“What about the part where you back up?” asked Stanley, even though he still didn’t really understand what that meant.
“You push on here, and move the cursor. See that black line? That’s the cursor. You move it to this icon—which is a picture of what the thing does—and tap. Watch it. See it blink? There. The document is backed up on the hard drive, and if I was really writing more than I’d want to risk losing, I’d use my jump drive.”
Devon pulled out a very small silver stick that didn’t look like it could do anything, let alone back up Devon’s work. Thinking about all of this was making Stanley’s head spin. Devon seemed to sense this and put the jump drive in his pocket and gently slapped the laptop closed.
“I’ve overwhelmed you, haven’t I,” asked Devon, though it was more a statement than a question. “That’s my problem. My friends in the States say I’m obsessed about World War I and that I should get a different hobby or a boyfriend, but I’m in the middle of finishing my master’s thesis, and either of those things would just get in the way.”
Devon traced the edges of the laptop with his fingers and blew out a puff of air, seeming chagrined at his own failings. His eyes flicked to Stanley as if he wanted forgiveness for that or, at the very least, a little understanding. Which Stanley had in abundance because when he’d enlisted, he’d hoped to be assigned to the army’s air force division so he could tinker with the cunning bi-planes that were being developed. Only they put him in the infantry, and he’d spent his days marching in mud watching his friends get killed.
That wasn’t where he wanted his thoughts to go, so he took a long drink of his now cold coffee and swallowed and mentally shook himself. He wasn’t a very good guest if he was going to wallow in his own troubles while Devon struggled in his mire of self-doubt. Devon,who had been so good to him and welcoming and who had the most beguiling tilt to his eyes when sad.
“Hey, I’m the same way,” said Stanley, with some forced cheerfulness in his voice. “My Pa always joked that I’d get so interested in something that I’d turn into it—”
“Your Pa?” asked Devon, his eyebrows going up, though not in that way that said he wanted to take notes for his thesis, but because he really wanted to know.
“He died from influenza,” said Stanley quickly to get the explanation over with. “And then I enlisted.”
“Did you enlist in 1917?” asked Devon, and at Stanley’s nod, Devon nodded also. “That was before the pandemic of 1918.”
“The pan-what?” asked Stanley, completely alarmed at the thought of the flu spreading that far, that fast. “A pandemic?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, what with time travel paradoxes and all,” said Devon. He got up with his laptop tucked under his arm and put it with his other papers that were stacked in piles at the far edge of the kitchen counter. “Because if you go back into the past, you shouldn’t know the future, right? Or you’ll mess up the timeline. Or something.”
Devon looked like he wanted to laugh at this foolishness, but instead, he was scowling. Stanley could see it right then that he was berating himself for believing in such a foolish thing as time travel, even for a half a second. Time travel wasn’t real, everybody knew that. Yet here Stanley was, sitting at the sturdy kitchen table in a French cottage on the edge of what had been a battlefield but was now a cemetery and memorial.
The war that Stanley knew to be real had ended, and everybody he knew was dead. Everybody who’d been alive then was dead, too, as a matter of fact, and Stanley was the only one left who knew what it felt like to type on an Underwood typewriter. This knowledge, added to everything else, rushed over him. He was swamped with overwhelming sadness, a grief so deep and dark and bitter that he found himself curled over his knees, gripping them hard and gasping sharp breaths, trying to stem his tears.
“Stanley.”
Devon said his name, but it came from far away. Everything felt so far away that nothing could save him. He was adrift and alone.
Then Stanley felt something warm touching him. Stanley opened his eyes to see that Devon was half kneeling on the wooden floor. Devon’s hands were on his knees, warm and steady. He’d pulled Stanley’s chair out so that he could get close. His eyes were very green and kind and concerned, and Stanley knew that he was safe.
“Can you breathe a little bit for me, Stanley?” asked Devon. “Just breathe in and out. Look at me and breathe while you listen to me babble on about the war and about my paper. About how my thesis advisor is insisting that the overall theme should contain something uplifting, even though both you and I know that all war is futile and the only reason countries start wars is to help generate income and raise their gross domestic production—or is it product? I never can remember.”
Stanley raised his head. He lifted himself up and allowed his hands to rest on Devon’s, keeping them where they were while his heart slowed and the tightness in his throat eased.
“War is futile,” said Stanley, nodding, as if he was the sage and Devon the student who needed confirmation. “It’s not even glorious, you know? It’s just mud and shit and blood and leftover shrapnel.”
“I know it is,” said Devon. “I know.”
Devon didn’t seem like he’d ever been in a war to actually know, but he’d probably done enough research, and his eyes said that he understood it’d been horrible. What’s more, this was about the fifth or sixth time that Devon had mentioned his paper, and Stanley was such a bad guest, he’d never even asked about it. Which he should, not only because it would be a good distraction from his own woes, but also because he liked the way Devon’s eyes lit up when he talked about it.
“What is your paper about?” asked Stanley. He pushed himself all the way up and made himself let go of Devon’s hands. This caused Devon to stand up, though he didn’t move away, and remained where he’d knelt, quite close and in that same steady way.
“My paper?” asked Devon, as though surprised by the brisk changeof subject. Then he seemed to understand exactly what Stanley wanted. He rubbed his chin and traced a crumb on the tabletop, as though suddenly shy about the whole thing. “It’s a thesis—a study—of the effects of the weather on the battle you were in. Not on the whole war, right, because that would be too broad. My thesis advisor says that it’s better to go narrow, to focus on one or two things because that makes a thesis sparkle.”
Stanley didn’t know whether or not a thesis about war could actually sparkle. There was a bit of a derisive tone in Devon’s voice as he said this, which meant that Devon was probably aware of the same impossibility, too. Which made Stanley feel like smiling, so he did. Which made Devon smile in return.
“Yeah, I know, right?Sparkle.”
Devon began clearing the rest of the breakfast things, placing everything in the broad sink with slight clanking sounds. He seemed at home as he puttered, investing in Stanley the huge and overwhelming longing to have the two of them go on, just as they were, till time ended. Stanley shook himself and made himself pay attention because he wanted to and because Devon deserved it.
“If I wasn’t getting my history master’s,” said Devon as he rinsed plates and cutlery, “I would have been a meteorologist. You know, a weatherman. The guy who measures the isobars and takes temperature readings and looks at the rain gauge. That guy.”
“That guy,” said Stanley, agreeing because it did sound like an interesting occupation.
“But I was too obsessed, so into the program I went, and marked the checkbox next to World War I faster than you could spit.”
