Neither Present Time Page 10

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said she’s going to be back tomorrow evening sometime.” Beryl nodded. “So? Are you going to be here? Are you going to lock her out of the house? Are you going to make up? What?”

  “I don’t know,” Beryl said, looking around in a stupor. “I can’t even think.”

  Ridley watched her for a moment. “Take tonight,” he suggested. “Call in sick tomorrow – I think you can truthfully say that. Think about what you want to do. If you want to leave, you’ll have time to get some things packed. I can come get you after work.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday,” she remembered. “Dinner with my parents.”

  “Cancel,” he said. “Unless you want to move back home?”

  “Never,” she said with a shiver of distaste. “They’d never let me hear the end of that.” She could just imagine Marian’s reaction.

  “You can move in with me,” he said. “I’ve got two huge bedrooms and two bathrooms. You can commute with me until you figure things out. No mess, though,” he warned. “That place is ship-shape and I want it kept that way.”

  Beryl grinned sheepishly. “That’s very generous of you, but I –”

  “Hey,” he interrupted. “Marines stick together. We never leave one of our own behind.” He glanced back down at the scattered cards. “Unless you want to stay.”

  She looked at him gratefully. “Could you put up with a cat?”

  Chapter 17

  “You could just answer, you know,” Ridley said as Beryl covertly peeked at her cell phone when it vibrated yet again.

  She had finally turned the ringer off at Ridley’s request as Claire began calling, seemingly as soon as she got home.

  “You sure you want to leave those?” Ridley had asked after work on Thursday when he came by the rowhouse to get her. He nodded toward the briefcase and cards still lying on the living room floor.

  Beryl looked around, and briefly considered how satisfying it would feel to trash the entire room, knock over all the dining chairs, leave all the kitchen cupboards hanging open and dump all kinds of stuff to dry in the kitchen sink.

  “I’m sure.”

  To Ridley’s surprise, Beryl had packed not only her clothes, which fit into two small suitcases, but she had boxed up all of her books as well. “I don’t trust her with these,” was all she said.

  “You’re not planning on coming back, are you?” he asked.

  Beryl shook her head, but didn’t trust herself to speak as Winston meowed piteously from his carrier.

  As promised, Ridley’s second bedroom was large and airy. Beryl stacked her boxes of books along one wall and still had plenty of room.

  “I’ll get those out of here soon,” she promised.

  “No hurry, Beryl,” Ridley assured her.

  His apartment was indeed immaculate. Located on the second floor of his building, it felt even roomier thanks to its sparse, masculine furnishings in contemporary leather and chrome .

  Winston explored tentatively, sniffing everywhere. To Beryl’s surprise, he leapt up into Ridley’s lap and settled, purring loudly.

  “It’s official,” Ridley grinned. “I pass muster.”

  “I guess you do,” Beryl said wonderingly. “He’s never that friendly with new people. He never did take to Claire.”

  “Good judge of character,” Ridley said ruefully.

  “Should have been a clue,” Beryl realized.

  To her surprise, she wasn’t dissolving into a puddle of tears. I think maybe I’ve been more prepared for this than I knew, she thought.

  She listened to Claire’s messages, but wasn’t ready to talk to her. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” said one message. She sounded contrite. Another, “There are so many things we need to talk about; please call me.” Still another, “Please don’t throw away eight years.”

  “I’m not the one who threw it away!” Beryl exploded when she heard that one. “I was there, the faithful one, no matter what she did.”

  That was the thing that was actually bothering her as much as Claire’s betrayal.

  “How could I have let myself be so brainwashed?” she asked Ridley Saturday night, her third Corona in her hand.

  “It happens,” Ridley said philosophically. “We need to believe in the things we love. If they have faults, we can look past them. If they ask too much of us, we can accept that. If they betray us, we can forgive.” Even through the beer haze, Beryl could hear the edge creeping into his voice, see the hard line of his jaw. “Up to a point,” he added. “But then, they cross a line – a different line for each of us. Then you can’t forgive any more. Then you’ve had enough.”

  “What happened?” Beryl asked in a hushed voice, knowing they weren’t talking about Claire anymore.

  “Same thing that’s happened a million times before,” he said harshly. “It was the early days after 9/11. We all naïvely thought we’d blow Bin Laden away and be home in a few months. We got a new commanding officer who thought he had some unique plan for success.” His jaw worked back and forth. “He sent my unit back into a section of mountains perfect for an ambush. Only one road in… high cliffs on either side.”

  He shook his head. “We knew it was most likely a suicide mission, but… we were Marines. We loved the Corps. We followed orders.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes as Beryl listened, horrified. “The bomb was just the beginning. A few of us were trapped inside the wreckage of our Humvees. The ones not injured in the blast tried to find cover, but snipers cut them down from the cliffs. We couldn’t get a shot and we had nowhere to go.”

  His voice cracked as he said, “Eighteen went in. Only three came out.” He scoffed. “I should say two and a half,” he said bitterly.

  He looked at her, his eyes shining. “I do understand how it feels to be betrayed by something you believed in.”

  Beryl sat helplessly, unable to speak. If Ridley had been a woman, pouring out such an emotional experience, she would have gone to her, held her, consoled her. But with Ridley, none of that felt right.

  As if he had read her thoughts, as he so often seemed to do, he said, “You don’t know how to react, do you?” Beryl shook her head. “It’s okay. No one does. We’re expendable. Penises and muscles. The only two things men are good for.”

  “Well, having no need for the former,” Beryl said, clearing her throat to ease the tightness there, “I’ve always appreciated the strategic placement of fig leaves.”

  Ridley sat silently for a few seconds before he burst into laughter, shaking his head and wiping his eyes.

  “I mean,” she continued, “I can admire Michelangelo’s David, but I don’t want him in my living room.”

  Cracking up now, Ridley reminded her, “You don’t have a living room. And I would love to have David in here. No fig leaf.”

  * * *

  Beryl had a hard time remembering later how she got through that first weekend. She was certain she wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Ridley. Though she wasn’t crying or blubbering, she felt physically ill. Ridley gave her time to herself, but made her emerge from her room to eat, saying, “Just a few bites. C’mon, I slaved in the kitchen for hours.” On Sunday, he suggested a workout. I know you don’t feel like it now, but you’ll feel better after.” And she did. A little.

  When they got to work on Monday, Beryl still had not talked to Claire.

  “Are you afraid to talk to me?” Beryl actually laughed late-morning when she heard that taunt on her voicemail. I knew it wouldn’t take her long to make this my fault, she thought.

  Ridley glanced at the clock. “Time for lunch,” he said. Beryl opened her mouth to protest that she wasn’t hungry, but he cut her off, saying, “You need to eat. Here.” He wheeled into the staff office and produced a small sealed container from the refrigerator. “Some leftover lasagna. Go warm it up.”

  Beryl nodded gratefully and was just opening the container when Claire appeared in the doorway, having stepped uninvited behi
nd the reference desk.

  Ridley stood from his wheelchair and said protectively, “Showing up at work is below the belt.”

  Even standing on one leg, he was imposing and Beryl felt immensely glad of his presence. Claire looked at him, her dislike of him transforming her face into something ugly. She blames him, Beryl realized. It only lasted a moment before she recovered herself and turned back to Beryl, but Beryl had seen it.

  “We need to talk,” Claire said.

  Beryl stood there for a moment, torn about letting Claire dictate when and where they would talk for the first time, but she said to Ridley, “It’s okay. Heat up the lasagna. I won’t be long.”

  She came around the desk and Ridley was glad to see that she took command, walking assertively as she led the way outside so that Claire had to hurry to follow.

  Not wanting their conversation to be overheard, Beryl led the way to a nearby tree providing some shade in the continuing July heat.

  “Can’t we go sit somewhere cool?” Claire asked.

  She’s actually smiling, Beryl saw in surprise. “No,” she said. “We’re not going to be that long.”

  There was a bench, but she remained standing. “What do you want, Claire?”

  Claire’s smile faltered as she perceived that her charm wasn’t working as it typically did. “I want to explain… “

  “Explain what?” Beryl cut in. “How you’ve been lying to me for who knows how long? Explain why I was the one apologizing over and over again for suspecting that there was something going on with you and Leslie?”

  “You misunderstood what you read,” Claire said, grinning her crooked grin. “It was nothing…”

  Beryl stared at her, not quite sure she was hearing what she was hearing. Those alarms were going off in her head, signaling one of those encounters where Claire would twist and smooth everything over in a way that would leave Beryl tongue-tied and unable to rebut.

  “Don’t let her do this!” Beryl cried silently. “Well, enjoy your nothing,” she said coldly, turning away. “I’m not listening to anymore of this.”

  “What about the rent?” Claire called after her.

  Beryl stopped and turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

  “Rent is due next week,” Claire said, that ugly something flitting across her features again.

  Beryl felt as if she had never seen Claire clearly before. She laughed. “I suggest you ask Leslie,” she said as she resumed her walk back to the library.

  Ridley was waiting at the reference desk. “I’m fine,” she said brusquely. “Let’s eat.”

  As they waited for the microwave, Beryl’s cell phone buzzed, indicating a voice mail.

  “Oh, sorry,” Ridley said. “I forgot – your phone rang while you were outside.”

  Frowning, Beryl listened, expecting to hear Claire’s voice again. Her frown turned to an expression of incredulity.

  “What is it?” Ridley asked.

  “It’s Ohio State. They want to schedule an interview.”

  Chapter 18

  Corinne sits on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, the collar of her coat pulled snugly around her neck, her face uplifted to the weak February sunshine as she enjoys a few moments to herself. After nearly a year at Walter Reed, Terrence is still recovering. He’d had many operations to remove most of the shrapnel and bullets, but “some are too perilous to go after,” the doctors have said. “The pieces in his brain are in too deep.” His head is misshapen, the right side caved in slightly where a large fragment of bomb casing had pierced his helmet and fractured his skull. The injury had paralyzed his left side, though “he’s getting movement back with the help of his therapists,” she wrote home.

  Her work at the Naval Yard continues full-tilt. From all reports, the Allies have gained the upper hand and the Germans are on the defensive.

  “At last, there’s hope,” Helen wrote in her last letter. Corinne pulls it out and re-reads it, though she has it memorized. “And we desperately need hope. Every time I look up to see our planes flying east on bombing raids, my heart rises, urging them on to bring an end to this God-awful war, but I wait to see how many will come back, knowing some won’t.”

  Helen had been re-assigned to a new posting, somewhere “not in London,” was all she could write.

  “But through everything, the one thing I cling to, my talisman, is you – your love, your faith. If I didn’t have that, I would have nothing,” Helen wrote.

  Corinne sighs and looks out at the reflecting pool before her, much of it still skimmed in a thin sheet of ice. Carefully refolding the letter, she presses it to her heart. She glances at her watch and anxiously scans the people below her.

  Helen, in a rare bit of pre-arranged travel, is due in Washington today. She is to deliver some documents when she first arrives and then will have two entire days’ leave before she has to fly back. Corinne has taken time off work, her first time off in over two years, as she reminded her supervisor when he started to object.

  She nearly doesn’t recognize Helen standing there, gazing up at her. She’s so thin, Corinne thinks as she rushes down the granite steps to throw her arms around her, but Helen’s thinness gives her face a more chiseled handsomeness.

  “I can’t believe you’re here!” Corinne exclaims, holding Helen as tightly as she can. Though her appearance has changed, she still smells like a summer garden.

  “I’m like the proverbial bad penny,” Helen grins, pulling back to look into Corinne’s eyes. “I keep turning up. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Corinne has to fight to prevent herself kissing Helen on the spot. “No, I don’t mind,” she says, her eyes shining. “Where would you like to go? What do you want to do?” she asks as she picks up Helen’s bag.

  “Do you have to ask?” Helen says as her eyes drink Corinne in. “I don’t know if I can even wait to get back to the apartment,” she says, linking her arm through Corinne’s as they walk.

  Corinne notices that Helen has kept her limp, a remnant of the war that will remain with her for the rest of her life. As they walk, she tells Helen about Terrence. “I’ll probably have to go home with him when he’s released,” she says, glancing worriedly at Helen. “Mother and Father came out to visit him at Christmas, with his wife Margorie, but… he wouldn’t talk to them. I’m the only one who can do anything with him.”

  Helen doesn’t answer. Corinne isn’t even sure she’s listening. When they get to the apartment, Corinne barely gets the door closed before Helen has taken her in her arms, kissing her hard. There is an urgency to her love-making, a desperation that makes her almost rough. Gasping, Corinne feels her body respond as Helen nearly rips her clothing off, carrying her along as Helen brings them to a crescendo that leaves them both spent and trembling.

  Helen lies on her stomach, her face turned from Corinne who props up on one elbow, rubbing her back.

  “You’ve been shot!” Corinne exclaims as her fingers probe the small indented scar over Helen’s right shoulder blade.

  “It’s nothing,” Helen assures her.

  “They’ve been sending you on missions to France,” Corinne says accusingly.

  Helen doesn’t answer and her silence confirms Corinne’s fears, the things she has long suspected. Corinne gets abruptly out of bed, pulling on a robe, and goes out to the kitchen where she busies herself making coffee with the French press Helen had bought when she first moved in. “I don’t know how Americans can stand this boiled sludge,” she had said with a shudder of distaste when she had her first cup of percolated coffee. Corinne uses the coffee she has been hoarding for weeks, just for this visit.

  Helen follows her out to the kitchen wearing only a chemise and underpants. Corinne turns her back, not wanting Helen to see the tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” Helen says. Corinne sniffs, but doesn’t answer. “I’m not really in danger most of the time. I’m only a courier. It’s not like I’m infiltrating Nazi installations,” she tries to joke, but C
orinne still doesn’t respond.

  She steps up behind Corinne, wrapping her arms around her and nuzzling into her fragrant blond hair. “It will be over soon.”

  “That’s what you said two years ago,” Corinne says angrily. “It’s now 1945 in case you hadn’t noticed, and the bloody war is still going on!”

  She tries to pull away, but Helen holds her tightly.

  “Don’t be angry,” Helen whispers, desperation in her voice. “I don’t think I could bear all this if I didn’t have you to hold tight to.”

  “Are you sure I’m the only one you’re holding tight to?” Corinne asks, knowing it sounds childish, but unable to stop herself.

  She turns and, for the first time since she has known Helen, she sees tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sure,” Helen whispers. She blinks, brushing a hand over her eyes. “I have something for you,” she says brightly, changing the subject. She limps to the couch and retrieves a small package from her purse. “I passed this quaint little bookstore run by an old man from Budapest,” she says. “And I found this. This is by one of my favorite authors. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Corinne’s throat is tight as she says, “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “You are my Valentine’s present,” Helen says.

  Corinne holds the little book out. “I want you to inscribe it.”

  * * *

  Percival sat up suddenly down at the foot of the bed. Groggily, Aggie woke, watching his scruffy head tilt from side to side as he listened to something she couldn’t hear.

  She glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was five A.M.

  “I am going to start locking her in her bedroom,” she groaned as she threw the covers back. “Come on.”

  Percival hopped off the bed and waited for Aggie to open the door. When she did, to her surprise, he did not go down the hall to Cory’s old room as she expected, but went the other way, down the stairs.

  Aggie followed him and as she came down the curving expanse of the staircase, she saw light thrown out into the foyer from the study. There, she was surprised to find Aunt Cory up on the library ladder in her nightgown and slippers, shuffling through the books there. Small piles of books were scattered about on the floor.