Call Me Zelda (31 page)

The person knocking tried again, and I wondered whether it
was Lincoln. Maybe I had left something in his taxi. I knew it wasn’t Peter, because he would have made a song out of his knock. I crept over to the door and finally raised my voice.

“Who’s there?” I called.

“Anna,” said a male voice. “It’s Will.”

I was confused for a moment and about to say,
Will who?
when it occurred to me who it was.

“It’s Will Brennan,” he called.

“Yes, Will!” I said, and began to unlock the chains when I caught sight of my dark-circled eyes, limp hair, and gaunt frame in the mirror by the door. I hated for him to see me like this, but what could I do? Turn away an old friend after years and years? I quickly ran a hand through my hair and pinched a little color into my cheeks.

When I pulled open the door, he stood before me, looking as awful as I did. He had an overgrown beard and his shirt hung on his frame as it would on a hanger. I couldn’t help but laugh. He broke into a smile so wide I could see the boyish face beneath the beard and saw the light in his blue eyes.

“Haven’t changed a bit, have I?” he said.

“Nor I,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then dived into me with a hug. It took my breath away.

W
e sat over a dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and talked as if not a day had passed.

“I’m sorry about the dinner offerings,” I said. “I don’t go to much trouble for myself these days.”

“This is gourmet to me,” he said. “I’ve lived on soybeans and peanuts for the past three years. Now that I’ve sold the family farm I’m hoping to enjoy a better standard of eating.”

“You sold it?”

“Yes, my dad died at the end of the summer. I sold the farm
and the store, passed around the measly profits with my brothers, and came to the big city to follow my dreams.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad,” I said.

“He was a good guy,” said Will. “Died of cancer. I’d swear it was those cigarettes.”

“Maybe,” I said.

I wondered about Will’s wife, but he didn’t bring her up, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking. “What kind of dreams are you pursuing in Baltimore, exactly?”

“Newspaper reporter. The
Baltimore Post
. I’m hoping to get an interview there and find a place to live in the city.”

“Really? The rooms above and below me are vacant. My landlord would kiss you.”

“That would be heaven.” He blushed bright red while I laughed. “Not your landlord kissing me, but living so close to a friend.”

“Ah.”

Stillness settled around us. I continued eating my soup until he cleared his throat.

“You’re too polite to ask, so I’ll just tell you,” he said. “My wife, Betty, left me two years ago.”

“Why would she do a stupid thing like that?” I said, dragging my spoon around the bowl.

He smiled. “We couldn’t have kids. She thought it was because of war injuries or gas exposure. I told her I only got shot in my leg and not my…you know. Hell, I don’t know. It was a strain on her, seeing all of her friends getting pregnant, having babies. She started feeling suffocated in the small town. She was granted an annulment on account of our being so young and in a hurry to get married after the war. Can hardly blame her.”

“You seem to be coping pretty well,” I said.

“Well, it’s been two years,” he said.

And here I was, far more years later, forever tethered to my
missing husband and deceased daughter in an arrested state of grief. I was ashamed that I hadn’t done more for myself.

“I was bad to start,” he continued. “But after the sting wore off I realized I was better off. She wasn’t the kindest person. Honestly, I don’t think she would have made much of a mother. Not like you.”

My eyes flicked to the frame with Katie’s sweet, round, four-year-old face. The picture was taken at the shore. She held a seashell, and the wind blew her dark hair. I could still smell the seawater and feel the warmth of her plump hand in mine. Tears blurred my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. God knew Will and I had cried together before.

I met his gaze and he reached for my hand.

I took it.

T
hree days later I opened my curtains to see his shabby blue pickup truck pull up to the front stoop, loaded with boxes and furniture. He hopped out of the driver’s side and looked up at the building, breaking into a grin and waving like a fool when he saw me glancing down at him. I hurried down the stairs and opened the front door.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t want your kind here,” I said.

“I thought that might be the case,” he said, “so I packed a case of moonshine to offer to the neighbors as a bribe.”

“I can get that any old place now that the world is wet again,” I said. “But I suppose it’s a start. Just don’t let my brother find out, or he’ll fight me for it.”

The morning air still had a nip in it, so we made quick work of the boxes. I noticed that Will walked with a slight limp from his war injuries years ago, but he didn’t need a cane. The only thing I couldn’t help him lift was the couch, but luckily the landlord stopped over to collect the first and last months’ rent, so he did. Before he left he gave us a strange look, but seemed happy to have a new boarder.

Will had chosen Sorin’s apartment, which I had to mentally instruct myself not to say aloud many times, for the beautiful front window that provided lots of natural light. He set up his writing table and typewriter in front of it and his couch on the wall behind it, exactly where Sorin’s couch used to stand. I shuddered a bit at the thought of the night I was attacked, so long ago. Will noticed.

“It is a little chilly in here,” he said. “This window’s drafty. I’ll have to seal the edges.” He looked around the apartment and nodded. “I like it.”

“I like that you’re here,” I said. “Imagine if I’d told you what would happen to us those many years ago, and that after all of it, we’d be right here, like this. Would you do it over again?”

“Yes,” he said. “As long as I could be standing right here, just like this.”

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Brennan.”

T
hat following Thursday night, at Peter’s invitation, I took Will to the Owl Bar, which, now that Prohibition had been lifted, stood as a symbol of the past.

I was on edge when we arrived, but after a quick scan of the room, I was relieved to see that Scott was not there. Peter had already gotten us a table and a round of drinks, and seemed half in when we greeted him.

“Will! It’s been years!”

My brother and Will had met briefly while I nursed at Walter Reed. Now they bonded instantly over music, and Peter monopolized the conversation with his talk of jazz and how the big-band sounds were about to blow the lid off music as we knew it.

“That’s what Anna should be playing on that piano of hers,” said Peter. “Instead of moody music by dead white men.”

I rolled my eyes and then watched the door.

“Anna,” said Peter. “Hello, Anna. What, are you afraid he’ll come here?”

“Who?” asked Will.

“Her boyfriend,” said Peter.

I punched him on the arm when I saw the look on Will’s face.

“Oh, can it, Peter,” I said. “I don’t have a boyfriend, but yes, I’m worried that Scott Fitzgerald will come here.”

“Why are you worried?” asked Will.

I had written briefly about my work with Zelda in my letter to Will, but I quickly filled him in on some of what had happened since.

“I see why you’re worried,” he said.

“And, Peter,” I said, “do not call Scott over if he comes stumbling through the door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a salute. “Now, Will, have you found a job in the city yet?”

“No. I’ve got an interview coming up soon, though, with the paper.”

Peter wrinkled his eyebrows and cleared his throat. “Um, how soon are we talking, here? That beard is…intense.”

I kicked Peter under the table.

“Ouch!”

Will laughed. “No, he’s right. It’s coming off before the interview.”

“Thank heaven!” said Peter. “Oh, which leads me to you, Anna.”

“I know. I’ve let myself go this winter. I’m getting my appetite back already.”

“That’s good, but I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Peter. “I have an actual reason why I invited you here.”

“I know,” I said. “To get you drunk within walking distance of a bed where you may lay your head without scandal.”

Will laughed.

“Yes, that,” said Peter. “But actually, I have a job offer for you.”

He had my attention.

“It’s not glamorous and it doesn’t pay much, but we need an organist at the cathedral, starting in mid-May. You’d have to work Sundays, holy days, weddings, and funerals. What say you?”

I began to stammer some kind of rejection, because I didn’t know whether I could handle playing an organ, and in front of a crowd, when Peter cut me off.

“No one would see you except for the choir,” said Peter. “You’d be in the loft. Your beautiful music would come from above—as if from heaven.”

I had the strangest sensation at that moment—one I couldn’t identify at first because I hadn’t felt it in so long. The more I thought about it, though, the more clearly I realized what it was.

Relief.

Peter could see it on my face, and reached for my hand.

“Is this a ploy to get me to attend mass more regularly?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I smiled and squeezed his hand. He kissed it and motioned for the bartender to bring us another round.

“Of course, I’ll still be playing music by dead white men,” I said.

“I thought about that,” said Peter. “We’ll see if we can find some old spirituals to add to the lineup, though. Shake the congregation up a little.”

I heard myself laugh as the music rose around us.

W
ill and I escorted my dear, drunken, holy brother back to my apartment, but after a few minutes, Peter was snoring
on the couch so loudly that Will and I could barely talk over the racket. We closed him into the room and went down to Will’s apartment, because he wanted my advice on what to wear to his interview the following week.

I’d had a little too much to drink and stumbled on the bottom step, but Will caught me and we went laughing into his apartment.