The Discovery, A Novel (8 page)

Claire loved October.

Even at midday the temperature was cool. The stifling humidity that had clung to everything throughout summer had tapered off and would stay that way until spring. The mosquitoes were gone. The sea breezes always picked up in the fall. Her family lived just two blocks back from the river on Ridgewood Avenue, so the sea breezes made it here quite often. They were blowing now, gently swaying the gray moss that hung from the live oak branches.

She could see over a dozen of these ancient trees from her front porch, where she sat on a rocker, drinking a glass of iced tea. The screen door creaked open behind her.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, Claire?”

“Mother, you need to stop whatever you’re doing and sit out here. It’s so nice.”

Her mother walked out and sat in the rocker next to hers, but just on the edge. “I just got back from the store. I need to put away some groceries.”

“Want some help?”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I asked Mr. Morris for the afternoon off so we could go to the USO concert playing at the Bandshell.”

“Your father was telling me about that this morning at breakfast. The
News Journal
had an article about it. Did you know the Army is setting up a training base here? For women? He said it will probably bring more work for his company. Thousands of girls have signed up from all over the country. They’ll be taking over most of the hotels along the beach. They’re even taking over the hospital.”

“Really?” Claire said. “Why?”

“I guess they need the space.”

“So we’re not going to have a hospital anymore?”

“No, silly. The hospital said they’re only using a fraction of their rooms, so they’re moving to a hotel on Atlantic Avenue. The paper said they might just stay there the rest of the war.”

“So all these girls are joining the Army?” Claire said. “They’re not going to fight, are they?”

“No,” her mother said. “That’ll never happen. They’ll be assigned different kinds of support roles and administrative duties. Like switchboard and radio operators. Some will learn how to drive and fix trucks. Can you imagine that? Women fixing trucks? The paper said some will even become pilots.”

“Really? What kind of planes?”

“The same ones men fly in battle. But they’ll fly them here, test them out, make sure they work before they ship them overseas. You’re not thinking of joining—are you?”

“No,” Claire said. “I’d never want to be in the Army. For one thing, have you seen the uniforms they make you wear? Some WACs came into the store yesterday. I think uniforms look great on men, but they look awful on women.”

Her mother sat back on the rocker and closed her eyes. “This really is nice.”

“Well, look, let me help you put the groceries away, and we can both relax here for a little while, at least till I leave for the concert.” Claire set her
Look
magazine on a table nearby and sat up.

“You stay put,” her mother said. “It’s not that much. Anyway, I have to make some telephone calls for the church choir, reminder calls.” She looked down at Claire’s magazine. “Oh, John Wayne,” she said, eyeing his picture on the cover. “Does he have some new movie coming out?”

“I guess,” Claire said. “A war movie called
The Flying Tigers
. You like John Wayne? I thought you liked Gary Cooper.”

“I love Gary Cooper. I tolerate John Wayne.”

“Does Dad know you love another man?” Claire said, smiling.

“Well, your father and I have an understanding,” she said, standing up. “I go with him to John Wayne movies, and he goes with me to Gary Cooper movies.”

“I see,” Claire said. “That’s a pretty big price to pay to see Gary Cooper.”

“Maybe, but I’m willing to pay it.” She walked back toward the screen door. “Speaking of the men in our life . . . have you gotten any more letters from Jim?”

This was a touchy subject between them. “No, Mother, I haven’t.”

“How many have you written him since the last letter he sent?”

“I don’t know, maybe four or five. But he can’t write that often. In case you haven’t heard, we’re at war.”

“But Claire, your brother is overseas. I’ve talked with Brenda. He writes her a lot. Your father and I get more letters from him than you get from Jim.”

Brenda was the wife of Claire’s brother Jack. They had married last year a month before Pearl Harbor was attacked. “I don’t know what to say, Mother.” Claire sighed. “Jim’s just not much of a writer.”

“He wasn’t much of a talker, either,” she said. “You two dated your whole last year of high school. But I don’t think we ever had more than two minutes of conversation. He was always polite, but that was about it.”

“He didn’t talk to you and Dad very much, but . . . he talked a good bit when we went out.” Claire wished her mother would just let this go. She and Claire’s father had made it pretty clear that they didn’t think it was a good idea for Claire to promise to wait for Jim when he shipped overseas. They weren’t even engaged.

“Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” Her mother opened the screen door. “So who’s going to the concert?”

“The usual gang.”

“Does that include that nice-looking young man, what’s his name . . . Benjamin?”

Claire looked over her shoulder at her mother, who wore a mischievous grin. “Ben’s coming too.”

“He seems nice,” she said.

“Yes, Ben’s nice. I don’t know him very well yet.”

“Will he be joining the military?”

“He can’t. He’s 4-F.”

“Really? He looks fine.”

“Something about a heart murmur. He said it wasn’t anything serious but enough for them to turn him down.”

“So . . . he’s going to be staying here in town then.”

“Yes, Mother. I suppose he is.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, I don’t know him very well yet.”

Her mother walked in the house, then turned and talked through the screen. “You know who he reminds me of, a little bit?”

“No, who?”

“Gary Cooper,” she said as she turned to walk away.

Claire smiled. She thought about it a moment.

He did look a little like Gary Cooper.

Ben decided to walk to the Bandshell. It was only four or five blocks away. He grabbed his keys, put on a light jacket, and headed out the door. His landlady was locking the door to her apartment, the one nearest the front door.

“All dressed up, Mrs. Arthur. Going someplace special?”

“In a way,” she said. “I’m heading off to church.”

“On a Saturday?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not going to Mass,” she said. “I’m going to confession. Are you Catholic?”

“No, my family is Lutheran.” It wasn’t a total lie, though his family had stopped going to church when they moved back to Germany.

“At my age, I don’t ever miss Mass and I go to confession at least once a week. Gotta keep that slate clean.” At Ben’s puzzled look she continued. “Sins, you know. You tell the priest everything you’ve done wrong, tell God you’re sorry, and he gives you absolution. You do your penance, and your slate . . . you know, your soul. It gets washed clean.”

They stood at the bottom of the stairway. “Can you tell a difference?” Ben asked. “Do you feel . . .
clean
after doing it?” This was starting to feel much too personal.

“I do,” she said. “Are you feeling like you need to go?”

“No, just curious.”

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” she said. “I’m heading across the bridge to St. Paul’s. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“No, I’m going the other way.”

“Well, you have a good afternoon.”

“You too.” He turned and started walking toward the beach. “Say, Mrs. Arthur.” She stopped and turned. “The things you tell the priest. He can’t tell anyone else, right?”

“What?”

“I saw that in a movie. A cop was asking a priest some questions about a suspect who’d gone to confession. The priest said he couldn’t say anything they talked about.”

“That’s true,” she said. “It’s church law. Even the courts can’t make a priest repeat anything he hears in a confessional. Everything I say in there is between me, the priest, and God. You should try it sometime.”

“You said you’re going to St. Paul’s?”

“It’s not far. Just head over the Broadway Bridge, turn right on Ridgewood. A few blocks on the left, can’t miss it. But I’m not sure if there’s a Lutheran church in town.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said.

As he turned the corner, he started to regret his conversation with Mrs. Arthur. What must she be thinking about him now? Probably trying to figure out what sins he must be guilty of, what kind of things might be bothering his conscience.

Well, it didn’t really matter. He’d be leaving this apartment for good in a few days.

Ben could hear big band music playing well before the Bandshell came into view. He stepped up his pace along Atlantic Avenue. Up ahead on the right, he saw a Ferris wheel spinning slowly, all lit up. He was close. He started to run, trying not to collide with all the people walking in the same direction. Many of them women in uniform, the WACS. The USO concert was being held in their honor to welcome them to town.

There was the clock tower, in the center of the boardwalk area, where he was supposed to meet Claire and the gang. He hoped they had waited for him. He hurried down a stone stairway that connected the street level to the boardwalk, all the while keeping his eyes on the tower. As he drew near, his eyes searched the crowd, trying to spot Claire. There were a lot of people standing around the base, but he didn’t see her or any of the others.

“Ben, over here.”

Her voice.

“We’re over here.”

He walked around the tower’s circular base and there she was, coming his way. Just past her were Joe and Barb, and Hank standing beside them, facing the Bandshell. “It’s already starting, guys,” he said, tapping his foot to the beat. “Hurry.”

Ben recognized the tune, one of his favorites: Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” It had been out for several years already, but Ben had only heard it for the first time a few months ago. Special permission had been granted during his Abwehr training. He’d loved it instantly, and so many of the other songs he’d heard. For years, the Nazis had forbidden almost all big band music in Germany.

Ben rushed to meet Claire. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms right then. She was so beautiful. She reached out her hand as she came close but then quickly put it down.

But he saw it.
She wanted to hold my hand
.

“I love this song,” she said as they joined the others.

“Me too,” Ben said. “The band sounds just like Glenn Miller.”

“We’ll probably get stuck in the back row now,” Hank said in a whiny voice. He ran on ahead.

“Slow down, Hank,” Barb said, “or we’ll get separated.”

No, run faster, Ben thought. Please.

But Hank slowed his pace, and they walked together across the grass and through the opening to the Bandshell. There were thousands already seated. Some had moved out into the aisles. Ben looked down the main aisle and saw the bandleader waving his baton in the center of the stage.

He stood for a moment, wanting to take it all in, but Hank quickly steered them to the right, the side closest to the ocean. There were four large seating sections, two on each side of the main aisle.

“The two center sections are full,” Hank said. “But I see half a row open over here, halfway back.”

“Look, people are dancing,” Barb said. The wall surrounding the Bandshell was waist-high. On the other side, a wide concrete walkway ran for several blocks parallel with the beach. It had now become a dance floor. “C’mon, Joe,” she said.

“You’re on.” They ran through an opening in the wall, found an open space, and started swing dancing.

Claire looked at Ben with pleading eyes. She wanted him to ask. What he said in reply felt like physical pain. “I want to dance with you so bad, but I can’t swing dance.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

“Well, I can,” said Hank. “C’mon.”

She looked back at Ben.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “You two have fun.”

Hank led Claire by the hand to a spot a few yards beyond Barb and Joe. The music played on. They danced. Ben watched, cringing inside as he leaned on the wall. They swirled around each other, holding hands, spinning in short circles. Their heads, arms, and legs in constant motion, perfectly in sync with every drumbeat and trumpet blast.

Ben could feel himself dancing inside. The music was made for it. It was absolutely a perfect song. He was a gifted athlete and had excellent coordination, but his saboteur training didn’t allow such frivolity. Dancing was considered morally corrupt. Such hypocrisy.

He looked at Hank’s face, which was on fire with joy. Of course it was. He was dancing with Claire. The saddest thing of all was that Hank was a good dancer. Great even. Ben looked around. Hank may be the best dancer out there.
How is that right?
Ben thought.
On any level?

Finally, the song ended, ending also Ben’s torture.

Everyone dancing and the thousands in the seating area clapped and cheered. Ben looked toward the stage as the bandleader bowed. He turned to face the band, tapped his wand a few times, and then . . .

“Chattanooga Choo Choo” began to play.

“C’mon, Claire,” Hank yelled.

The torture continued.