The Echo of Old Books(14)

Damn you.

I change the subject as we move on to the fish course, remarking on how much better everything seems to taste when one is away from home. “Or maybe it’s to do with the war and how scarce things have gotten back home. Sugar, butter, bacon are all on rations now, and there’s talk of more if the thing drags on. I hope the US will be better prepared than we were.”

“My father says we’re not getting dragged into it this time. The last war taught us that we need to stay home. Teddy thinks so too.”

“And what do you think?”

Your shoulders twitch, not quite a shrug. “I don’t think about it. Not really.”

Your response annoys me. The vagueness of it, as if I’ve just asked your opinion on some obscure mathematical problem. “Too busy?”

“Women aren’t usually consulted on wars. We send our husbands and brothers and sweethearts to do the dying, hold the pieces together while they’re gone, then pick up what’s left when they come home—if they come home—but we’re seldom asked what we think.”

My annoyance falls away as I digest your response. I’m both surprised and relieved to find you’re not quite as cool—or as empty—as I originally feared. The revelation makes me strangely glad. “That’s quite an answer for someone who hasn’t given the subject much thought.”

“And what are your thoughts? You have some, presumably. Tell me, are you as mad at us Yanks as everyone else back home?”

“It’s not a question of being mad. We’re afraid of what might happen if the United States stays out. Hitler certainly hopes you do. And so far, he seems to be getting his way.”

“I assume you’re an interventionist.”

“I’m an observer, watching from a distant shore.”

“Speaking of distant shores, you never did say what brought you to ours.”

I remain focused on my plate, extricating a bit of bone from my salmon. “Didn’t I?”

“No. You only said you were looking for an adventure.”

I look up then with an innocent smile. “Isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?”

You nod, acknowledging the evasion. “And have you found it? This adventure you’re after?”

“Not yet, but I’ve only been here a few weeks.”

“And how long will you be staying?”

“It’s open-ended at this point. Until I get what I’m after, I suppose.”

“Which is?”

“Oh no, let’s not do that one again. Ask me something else.”

“All right.” You dab prettily at your mouth, leaving a smear of garnet on your napkin. “How long have you been writing?”

My eyes are still riveted to your napkin, to the imprint of your mouth, and for a moment I find myself annoyingly flustered. It’s a simple question, perfectly safe. The kind of thing one might ask on a first date. I tell myself to breathe, to straighten up.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t,” I finally manage. “My father was a newspaperman and I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. When I was ten, he set up a small desk for me in his office and gave me one of his old typewriters, a great, shiny black thing I still use today. It was the same machine Hemingway wrote on. My father was an enormous fan. I would sit there for hours, banging away at nonsense. When I finished, he would read what I’d written, marking it up with his pencil, making notes in the margins: Stronger verbs. Less shilly-shallying with descriptors. Tell them what’s important and leave out the rest. He was my first editor and a lover of the dear old colonies, as he called them. Which is probably the real reason I’m here. He loved New York and always made it sound so wonderful.”

“I suppose he’s terribly proud of you.”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. Almost ten years now. But I’d like to think he was.”

Your eyes go soft. “I’m sorry.”

It’s the pat answer when someone mentions a death, the polite answer, but the catch in your voice tells me you mean it. And then I remember Goldie telling me that you lost your mother at a young age. A prolonged illness, I can’t remember what. I only recall that she died in some private hospital upstate. It was one of those bits you simply file away, in case you need it at some point for background, but I never connected the death to a flesh-and-blood person, because you weren’t flesh and blood then. Now, with you sitting so close our elbows occasionally brush, the story registers quite differently.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“And your mother? Is she . . .”

“Still alive but back in Berkshire, I’m afraid. I’d hoped she’d come over with me, but my father’s buried in the churchyard in Cookham and she refused to leave him. Stubborn as a goat—which is exactly what she used to say about my father. They were cut from the same cloth, those two. A match made in heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“And do you?”

Your face gives nothing away, but there’s a hint of sadness in the question, a whiff of resignation you can’t quite hide. I manage a smile, though it feels like an apology. “I’ve seen it firsthand, so I suppose I must. But I’m not the one who’s just gotten myself engaged. The more pertinent question is, Do you?”