“Do you have any pictures of Joe?”
I nodded. “Not taken that night, but yes, I have a few.”
“I’d love to see them. Where are they?”
I drew a blank. I frowned and tried to think. Nope. Nothing came. “I can’t seem to recall at the moment. I’m sure it will come to me later.” At least, I hoped it would. I knew I’d put them somewhere Charlie couldn’t find them, but since my fall, I can’t recollect exactly where.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the past swirl and thicken around me like smoke, until it was something I seemed to breathe. Once again, I heard myself talking.
1943
I had the hardest time keeping quiet about that plane ride the next day—especially around Marge. I didn’t think I could keep my mouth shut—and I was totally exhausted anyway, so I pretended to be sick on Tuesday and spent the day in bed.
By Wednesday, it all seemed like a dream. I was beginning to doubt my sanity. Had it really happened, or had I made it all up? Why hadn’t I heard from Joe?
I dressed in that polka-dot dress and went to work, and that made it seem more unreal—going on as before, as though nothing as life changing as flying through the sky had occurred. I was assigned to the darkroom that morning, and it only added to my gloom. I was gathering up the police beat photographer’s film from the night before when the senior editor, a roly-poly man named Thomas Coppler, called my name.
I turned and looked at him, startled, as he waddled toward me. He was three layers of management above my supervisor; I didn’t think he even knew who I was. He had wavy gray hair, a coarse salt-and-pepper mustache, and a big belly. He liked to wear knitted sweater-vests, and the one he wore on that particular day was brown and covered with what looked like cake crumbs. “You’ve got a phone call,” he said.
I must have looked surprised. I’d never received a call at work.
“From your cousin.” His eyes were soft and sympathetic, in a way that conveyed bad news. “You can take it at my desk.”
I followed him across the newsroom, my heart racing, my mind scanning through my cousins. I had five of them, but I wasn’t particularly close to any of them. If something had happened to a member of my family, my parents would call—unless something happened to my parents. In that case, though, my grandmother or Aunt Beula would have called. Unless something had happened to them, as well, and then...
The phone was lying on his desk, off the hook. He handed it to me. My hand shook as I lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Pretend I’m giving you bad news,” said a deep, smooth baritone.Joe. My heart stopped for a second, then beat double time.
“What?”
“Look shocked. Pretend I’m telling you that dear old Uncle Leo bit the dust. That’s what I just told your boss.”
“But...”
“Just listen to me. I know you don’t want to lie, so I did it for you. All you need to do is gather up your stuff and leave. He’ll let you off for the rest of the week.”
“But...”
“He’s standing there listening, isn’t he? So don’t say a word. I already told him your uncle in Mississippi died and we need you here to help with arrangements. I’ve got leave until Sunday. If you’re asked specifics, say you’re going to Coldwater, just outside of Jackson. It won’t be a lie. I’ll take you to Mississippi.”
“I—I don’t...”
“Just look shocked. From the way you sound, I imagine that’s how you look anyway, so you won’t even have to do any acting. Just grab your purse and leave. If anyone asks for an explanation, just say you have a family situation—which, of course, you do. Having a family is a situation in and of itself. Then take the trolley...”
“Streetcar,” I automatically corrected.
“... streetcar to Jackson Avenue. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Let me talk to Thomas again.”
I was acutely aware that Mr. Coppler was watching me. I numbly I held out the phone. “He—he wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Coppler gave me a sympathetic smile and took the receiver. He listened for a moment. “Of course. I understand completely. I’ll take care of it.”
He cast me a kindly look—his eyes were big and brown and expressive like Charlie Chaplin’s—and set the phone in its cradle. “I’m so sorry.”
