake off misery:
The Sinister Spirit sneered: “It had to be!”
And again the Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”

—Thomas Hardy, “And There Was a Great Calm.”

I CARRIED THE
painting of Daniel back to the car. It was hard to hold it, trying not to smudge anything as we carefully picked our way alongside the stream and past clumps of barbed wire and more piles of shell casings and then back across a long pockmarked pasture to where we had parked.

We got back to the hotel at dusk. In the lobby I handed the painting back to Julia. She turned it right-side up and offered a weak smile that suggested either sadness or exhaustion.

“It was kind of you to come with me today,” she said.

“I enjoyed it.”

“I promised myself I’d write some letters tonight.”

“Yes, well maybe I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

She turned and headed for the stairs. Everything she carried looked so tremendously heavy that I wanted to help. And I couldn’t let her leave without trying to explain myself.

“Ah, listen, about this afternoon… ”

She turned. “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head and holding her hand up. Then she smiled.

We stood in silence, looking at each other. Then I said, “I thought I might drive to Verdun tomorrow. I was wondering, would you care to join me, if you’re not busy?” So nervous. Did my voice sound strange? It did to me.

“Verdun?” A pause. Her just looking at me. Not staring, just looking. And that painting of Daniel walking toward me across the meadow. “Yes certainly. I’m glad you asked.”

THANK YOU.

I
’VE BEEN TRYING
to draw Julia for years. Not that I have any talent. I took some classes long ago and I sign up whenever they offer drawing here at Great Oaks. Most of my efforts are so embarrassing that I tear them up immediately. A few I tuck away in my drawer, only to destroy them upon later scrutiny. The instructor says I lack a sense of perspective. Everything is a bit off, as though viewed through the funny mirrors at a county fair. But I keep trying, if only from obstinacy. Sometimes I draw landscapes, usually French scenery plucked from my memory. But most of the time I try to draw Julia. I haven’t been able to get her right yet; not the eyes and the smile. But I haven’t given up. I’d just like to once before my mind goes. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about losing her forever.