The Secret of Raven Point (38 page)

“Yes,” said Juliet. “He’s a fugitive now as well.”

Signora Gaspaldi nodded resolutely, and she crossed the room with open arms and drew both men close. She whispered a prayer, and Juliet suspected that after everything she had said, Signora
Gaspaldi was simply a woman of God and could not refuse a man of the cloth.

Signora Gaspaldi disappeared into the kitchen and boiled water and served pieces of dry bread and cups of acorn coffee; she seemed happy for the company. Peppino was nowhere in sight, but Juliet did not have the strength to ask where he was. Perhaps the absence of a man in the house made the idea of harboring two men comforting. Once again Signora Gaspaldi took out the photo album and passed around the photos of her two sons; when the coffee cups had been emptied, she carried the candle upstairs and led all four into Alfonso’s room.

Juliet looked around the room where, months earlier, she and Willard had slept. She looked at the pillow where she had buried her tears, and it seemed almost silly now, how upset she had been.

Barnaby and Reardon set down their bags and nodded fervently at Signora Gaspaldi.

“Grazie,”
they said,
“mille grazie.”

Barnaby studied the room; he touched the walls and then ran his hand along the edge of the bed, as though to make sure it was all real. He took a slow, deep, shuddering breath and walked to the corner, away from the rest of them.

Willard drew up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder.

“We can’t stay, Christopher. Nurse Dufresne and I have to get back to the hospital. But I want you to rest, to relax, and to know that you’re safe here. You’re going to be fine. Signora Gaspaldi will look after you. Brother Reardon will look after you.”

Barnaby cleared his throat and turned to face Willard. His eye was flecked red with emotion.

“I can’t thank you enough, Doc.”

“It’s my job,” said Willard.

Barnaby broke into a soft laugh. “Shitty job.”

“Some days, yes. Not today.”

They shook hands for several moments, and then Willard turned
to Juliet. “I want you to explain to Signora Gaspaldi that this is to help pay for their food, whatever she needs. . . .”

Digging into his pocket, Willard extracted a ring—a gold wedding band—and set it in Signora Gaspaldi’s hand. Juliet felt momentarily unsettled as the old jealousy, like a phantom limb, stirred and subsided. Yes, he was married; yes, she loved him. These were two immovable truths, and she understood now that they could coexist. They had coexisted all along. Nothing had been taken from her but a desire, a dream, and so many of those had been lost already, she imagined it a necessary shedding. Perhaps, she thought, what she really wanted was to have what Willard had: someone whose love she carried—a secret in her pocket, a glinting promise on her finger—someone for whom she would forsake all others, someone she would long to get home to. Someday, surely, the war would end, and they would all return to everything else. But who would be waiting for her?

Signora Gaspaldi kissed the ring and closed her hand tightly around it.

“S
ì
, s
ì
, mille grazie
.
”

Willard turned to Juliet. “Come on, it’s time to say good-bye.”

Juliet walked to the corner where Barnaby stood and felt her body tense. Having waited so long to ask one question, she knew if she didn’t ask now, she might never again have the opportunity. She didn’t want a lifetime of shadowy guesses, bleak hypotheses.

“Christopher, do you think,” she quietly began, “that there’s any chance Tuck may be alive somewhere? That he was taken prisoner or went into hiding?”

Barnaby clenched his mouth; it was the pained expression she must have had when Beau asked her to tell him he was dying. He spoke slowly, uncomfortably. “You knew him years longer than I did, of course.”

“But you knew him as a soldier. You knew him here.”

“Well
. . . I’d say there are men that would raise the white flag at
a rustle in the trees.” He paused. “But not Tuck. He wasn’t one to be taken alive. And he wasn’t one to desert or give up. I imagine he went down fighting. That’s the best I can say.” He took her hand. “It eats at me, too, the not knowing.”

“Do you think he lost his mind?”

Barnaby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. “I think he lost his heart.”

Somehow what he said didn’t make Juliet sad. It was what she had been guessing for so long, the story her mind had finally settled on; it gave her some relief to hear Barnaby’s confirmation, even if it was only a hypothesis. She needed something, anything, to help close the door to that cold, dark room of her imagination.

“When this is all over,” she said, “after you see the mountains, come to Charlesport. See Tuck’s house.”

He gave her a long, strong hug—one that reminded her of Tuck’s good-bye. She knew then that she would never see Barnaby again. “I’ll bring Tina and the baby and we’ll all raise a glass to him.”

“Of course.” Juliet stepped away, wiping her eyes.

Brother Reardon came toward her, his arms open. “You’ll be in my prayers every night for the rest of my life,” he said.

“I’m not sure if you made me believe in God, but you made me believe in people.”

He smiled. “Same thing.”

Juliet looked to Willard, and he looked at his watch and gestured apologetically toward the door. She smiled once more at her friends, and together she and Willard
descended the darkened stairs.

THEY HITCHED A
ride on a mule-drawn wagon almost seventy miles, close to the base of the mountains, and then, with the last of their ration tins, they bartered for two bicycles. They had unloaded most of the weight from their packs and put on as much of their clothing as possible. They bicycled side by side, but against the wind they were unable to say much. She wasn’t sure, in fact, what there was to say. They had lived the entirety of the past week together.

The sun was bright, the sky clear, and the landscape glittered with frost. For the first time in months, Juliet felt giddy. And she could see in Willard’s face a levity she had not before seen. They had done it; they had gotten Barnaby to safety. They had done one absolute good. Whatever retribution they faced at the hospital would be worth it.

As she rode along, she thought about Barnaby, about the mysterious force of an individual. Against all odds, one quiet and frightened man had survived. They had given him the short straws and sent him forward for the most dangerous missions, and he had lived; he had fired a bullet into his own head and he had lived. Barnaby lived. There was some meaning in it, there had to be, but she could not yet fathom it. Why
him
? Why not Tuck; why not Beau? Why not the thousands of others? What meaning was there in his survival—or in hers, for that matter? Was there an obligation that came with living? With each adversity you suffered, with each disappointment, did you have to recognize that someone else hadn’t even had the chance?

They cycled for most of the day until, at the base of the mountains, they waved down a supply truck. It was Rufus. But he did not recognize Juliet, no matter how many times she explained that she had ridden with him weeks earlier.

Since its last encampment, the hospital hadn’t moved. As the truck pulled up to the old stone hotel, and Juliet looked at the large quiet porch and the tidy rows of green tents in the snow, she had the strange feeling that the past week—the days in the schoolhouse cellar, the night in the monastery, the shooting in the quarry—had all been a dream.

As they stepped down from the supply truck, Major Decker emerged from the stone building, moving briskly toward them through the snow.

Willard set their bags on the ground and began to recite what they had rehearsed the night before: “Major Decker, I apologize for our delay. Our jeep was stolen, and we ran into Germans—”

Major Decker waved away the excuses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been here all week. Everyone knows you’ve been here all week. Captain Brilling knows you’ve been here all week. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make good use of your time here this past week? Did you accomplish the goals you set for yourself?”

“Yes.”

Major Decker grinned; it was the happiest Juliet had ever seen him. “Excellent. Now go get yourselves some lunch.”

They ate heartily in the quiet mess hall: cabbage soup with salted beef. They drank grapefruit juice. They devoured chocolate chip cookies and smiled at each other and shoved extras in their pockets. As they carried their bags outside and stood on the porch, she felt an urge to hug Willard—their arduous journey, their trial, was over. Together they had made it. But she feared if she moved close to him, she would once again want to kiss
him. Instead, she carried her bag alone through the snow.

“I’ll see you later,” she called back.

In the green light of her tent, Juliet laid down her things and peeled off the damp, thick layers she’d worn for the bike ride. She splashed water on her face and refastened her braids. She looked around at the canvas walls and her bedroll and wondered how many more months or years she would live like this.
This
had become home. There seemed nothing else beyond it, but she no longer minded.

Even as she entered the Recovery Tent, the giddiness from the bike ride still bubbled within her. There had been a pause in the fighting at the front, and most of the beds were empty. Juliet grabbed a pitcher of water and began to make her way along the tent. Bernice looked at her from the nurses’ desk; she seemed eager to know if they had done it, if they had found Barnaby and Reardon.

Juliet nodded, and Bernice cracked a half smile before returning to her paperwork.

Moving from bed to bed, Juliet checked the medical clipboards, pausing at the last patient, who lay entirely still with his blanket tucked tidily beneath his armpits.

“Wilkowski?”

He raised his head from his pillow; his red hair was damp with sweat. His face was pale and waxy. He pointed his forefinger at her. “Who—shot—Abraham—Lincoln?”

“I’m Nurse Dufresne. Don’t you remember me?”

“The assassin’s name!”

“John Wilkes Booth.”

He threw back his blanket and swung his legs over the side of his bed. His knees were gray and knobby. “They won’t let me go,” he whispered. “I’ve been taken prisoner.”

She lifted his medical clipboard. “You’re not well,” she said. “You’re running a fever.”

“They’re trying to cook my brain!”

“We can bring the fever down.”

She shook two aspirin into her palm; Wilkowski flicked away the white tablets.

“Not a thing wrong with me,” he said, standing and bending at the knees. “Not a thing wrong except that I know the truth.”

“At least have some water,” she urged, setting a glass by his bed. A gloom began to collect around her. Was everything beginning all over again? Barnaby had been saved, but there was still Wilkowski, and hundreds, maybe thousands of others struggling to collect the shattered bits of their minds. She looked at the empty beds and knew soon they would be filled.

“Ah, I see Herr Willard is back!” Wilkowski, barefoot in his hospital gown, moved briskly toward the tent entrance, where Willard had just entered. “Herr Willard!”

Juliet offered Willard a shrug of apology from the far end.

“Private Wilkowski. I’m an American doctor, not a German. You know this very well. Would you like to see my papers?”

“Herr Willard,” Wilkowski moaned. “I thought you’d left me. You were going to make me better.” He jabbed angrily at his own stomach. “Make me better.”

“I will,” Willard said softly.

Wilkowski grew very still and slowly hugged himself. “Please don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t.”

Willard stepped forward, and Wilkowski tentatively laid his head against Willard’s chest, blinking thoughtfully.

Juliet smiled. It seemed, for a moment, that Wilkowski’s sadness had drawn some sense and logic to his surface. Perhaps he would return to them after all. Wilkowski wrapped his arms around Willard. Juliet could see the pride in Willard’s expression. Finally, he was helping them—Wilkowski, Barnaby, the others that would come. Finally his efforts were paying off. Soon Wilkowski began shifting from side to side in what apeared to be a dazed, melancholy waltz, but which soon, step by step, took on the rutted force
of a wrestling maneuver. Willard patted Wilkowski’s back, trying, as they careened around, to steady himself. “You’re okay,” he soothed, “you’re going to be okay.” Then Willard gasped, and by the time Juliet looked up, Wilkowski was waving the pistol Willard had taken from Barnaby.

“Herr Willard, what’s this?”

Willard’s face went slack. “Private, set down the gun.”

“Herr Willard! Here, finally, is the evidence!”

“Private, you’re safe here. I’m an American, understand? You’re safe now.”

“Go back to Germany!”

“You’re safe,” said Willard. “It’s all going to be okay, I promise. We will make you better. Do you hear me? We will make you better.”

Wilkowski nodded as though in agreement, and then Juliet heard the shot and watched Willard fall to the ground.

It is a sunny September day, and Juliet steps off the bus into the bustling depot. From her purse she pulls a small piece of paper, directions for the city bus she should take. She makes her way through the crowd and out onto the sidewalk. A cool breeze greets her, and after hours of sitting she adjusts her skirt and slip, makes sure her blouse is tucked in neatly.

She finds the signpost indicating her next bus and waits behind several young men in suits; it still startles her to see men of a certain age in anything but khakis. The men are clean-shaven, their hair is neatly combed. But they cannot be more than twenty-five years old, thirty at best, and she wonders where they have been.

When the bus arrives, the men make a playful show of insisting she board first; she thanks them and takes a seat near the front, turning to look out the window as the bus rumbles away. The sun is strong, glinting off the wide ribbon of river; tall, gray buildings tidily line the avenue. At the eighth stop, she stands, and one of the men helps her lift her bag off.