“I saw you,” said Stanley. He could hardly believe he was here with Devon, in the future, the war a faraway thing in his past. “I thought you didn’t see me.”
“Oh, Isawyou,” said Devon, and he was shaking all over as he held Stanley tight. The edge of the circle of Stanley’s ID tag glittered on Devon’s neck. Stanley admired it for a second before he kissed it, and kissed Devon’s neck as he was held.
“One moment, there was green grass,” said Devon. “I wanted to cry at the emptiness—but then you werethere. I couldn’t believe it, and then I couldn’t get the driver to stop because I’d forgotten all of my French—”
“He’s waiting.” Stanley lifted his head. The driver had parked in the driveway in front of the door of the cottage and was standing next to his taxi, looking at his watch.
“I’ll tell him—” said Devon, and then he stopped. “But first I need to show you something. You need to look behind you, just look.”
Stanley resisted. He didn’t want to look because behind him was the past that could snatch him back at any moment. Behind him were mud and trenches and barbed wire and exploding mortar shells. Behind him was the war, and he wanted it to stay there.
“No, it’s okay,” said Devon. He lifted his hand and gently turned Stanley around, away from the gray cottage and toward the soft, rippling humps that were the remains of the trenches built by the 44thBattalion.
And that was all that was there. Gone were the white crosses, row on row, stark against the green, snow-flecked grass. Standing solitary at the far edge of the field stood a single narrow monument of smooth white stone. Devon ignored the cab chuffing in the driveway, the driver standing next to it, and dragged Stanley through the wet grass to where the monument stood, a single reminder, a sentinel to the war.
“Look and see,” said Devon as Stanley scanned the words inscribed into marble, the flare of stone bunting on either side a small shield from the snow. “From the moment you left the second time, it said this. I looked at it a hundred times while finishing my paper. You did it, Stanley, you saved them all.”
“Is that me?” asked Stanley, though he could hardly believe what the words said.
Dedicated to Wilifred Sullivan, who died November 10, 1917.
In honor of the brave soldier who saved every man in the 44thBattalion.
He gave his life so that others might live.
“Yes, that’s you,” said Devon, his arm solid and warm around Stanley’s waist. “You completed your mission.”
“I hid,” said Stanley as Devon led him across the grass and back to the cottage. “Then I went back and gave Lt. Billings the code. Heordered the retreat. I stayed behind to make sure everybody got out and then—the mustard gas got me, anyway.”
“But you’re here now,” said Devon. “You’re here now with me.”
When they reached the driver, Devon talked to him in French. There were hand gestures on everybody’s part until Devon handed over a small fold of bills, and helped the driver unload Devon’s things. After which, he waved the driver away, which left them both standing at the door of the cottage while Devon fumbled with the lock, and then drew Stanley inside.
“Your things,” said Stanley. He breathed in the sweet, warm air, and as Devon pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him, Stanley knew there was nothing better than this feeling, this moment.
“Screw my things,” said Devon.
“Your papers,” said Stanley. “Your metal laptop, you need those.”
“I needyou,” said Devon. “Besides, it’s all done now. I sent everything to my thesis advisor yesterday. I was waiting till today to leave in the hopes—”
Stanley closed his eyes and buried his face against Devon’s chest, and thought about staying there forever. Even then, he couldn’t get enough of Devon’s scent, the sound of the low pulse of his heartbeat, the solid feel of his arms, the way he swayed slightly back and forth as though rocking a child into a peaceful sleep.
Stanley opened his eyes and looked out at the falling snow, at the white flecks on Devon’s suitcases, his boxes, the black cloth satchel that held his metal laptop.
“Where were you going?” asked Stanley. He pulled away and looked up at Devon.
“I was headed back to the States early,” said Devon. He took his hand and traced the curve of Stanley’s cheek. “I finished my paper like I promised you I would, so there was nothing for me here. You were gone forever, Stanley.”
“Well, I’m back now,” said Stanley. He meant for his voice to be firm and assured, but it shook. “And I want to stay with you, I want to stay.”
“You can stay with me in the States,” said Devon. “I’m going to make phone calls.”
Standing in the open doorway, they were both getting wet, and snow threatened to cover Devon’s things with thick, damp layers. Stanley let go of Devon to bring Devon’s things inside. Devon closed and locked the door while Stanley dusted off the snow and carried the suitcases back to the bedroom, and the satchel with the metal laptop, and the box of papers, back to the kitchen table where they belonged.
Each moment he’d been in the war, he’d thought of this cottage with its small rooms, the thick curtains that kept out the world, and it was important, at least for a moment, that everything was as he’d remembered it.
He realized that Devon had not moved from the door, and that he was staring at Stanley as though he were starving. His expression reflected how Stanley felt.
