Lovely War(87)

In other corners of the house, people moved about, but no sound reached Hazel. Not. Yet. Quite. Himself.

“Why don’t I pop upstairs,” Mrs. Alderidge said, “and just have a little chat with James? Seeing you might do him a world of good.”

Hazel soon heard footsteps ascending the stairs.

She tried to compose herself.

He is well in body but he’s not yet, quite, himself.

Yet.

“Yet” meant he could become himself. What was wrong could be made right with time.

The footsteps were in the room directly above this one, overlooking the street. She glanced up at the ceiling. There was James. Somewhere above her. Right there.

Shell shock? Was that it? Some of the German prisoners had suffered from it. The more severe cases had been kept in a separate ward. They couldn’t work.

Her mind conjured up unspeakable things. Straitjackets. Ravening insanity. Violence. The thought of German prisoners brought back the horrid scene from Compiègne that had haunted her quiet moments and her nightmares. She pressed a fist over her lips.

Stop it.

Why hadn’t James come down?

Maybe he was getting dressed. She tucked imaginary stands of hair back into place.

Or maybe he couldn’t see her today, but he’d be eager to see her very soon.

That was all right. Of course! Let’s see. She could find lodging somewhere, maybe, and stay in the area a couple of days, wire her parents a telegram. Find some respectable older woman who let rooms to boarders, and . . .

A much slower tread sounded on the stairs, coming down.

Hazel braced herself. James.

But it wasn’t James.

“I am so very sorry, Miss Windicott,” Mrs. Alderidge began. “James is not feeling up for company at present.”

Hazel willed herself to smile. “That’s all right,” she said. “I can come back another—”

Mrs. Alderidge shook her head. “James has asked me to give you a message.”

Hazel lowered her head. It was all the privacy the moment allowed her.

“He asked me to say,” the woman said, “that it’s best if your friendship end with the pleasant memories you’ve shared. He wishes you his very best for your health and happiness.”

Mrs. Alderidge had the tact to let Hazel sit a moment.

“Whatever is wrong with him,” she whispered to her knees, “I would help him. I would be patient while he got better.”

Mrs. Alderidge sighed. “That’s very good of you, my dear,” she said sadly. “Very, very good.”

Hazel dangled, suspended in shock, until she remembered Mrs. Alderidge was watching.

She rose. “Thank you for the tea.”

“All the best to you, my dear.” Mrs. Alderidge handed Hazel her coat. “I just can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Hazel headed down the gravel walk to the garden gate. Everything in her wanted to look up at the front windows and see if James’s face would be there, but she felt Mrs. Alderidge’s gaze pinned between her shoulder blades and moved quickly down the street.





APHRODITE


     Watching Her Go—June 1, 1918





IN THE DOORWAY of the Alderidge home, Maggie stood by her mother.

“James sent a girl like that away without so much as a hello?”

Her mother sighed. “It’s not his fault, Mags.”

Maggie shook her head. “I don’t care whose fault it is. It’s stupid, and I liked her.”

“So does your brother.”

“Then why doesn’t—”

“Don’t you dare meddle in this, Maggie,” her mother said. “I’ve said too much as it is. The poor boy’s got enough trouble.”

Maggie wandered off to the butler’s pantry she’d made into her typing room and pecked at a keyboard exercise, thinking, thinking.



* * *





In a second-story window, James stood in shadow and watched her leave. He couldn’t help it.

As she turned at the gate, he caught a quick sight of her face in profile. There she was, downcast and perfect.

Her tall posture, her dark hair piled atop her head, her long neck, her head bowed down in sadness, her steps slow. The soft white lace of her collar, wrapped around her throat. That bright coat he’d bought her. She was right there. With sunlight casting a halo around her. Growing smaller, though, as each step carried her farther away.

She had come. To see him.

If she were what that woman from the YMCA had said, would she have come?

If she were what he’d believed her to be, how could he watch her leave?

If only he could bolt out there now, and take her in his arms, and die there.

But he was no longer what she’d known him to be. He would never be that James again.

I will never hurt you, Hazel Windicott.

Oh, God.

Better that he hurt her once, now, than prolong her hurt, or even allow her pity and kindness to lock her into a commitment that would pain her for the rest of her life.

If he loved her, he must leave her alone.

He watched her until a bend in the road took her out of sight.





APHRODITE


     Spasms—June 1, 1918