“I thought I might find you in here.”
Jerry looked up, vaguely surprised to see John in the doorway, and even more surprised to note the daylight behind his brother was fading. He’d lost all track of time, hidden away here in the shed. He studied John’s suit, curious.
“You look dapper.”
John brushed an imaginary fleck of dust off his lapels. “I do, don’t I? What’s that?”
“Pa’s old journal.”
“Oh yeah?” John reached inside his coat pocket, tapped a cigarette from its package. “What did he write about?”
Jerry held out a hand, so John lit two cigarettes and handed one over.
“A lot of stuff. Notes to himself. Ideas. Lists. Us.” Jerry took a deep drag of the cigarette. “He also wrote about Prohibition and the rum-running business. That’s what the last pages are about: lists of suppliers, sellers, and other key contacts. I was thinking it might be something for you and me to consider.”
“Uncle Henry did say there was good money in it,” John said. “Suppose we can ask Walter what’s what tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Did you forget? Charlie and Walter. We’re all heading to town.” He lifted an eyebrow at Jerry’s worn shirt. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Right. I’d better get changed.”
His mind still on the journal, Jerry headed back to the house,drawing a bucket of cold water from the well as he went. In his room, he poured the water into a white porcelain bowl, grabbed the cake of soap his mother always left there, and scrubbed off the dirt he’d worn for the past couple of days. How very like her, he thought with a pang, to leave it out for him, knowing he’d need to clean up when he returned, whether she was there or not.
From his bag he retrieved his razor, then he leaned close to the mirror, lifted his chin, and set the blade on the crooked terrain of his face. It felt like a luxury, this clean water, this clear mirror. This quiet time to himself. As he guided the razor up his cheek, he thought of another blade scraping cleanly through his beard, held by a smaller but confident hand. As he had so many times, Jerry closed his eyes, praying Adele Savard had made it home.
By the time he was ready, Walter and Charlie were waiting downstairs. Jerry could hear their voices bouncing off John’s, punctuated by Walter’s coughing fits, and he felt an odd tremble of nerves in his chest. Part of it, he knew, was the eagerness to see them. The boys had grown up together, but it had been four very long years since they’d shipped out and gone their separate ways. So much had happened. All of them would bear their own scars, whether he could see them or not. They’d all be strangers somehow.
“Hey,” he said, coming down the stairs. The three were sitting in the front room, glasses of whisky in their hands.
Walter stood to greet him, looking every bit like a younger version of Uncle Henry with his light brown hair slightly mussed and a toothpick dancing in the corner of his mouth.
“Hey, Jer,” he said, pulling him in for a hug. Jerry heard the hint of a wheeze in his voice. When they parted, he nodded toward Jerry’s face, but not critically. “Dad mentioned you went for a new look. I like it. Adds a bit of mystery.”
“Jerry,” Charlie boomed, reaching for his cane as if to rise.
“Don’t get up,” Jerry said, going to him instead.
Charlie held out his left hand, since his right was gone, along with most of his forearm. The right sleeve and trouser leg of his brown tweed suit were both folded and pinned out of the way, but his hair was just as curly as it had always been, though he’d tried to slick it back tonight.
“It’s good to see you, Jerry.” Charlie’s smile quivered, and Jerry detected the unrest in his eyes. “Awful sorry about your folks.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I’m sorry for what happened to you, too.”
“I got hit at the Somme on the first day,” Charlie said. “Could have been worse, right? That’s what people keep saying. What about you? How’s your face feel, Jer?”
“A lot better than it did. Some spots are still numb.”
“Eh?”
“He said he can’t feel all of his face,” Walter said, raising his voice. “Charlie can only hear through one ear, so you gotta speak up if you’re not on his left.”
Charlie nodded. “I’m getting better at reading lips, though.”
John handed Jerry a glass of their father’s amber hooch. “We’re having a toast.” He looked at the other three and raised his glass. “To coming home.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Walter said, and they all tossed back the whisky as one. Then, for just a heartbeat, no one spoke a word. Jerry’s chest constricted with the memories of where they had been, all they had lost, and a bittersweet gratitude that they had made it through.
