Romeo Blue (23 page)

The next day the sky was dark with more falling snow. But it was snow that wasn’t sticking. It just blew about in wisps and worries. I was out for a walk when I saw Dimples running along the shore towards me. Her hair was all wild and windy and she almost looked like she was flying through the cold air. “Felicity,” she shouted, “someone has written Mr. Henley a letter and they’ve put your name on the envelope as well.”

I ran towards her as she zigzagged and skipped over the ground, reminding me of a little top spinning along. When I got to her, I saw she had a long white envelope from Doubleday, Doran Publishers in New York City. It was addressed to Mr. Henley and was in care of me! Felicity Budwig Bathburn. Perhaps the reason we hadn’t heard from Mr. Henley was because his squadron had been moved somewhere and he couldn’t say where. Censors read all the soldiers’ letters before they were mailed and if they found something that a soldier shouldn’t be saying, the letter was not sent.

When we got back to the house, I left the envelope on the dining room table as we usually did. Was I to open it? Or should we wait for the return of Mr. Henley? He hadn’t given me any true instructions. I must say, I felt a
bit stuck about it. In fact I felt dreadfully stuck all afternoon.

“Open it now!” Dimples shouted later as she marched round the dining room table, wearing a paper sailor hat that Derek had folded for her out of the
New York Times
front page. She was carrying a stick and she played the part of a soldier with great tragedy.

“Halt,” called Derek. “About face!” Dimples froze and turned like a perfect soldier.

“Open it,” said Derek. “I command you. Now! Dimples, march! Hup, two, three, four. Halt.”

Derek looked back at me, with all kinds of new freckles scattered over his nose. Extra freckles were always popping up on his face, even on dark winter days! Soon he gave me a coaxing Derek smile and I felt like I had just taken a sip of Hershey’s Syrup, straight from the tin with no milk added.

I looked at Mr. Henley’s letter. I wanted to ask Aunt Miami if it was proper for me to open Mr. Henley’s mail. But she had been gone already three months. All we had was a photograph of her wearing a very smart USO uniform with a pin on her lapel with a tiny metal bell hanging from it. She had won the part and by now had been Juliet almost twenty times across the country.

Along the way she had learned all sorts of things that soldiers at boot camp do, like how to make a bed so the sheets were so tight, you could drop a penny on them and the penny would bounce. If Auntie had been here, she
would have known whether I should open the letter or not.

Dimples kept marching and Derek played along with her for the lark of it, even though he was fourteen now. “Open it!” they both kept chanting. “Open it!”

And finally in a great moment, like a rush of wind, I dove for the letter. I tore it open and I read it out loud.

“Dear Private Robert Henley,

We received your package of poetry sent to us from the northern African front. These poems are full of the flavor of Morocco and Tunisia and the desert. Each one seems to capture the feeling of longing and of the wish to go home and the sorrow and pity of battle. They remind us of the poems of Rupert Brooke, who wrote during World War I (though not at all in style). We would like very much to publish this collection of poetry you have titled
Oh Morocco!
Thank you for giving us this opportunity. We look forward to hearing from you. As soon as we do, we will begin the process of publishing this special book.

Sincerely yours,
Pike Jemson
Doubleday, Doran Publishing”

“Oh, Derek,” I called out. “Mr. Henley will be so very pleased. He has tried for so many years to get
published.” I threw my arms round Dimples. She wrapped one of her little arms round Derek and pulled him towards us. And her
New York Times
sailor hat fell off and got smashed by mistake by our joyous, jumping feet.

It was the very first of March now. They say, “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” Well then, this March was a wet, soupy lion with ice in his whiskers and sleet in his mane. Still, walking home from school, I could feel a bit of melt in the air. Dimples was wearing her old galoshes that were full of holes. She didn’t care at all that her feet were soaking wet. She was jumping in every icy puddle we passed. Perhaps last year I would have done the same but I was taller now and puddles no longer interested me, except to look at the clouds and sky in them. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was displayed upside down in a puddle. Perhaps there were answers there in the deep reflection of the sky. I wanted those answers. And yet every time I looked down into a puddle, Dimples splashed the whole thing with her galoshes and the reflection scattered. “Derek’s gone off today, hasn’t he?” said Dimples.

“Yes, I looked for him after school, but I didn’t see him,” I said.

“That’s because he’s gone off with Mr. Babbit to find his mum and his dad.”

“How do you know that, Dimples?” I said.

“I don’t say,” said Dimples, “I just don’t say.” She was about to call it out one more time but instead she looked straight ahead and fell silent.

A black car had pulled into the driveway in front of our house. A soldier got out and waved slowly to us. He was all dressed up in his somber, freshly ironed uniform.

I suddenly hated him. My stomach turned over. The ground underneath my feet seemed to fall away. I wanted to shout out, “No. Don’t come here. Don’t come to our house.”

Dimples called out, “What does it mean when a soldier comes to your door, Felicity? Does it mean something bad?”

I ran inside and went upstairs. I wanted to go to bed. I wanted to be far away under my covers.

Dimples came pounding into the room after me. “Felicity, his number plates are from New York State. He has driven a long way. I invited him in. He’s in the parlor. Shouldn’t we get him a cup of tea?”

The Gram was in the upstairs hall when I looked out my door. She was walking very slowly and with great care, as if she were balancing a large book on her head, as if she were carrying a basket of glass eggs, as if she were walking on a narrow white line above a drop-off. “Flissy, get my glasses for me, dear. They are on my dresser,” she said.

We followed her downstairs. “Dimples, stand up straight and offer the young man a chair. Girls, go in the library, then, and do some knitting. Dimples, work on your sums. Flissy, don’t jump about. Be still. Be quiet. Don’t make a sound. Excuse me, have you a letter? For me? Can this wait? Is it urgent? I …” She put her face in the crook of her arm. She started to cry. She stopped. She wiped her hands on her skirt. “Is this from Little Bill? He sent you all the way up here? For this? Did you drive all the way today? I’m so sorry. Do I need to read this now? Could we do this later? Flissy, come here. Flissy.” She reached out to me and pulled me against her. “Flissy, don’t go, dear. This nice man has something for me to read and I don’t want to read it. Could you please …” She sat down in a chair and she started to cry again. “Could you please hand it to me, young man? Could you please do me the kindness of handing me the letter? I’m really too tired to do anything at all.”

He held out the envelope and The Gram took it. Then she squeezed me even more tightly against her. She looked down and read the letter and I read it too. Her hand was shaking. The paper was shaking but I read the words.

Dear Helen,

I was sorry I could not be more forthcoming on the telephone when you called. For security reasons, of course, and I’m sure you understand. Anyway, Helen, you have my greatest respect and admiration for your own work and for the work of your sons. Both of them. They are by far and away our best in the field and it’s due to your superb training and support, so you must feel great pride, dear friend.

Meanwhile, I do have some news to report. It’s not conclusive so you mustn’t fret.

I delayed in sending this until a certain amount of time had passed, again for the sake of security. I am pleased to tell you that the escape and rescue maneuver by the Blue Piano to free the Butterfly and the Bear was successful. It went off flawlessly. However, we understand that some miles from Limoges, the Blue Piano was driving the car and we believe he was shot at a checkpoint or by the local police. We don’t know the extent of his injuries. It’s unclear. We do know, however, that the Butterfly did reach the convent near the Spanish border. Helen, dear, this is the best and the worst possible news. Please take care and do not fret. I shall keep you posted further as information comes in.

I remain your friend and admirer,
William Stephenson

The Gram then put the letter on the table. She walked out into the hall and pulled herself up the stairs, holding
on to the railing. She went into her room and she closed the door. All that evening we could hear her crying. It got into the wind and it got into the walls. You could hear it all through the house. No one fetched wood for the fire. No one made any dinner. The house was cold and empty.

The soldier had stood in the driveway earlier, fussing with his briefcase. He kept shuffling his feet, not knowing what to do and then he got in his car and drove off, waving to Dimples. Derek came home at six from where, I did not know, and he didn’t ever take off his jacket. All three of us wore our coats and our wool hats. One light alone burned in the parlor. The rest of the house was dark. Dimples sat on the floor in the parlor and played chutes and ladders with Wink. Derek curled up in a chair and didn’t speak. I lay on the sofa under a quilt and stared up at the ceiling while Dimples talked to Wink about good children getting to climb a ladder and have lovely sweets and bad children having to go down a dark chute all by themselves.

We ended up staying the night in the parlor, Derek on the floor, rolled up in a blanket, me on the sofa, and Dimples sleeping on two stuffed chairs pushed together. In the morning she said Wink hogged the bed and that she had fallen through the crack two times in the night.
The Gram was up already and was making scrambled eggs and toast for us in the kitchen. There wasn’t a trace of a tear in her eyes. And I rarely saw her cry again.

The fires were going but when we went in the kitchen to eat, we were still wearing our coats and hats. Dimples stood quite soberly by the door, her hair in a bit of a tangle and some peanut butter and jelly from yesterday still on her cheeks. When I looked at her, I realized she was alone outside the circle of tears, while The Gram and Derek and I were standing in the middle of it. Dimples had not met my father. She had never talked to him. She could not understand how it felt to know he had been shot. He was the Blue Piano and he had rescued the Butterfly and the Bear. The Blue Piano had been brave and daring and courageous and he had saved Winnie and Danny. I burst into tears over and over again. I felt so different now from Dimples. As if there were a very long expanse, an endless, lonely field of winter grass between us. And yet my mum had been freed. She was no longer in a horrid prison. She was safe in a kindly convent. The nuns would feed her. They would let her rest there. I still had a mother. And I still longed for her. And my Danny too was still alive. And yet the Blue Piano had been shot.

We didn’t go to school that day and I spent most of the afternoon in the library because that was truly my daddy’s room. I took my hand and ran it across the backs of all his books on the shelves. I picked up the sharpened
pencils standing in their jar on his desk. I went to the piano and let my hands rest on the keys. Then I opened his writing box. I pulled out a little flat drawer at the bottom. Some old, half-finished letters lay in there, covered with my father’s big, easy, open handwriting.

Darling Winnie,

If you only knew how I feel tonight. If I could be sitting in the same room with you now, that alone would ease my longing. Even if you were in my brother’s arms, I would still choose to be near you. We love so few people in our lives. Love does not come easily or often. It is rare and stubborn and unyielding. And my love for you, Winnie, in spite of what has happened, is unstoppable. I cannot control or steer its course.