Sirens (9 page)

She pointed her finger at my face, the glass in her hand. Fumes from the alcohol wafted to my nose. “Exactly. He’s a bore.” But her eyes shone. “But a nice bore, doncha think? There’s something kinda sweet about him. He’s all right. I mean…I don’t know what I mean.” She drifted out the door. I closed it behind her.

I stared at the package for all of ten seconds before I ripped it apart to see what was inside.

It was a journal. I sank onto the bed with the journal in my lap.

Soft, worn leather, tied with a cord to keep the loose contents from spilling all over, the journal was about two inches thick. I ran my fingers over the cover, knowing that it must have been Teddy’s, knowing that he had left it for me. Left it for me, to be opened a
year after he’d disappeared. A year after I’d helped him fake his death, pretending to find his clothes on that Long Island beach, and said good-bye with the promise that he’d return.

Was this journal what Danny Connor and my uncle and John Rushton wanted? Well. They wouldn’t have it from me.

My hands shook as I tugged at the leather cord that tied it shut. I pulled the cord apart and leaned forward with the journal in my lap, and opened it.

His tiny, cramped handwriting with the tight vertical slope tugged at my heart. Oh, Teddy. How I wanted him back right now. The journal was full and well used; every line was covered with print; the words and the writing were hard to make out. Most all of the pages were loose; I had to take care not to let the entire journal fall apart and scatter into a mess. Some of the sentences crawled up the margins; some had little stars and led to thoughts at the bottom. It would take me a long while to read the entire thing, to be able to decipher it.

The first entry was dated just after he’d shipped out to France.

August 20, 1918

Off to fight in the noblest of causes…am both excited and nervous. Pops wants me to come home a hero. I just want to come home.

The next few pages were, as near as I could make out, about arriving overseas, being assigned to his unit, learning where he’d be deployed. Then some waiting, and then Teddy and his troop were off, and then the following:

September 11

I lay in the dark trying to remember the sky at Lizzy’s. It was so big, so blue that summer. Here there’s nothing but gray, and rain. It rains every day. I’ve got foot-rot, and the medic has given me something for it. But Lizzy’s place, the ranch, it was so dry, and I want to remember how the dried-out grasses poked me in the back when I lay down on the earth and stared up at that blue. I sure wish I was there now.

Seventy-seventh. That’s my battalion. Hope it’s my lucky number, too.

Lizzy’s. That was the summer he’d gone to Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s, out in Montana. I was way too little to know much about it. But he talked about it all the time, how he wanted to go back someday.

The pages after that recounted his arrival at the front. They were filled with entries so grim that I felt sick. Entries that began when Teddy arrived in the field and what awful things he saw. More than once I skipped through the notes, picking up bits and pieces from the words I could read clearly.

September 15

We’re all alike here. No rich, no poor. Just a bunch of fellows fighting for our country, fighting for what we believe in. For our families, and our honor.

Fighting for our lives.

September 20

Lay in the trench all night. Gas—and fear—making us all vomit. Constant barrage from guns. Ground trembling beneath my stomach. Stench of vomit and excrement and blood is suffocating.

His hand grew shaky and the pencil thick, worn to a nub.

September 29

Think I must be dead. Raining for two straight days, so the trench filled with water. Haven’t eaten since I can’t remember when. Feeling light-headed.

October 1

Wishing I would die, be done.

October 2

Whatever happens, I can’t take any more. This is rotten and useless. Watched a bullet go through the eye of the guy sitting next to me. Willie O’Shaunnessy, from Chicago. We were smoking, taking a break. Just got a meal, first time in days. Feeling good. Willie, a character, a red-headed Irishman with a sense of humor, made me laugh. Bullet ricocheted off a shovel—a shovel!—propped against the trench. Right in the eye. Done.

Thinking I might’ve been the one put the shovel in that spot. will hate myself forever.

Stop. What was I doing? I had to stop reading. Teddy’s war memories were killing me. My chest was tight, my heart hurt to breaking.

Will hate myself forever. Forever.

A sudden knock at the door. “Jo?” My aunt’s voice.

I jumped to hide the journal beneath the scarf.

“Yes?”

“Dinner, sweetheart.”

“Be right there.”

I wrapped the journal in the scarf that lay on my bed, tying the scarf around both the journal and Teddy’s medal boxes. The misery of his words almost burned my fingers. This journal was a terrible account of his war experiences. Why had he left it for me?

I tucked the scarf and its contents deep in my bottom dresser drawer. I didn’t know when I’d have the strength of mind to pull them out again. Maybe, I prayed, maybe Teddy would return before I had to read more.

At dinner my aunt tried valiantly to hold the party together. John Rushton spoke only when spoken to, his eyes frequently lighting on Melody with what I read as disdain as she filled the awkward spaces by chattering loudly with her friends about the latest gossip, movie news, wedding announcements, and social engagements. My uncle made stabbing efforts at disjointed patter and drank until he finally slipped off to bed, teetering down the hallway. And through it all Chester maintained his persona as the grinning Cheshire cat.

The day caught up with me during dinner, when I had to make polite conversation and as the food filled my belly. By dessert I
could barely keep my eyes open. When dinner was over, I went to bed quickly and sank into an exhausted sleep.

I caught Chester at breakfast the next morning, just the two of us. “I need to talk to you.”

Chester tugged the napkin from his shirt collar and downed a swig of coffee. “Jo, Jo. How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident? I was a kid. I had no idea you were in there. I would never have started the fire if I’d thought you were. Okay?”

My skin went cold. That was not what I’d meant; I didn’t want to remember the playhouse, much less discuss it. The skin of my scar tightened involuntarily, as I recalled the pain. My voice came out low. “I’m talking about what’s going on in the family.”

“Ah! You mean you want to know why you’re here at glorious chez Cates.”

“For a start.”

“Honestly, Jo?” Chester leaned across the table. “I only know it’s something to do with Teddy. With stuff that happened right before he disappeared.” Chester waved his hand. “Maybe you know more than you think. Was Teddy mixed up in any funny business?”

I sucked in air. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That whole thing that went on in ’twenty. You know, the bombings. That’s what they were talking about last night, before you arrived. Was Teddy involved with people who were talking anarchy? Anything like that.”

Bombings? Anarchy? What in the world? “What are you talking about?”

“Jo. Don’t you read the paper? Listen to the news? Well, okay, you were only twelve when it happened. September something, 1920. Bomb blast on Wall Street. The target was J. P. Morgan’s bank, but, as usual, the people killed were mostly messengers and clerks. Not the important bigwigs. The police never caught anyone and blamed the Bolsheviks. Though everyone thought the culprits were Irish. Which takes me back to Teddy.” Chester leaned toward me, eyes shining. “I’ve got a nose for conspiracy. Your brother went to a bunch of meetings around that time, all so mysterious. He used to talk about the Irish, how they were so downtrodden. Talked about how unfair everything was in this country. The unfairness of the situation bothered him like crazy.” Chester paused. “Maybe crazy enough that he got into some funny business, in over his head.”

This was new and unexpected. My stomach clenched, and I put down my fork. “Teddy would have hated that stuff.”

“Sure he would.” Chester’s mouth twisted. “We all do. Especially you, so dreamy and innocent. Right, cuz?”

My aunt’s voice drifted in from the foyer. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” By the way she paused every so often, she must have been using the telephone.

Chester pressed on. “So when your perfect brother disappeared, he was up to something, wasn’t he? Up to his shins, or maybe his eyeballs.”

I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. I was sorry I’d asked Chester anything, now.

He continued. “He’d had a pretty bad time of it over there, from what I could see.”

This was true enough. In the years after he’d come home from
the war and before he disappeared, Teddy hadn’t been himself, despite the honors and the medals.

“It was an ugly war.”

Chester choked on his coffee, snorting out a short laugh. “They all are.”

Teddy had had bad dreams, ugly memories, bigger than the war. Something else had haunted him. Something he couldn’t let go.

Something that I might now find in his journal. I would have to read on, like it or not. He’d meant for me to read it.

Chester went on. “My father said Teddy couldn’t give up on some scheme to make money, either. He wanted to do something that would finally make your pops proud.” He sat back. “Must’ve been hard for old Ted.”

My stomach twisted. “What? What was hard?”

“Being perfect. Having to be the family savior.” He leaned forward again. “Looks like you’re about to find out how tough a spot that is, Josephine Anne. Think you can save your family?”

My aunt’s voice rose. “I will not. Those are all malicious lies. My daughter is not mixed up in anything of the sort.” Tension thickened the air like a brooding storm.

I said, my voice shaking, “From what do I have to save my family? And just how would I do that?”

“Ah, now. My questions exactly. Mysteries abound.” That grin again.

“Yes, they do.” I was losing patience with Chester. I prodded at the remains of my breakfast. “The least you can do is to tell me what was going on last night.” I thought about Rushton, his aloof condescension. “Who is John Rushton, and why was he here?”

Chester withdrew, lowering his eyes and leaning back in his chair. “Rushton. An old family friend. New York money, old New York. He comes from a long line of robber barons, and for all I know he’s one, too. Lives just around the block on Fifth in one of the big old New York mansions. Lots of floors in that place. Lots of ghosts, too. Just him and his servants and the kid.” Chester chewed his lip, still not meeting my eyes. “Can’t stand him, myself. Too high and mighty.”

I was surprised; for Chester, this was revealing, and I had to say I agreed with him. “So what does Rushton have to do with Teddy?”

Chester leaned toward me, pointing his finger. “The very reason I asked about your brother. Figured that if we put our heads together, we could come up with a few of the answers.”

Putting our heads together was not something I wanted, though it could be useful. I said, “He was prying into my private business with Teddy.”

“Oh?” Chester sat up, staring at me hard. “You have private business with Teddy? What kind?”

I stared back. I knew better—I should never open up to Chester.

He regarded me carefully, then looked away. “John Rushton does have one reason to be prickly. His brother was working down on Wall Street when that bomb went off. Frank Rushton was killed, and John’s never gotten over it. So,” Chester said, smooth as silk, “what’s this about Teddy’s private business? Come on, spill.”

My aunt’s voice broke into our conversation again. This time her shrill shout echoed from the foyer. “I’ve told you, and I’m done telling you. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now leave us alone.” The receiver hit the cradle with a
thwack
.

Chester raised his eyebrows as we regarded each other across the table.