In the Shadow of Blackbirds(56)

WITH MY MASK TIED TIGHT AND MY BOOTS LACED FIRMLY in double knots, I returned to the Red Cross House in the morning, an hour after Aunt Eva left for work.

I grabbed The Adventures of Tom Sawyer from the donated book pile and headed back into the throng of bandaged men and twittering canaries, the latter of which set my nerves on edge with their erratic, fussy, twitchy bird movements.

“Are you all right?” asked a woman’s voice.

I pulled my eyes away from a cage of yellow birds and found the Red Cross nurse with the amber cat eyes standing next to me. “Yes. Why?”

“You’ve been staring at that cage for at least two minutes. One of the men who’s been eagerly awaiting the end of Tom Sawyer called me over and asked what you were doing.”

“Oh.” I blinked away a foggy haze muddling my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I sit down and start reading again.”

“If this is too much for you—”

“I’ll be fine. I’m happy to be here again. I want to help.”

Her eyes seemed to ask, Are you sure about that? I gave her a confident nod and watched her walk away.

Then my attention wandered to the part of the room where Jones and Carlos had rested the day before, and I half expected to hear myself called Aunt Gertie again.

Carlos sat in his same leather chair, reading another old issue of the Saturday Evening Post.

The seat beside him was empty.

Fear twisted inside my gut. Had Jones killed himself?

I strode over to Carlos, whose dark eyes shimmered above his mask when he saw me. “Good morning, querida. You’ve come back to us.”

“Of course I came back.” I nodded to the empty chair. “Where’s Jones?”

“Jones?” He knitted his eyebrows like he didn’t understand. “Oh, the joker there. That wasn’t his real name. I just called him that because so many of you gringos are named Jones.”

“Oh.” I glanced around the room. “Well, where is he? Is he sitting somewhere else today?”

“He’s in the influenza ward. They found him burning up with a fever in the middle of the night.”

“What?”

“A nurse told me this morning.”

I hugged Tom Sawyer to my chest and clawed the cloth cover. Tears pricked at my eyes.

“Don’t cry for him, querida. He was kind of a bastard.”

“I’m not crying for him specifically.” I wiped my eyes with my fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

“He might not die. Not everyone does.”

“I know.”

An awful silence passed between us, which made Jones’s chair seem all the emptier.

“I heard you say something about a dead soldier yesterday.” Carlos reached his hand toward me across the armrest. “Did you lose a sweetheart?”

I nodded. “His funeral was only three days ago.” I sniffed and wrapped my fingers around Carlos’s. “Oh, this is silly. I’m supposed to be the one comforting all of you. That Red Cross nurse is going to give me the boot at any second.”

“Shh. It’s all right.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I lost my sweetheart, too. She did not die, but she took one look at my missing legs and ran away. I have not seen her since I got back to San Diego in early October.”

“I’m sorry.” I sniffed again. “Maybe she’ll get braver with time.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I don’t really think so, though.” He gave my fingers another squeeze—a gentle gesture that reminded me I wasn’t standing there all alone in the world. “Where was your boy from, querida? Around here?”

“Coronado. He was supposed to finish his studies at Coronado High School last spring, but he enlisted instead.”

“Oh, I wonder if he knew that Coronado fellow who’s convalescing here.”

“What? Did you—” My lips couldn’t function for a moment. “There—there’s a person from Coronado here?”

“You may have seen him—the poor hombre missing the left side of his body. I remember Jones making another one of his terrible jokes about the boy. ‘That Coronado bugger is all right,’ he’d say whenever anyone wheeled him by.”

I remembered the boy—the sleeping one from the day before whose head was a mess of gauze. That one’s in the arms of Madame Morphine, the man with the eye patch had said before asking for his cookie.

“Do … do you think …” My tongue struggled to keep up with my thoughts. “Do you think he might have known my friend Stephen?”

“I don’t know.” Carlos let go of my hand. “Go ask him yourself.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind me going over there right now?”

“I’m not going to chase after you.” He snickered and gestured with his chin toward his missing legs.

“Thank you so much for telling me about him.” I pulled down my mask and kissed the top of Carlos’s head through his thick black hair. “Thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, querida. Thank you for not having huge warts and buckteeth.”

I slid my mask back up and took off across the room, slowing my pace when I realized how jarring it would be for the Coronado boy to wake up to the crashing of boots against tile.