“No, uh, no. It was a pretty public thing, so I always assume most people have heard . . .”
“I really don’t keep up with the Hollywood rumor mill.” It’s the closest to pompous he’s sounded in our back-and-forth, and I snip back sharply.
“Brain cancer isn’t exactly hot gossip.”
“Brain cancer?” he asks. His brows turn in, and the humor drains from his voice.
“Yeah. Six years ago, my first fiancé, Dean Graham, died from a brain tumor. Two weeks before our wedding,” I say frankly, not because I don’t care anymore, but because I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of this stranger and potentially millions of strangers once the documentary is released.
“Dean,” Father Patrick repeats. Hearing his name in a priest’s mouth again after all these years gives me chills. “Yes. You said there was a drone flyover at his funeral, right?”
“Yup.”
“That’s terrible. I’m truly sorry.”
I nod, wanting to move on.
“So,” Father Patrick finally speaks again, “how does it feel to be planning your marriage to Hunter?”
I answer quickly with a pat line and a stiff smile.
“Great. It’s been a long time since my first engagement. I’m ready for a new chapter.” I shift in my seat, and after a few more moments, I dart a glance toward Mac, checking in. He seems fine with the turn of topics, which means I’m on my own.
“Sure. I can see that,” he replies, raising his eyebrows like he knows I’m hiding my true feelings. He doesn’t follow up immediately with another question. Instead, he sits in the stillness like it’s a refuge, studying me, perhaps waiting for additional details or a trace of emotion. I brace for a deluge of questions about the worst time in my life when Father Patrick takes out a blank piece of paper and abruptly changes the subject.
“Have you considered wedding dates?”
A weight the size of a boulder lifts from my chest, and I can breathe normally again. He’s letting me off the hook like I did for him. We’ve got each other’s backs.
We move on to more basic details of the wedding and my Catholic upbringing but nothing particularly controversial. Autopilot clicks on, and I play the part of bride, daughter of celebrities, and granddaughter of a legend.
As we speak, the sun finishes setting, and the windows go from yellow to orange to black.
“It was nice to meet you, Father,” I say, holding out my hand as we close out our conversation, cameras still running.
Despite his formal uniform, it feels strange to call this handsome stranger a paternal name. I liked him before, when I assumed he was part of the crew, when I hoped he could be a friend during this whole fiasco. But his chosen career and what it stands for—though commendable—places a barrier between us and removes the option of close friendship. Because Father Patrick has given himself and his life over to God, and though I can’t admit it openly and still get married in his church, I’ve come to believe that the God we used to share might not exist.
“You, too, Miss Branson.” He takes my offered hand casually in a firm but gentle grip. When my fingers slide across his palm, over the desk with neatly stacked documents, gilded pens, and religious relics, I feel something I haven’t in a long time. An electric charge powered by an unseen battery. I yank my hand away, wondering if he felt it, too, but he shows no sign of the lightning bolt in his expression or manner as he returns to his seat and rests his hand genially on the desk. My hand burns like it’s been scorched.
“I told you to call me Elise,” I say, and Mac calls cut.
And as Ben removes my mic, I wonder if there’s a loose wire somewhere that generated the electric charge or if it could’ve been a giant dose of static electricity? Or maybe I just imagined it. I’m not sure. Sitting here in a room filled with crosses and Bibles and priests, it’s easy to wonder if God might have something to do with it. But I spent a good part of my life believing in God and never experienced anything like what I felt tonight when I touched Father Patrick’s hand.
CHAPTER 10
Vivian
Tuesday, May 18, 1943
Camp Atterbury
I cover my mouth with the back of my hand as I yawn, trying to look professional and poised. Next to me sits Lieutenant Colonel Gammell and his NCO assistant, Command Sergeant Major George Simpson. When Gammell said we’d have a late night, I didn’t expect to stay past dinnertime. I called Aria at five o’clock and told her where to find all the ingredients for the meal I’d planned.
I haven’t had a moment to consider the consequences of staying late. I can barely keep my mind focused on switching back and forth between Italian and English, which I do over and over again until I can hardly tell the difference between the two languages.
Across the room are five empty chairs for elected officials from each of the five one-thousand-man compounds. Each group has one spokesman to present projects to the lieutenant colonel.
Combined, the five compounds make up the entirety of the prison. I’ve learned they’re all self-managed and run with a military structure that leans heavily on preexisting rank. It’s a system of rules and regulations I know little about but find fascinating. I’ve heard the phrase “Geneva Conventions” more in the past two weeks than in my entire schooling.
As I’ve become accustomed to my position, I’ve taken on more responsibilities, but I don’t find them a burden. Of course, I have routine duties of filing and typing and answering calls and putting them through to this building or that office. I haven’t had any official training as a translator or interpreter, and McNeil, the military translator/interpreter, seems to take offense at my role, though we rarely cross paths. He manages the disputes in the brig, like the fight I witnessed on my first day, and I manage the translation issues in the office with the lieutenant colonel.
Though I’m kept far away from the rough-and-tumble bits of prison life, that incident in the front office keeps replaying in my mind like a reel of film at the Pixy Theater. I keep looking around each room I walk into for Trombello’s face. I rarely venture deep enough into the camp to see many prisoners. Civilian staff is welcome in the mess hall, and I’ve heard some good things about the food, but Judy eats with her husband across the street most days, and I don’t have any other friends around here other than Mary, so I usually end up eating a sandwich at my desk when she’s not around.
“Thank the Lord, only one more,” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell grumbles under his breath as I pass him the file for the fifth and final set of compound representatives. He’s not as grouchy as he seemed when I first met him. He’s softened more than I’d expected.
“More letters home. Different food rations. Warmer winter wear. More rec time. These men act like this is summer camp and not war,” Gammell’s NCO, Simpson, blurts out.
I’ve heard this same sentiment about the US POW camps from my family and neighbors. I don’t know where my opinions stand on the matter, but I do know I’m glad to have a job. So I stay busy and mind my own business.
“We follow the rules, Sergeant. That’s all we can do,” Gammell says dispassionately, still reading the file.