Between the Lines (10/17)
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“You teach, isn’t that right?” Paige asked as she poured three cups of coffee.
Jason nodded. “Yes, creative writing. And I study poetry.”
“Uncle Kevin’s.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re playing him in Cooper’s movie?” Paige asked, turning to Chad.
Chad looked surprised, and Paige laughed. “I may be an old woman in France, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely shut off from the world. Cooper wanted to move home, and I wanted to stay here, so we each signed off on our half of the two estates. But we keep each other informed.”
“Do you remember much about Kevin?” Jason asked.
“A very little,” Paige said, “but more than Cooper, I’m sure. He came to visit a few times after the war, but we were still young.”
“He and your mother were very close, I gather.”
Paige nodded. “They were. But that isn’t why he came to visit.”
Jason looked up, startled. “It isn’t?”
“No, he barely spent any time here. He would stay for a day or two and then leave again. On his ‘quest,’ my mother called it.”
“Quest? He was looking for something?”
“Not something. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
Paige looked off to the side, remembering. “Mom argued with him once, saying it was either completely destroyed or built over. But Uncle Kevin said he would recognize it when he saw it, no matter how much it might have changed.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“I’m afraid so. Well, except that he did, in fact, find whatever it was. It was the last time he was here. I remember him running into the house; it was the happiest I’ve ever seen him. And a few days after he left, we had word that he died.”
“Your mother never said anything?”
“No, but I remember her sobbing. I could only make out a few words, something about how at least they were finally together.”
“They?” Chad asked.
“He and his wife, I imagine,” Paige said.
Jason and Chad looked at each other skeptically.
***
Kevin found a quiet corner of the base camp. It was mail day, and he had received something from Scotty. Kevin barely wrote to his family anymore; any spare paper and time went to writing letters for Scotty. He’d consider each word carefully. On the surface, the letters were nothing but a few friendly lines between two men who formed an attachment during war. Sometimes, he’d include a short, amusing poem. But if you paid closer attention - and judging by Scotty’s own measured responses, he did - much deeper feeling could be seen, and the words of love and devotion shone through. Because they were both moving up and down the European countryside under some pretty hectic conditions, he was never sure if or when Scotty would get his next letter, or when he would hear from Scotty. So he would savor each letter he received, treasure it and reread it over and over until he got the next, finding nooks and crannies inside his pack so he could hoard them all.
But it turned out that day was the last time he received a letter from Scotty. At the next mail call, Kevin’s name wasn’t shouted. Kevin, of course, didn’t think much of it, at first. Until the next one and the next one. Kevin got letters from Kitty and Sarah and Tommy (now home, discharged with only one leg left). He got a letter from Rebecca, responding to his note of sympathy. But nothing from Scotty. And then, one day, the last letter he had written to Scotty was returned, undeliverable.
Kevin tried as he could to casually find out what happened. No one seemed to know anything, unfortunately. Then, two weeks later, a ground troop passed through their base, some of whom had fought in the same recent battle as Scotty. It was then Kevin found out that three-quarters of the unit had been killed in the skirmish, while the rest were being held prisoners of war.
“A friend of mine was in that unit,” Kevin asked his informant, trying to hide his worry. “Do you know what happened to him - Scotty Wandell?”
The man was silent for a moment. “The Canadian, right?”
“Yes, his father is from Canada.”
“I’m sorry. They got him.”
“He’s been captured?”
“No. I mean…I mean, he’s dead.”
***
“Here, Chad. You can stay in my mother’s old room. And Jason, this guest room here is where Kevin would stay. I thought you would like that.”
“Very much, thank you.”
Jason glanced quickly at Chad, but not quick enough to avoid Paige’s sharp eyes. “Unless you two would prefer one...” she said leadingly.
“Oh, no. This is fine,” Chad said quickly. “Thank you again for letting us stay here.”
“Of course. Good night,” Paige said graciously as she walked away.
Jason entered the bedroom, closing the door before Chad could say anything to him. He looked around the room, trying to imagine Kevin Walker in it 50-odd years earlier. He took one step further in, running a hand along an old roll-top desk. Then he sighed.
Almost an hour later, Jason was still awake. He had bypassed his usual strategy of reading Kevin’s published poems and was now focusing on his copy of the unfinished poem again. He rested his fingers on the words in front of him. There were only a few phrases, crossed out and rewritten several times. All that had ever survived were these early drafts. Travis disregarded them entirely, and Jason sometimes suspected he was right - that the lines really didn’t mean anything. And other times, like now, he couldn’t escape the feeling that this poem was more important than all the others.
“’A church in the country,’” Jason mused aloud. “Then he scratched that out and wrote ‘cathedral.’ And specified it was France. Something about ‘a haven, a retreat.’ Retreat - could that be implying something related to the war? And what is the ‘secret confession no priest would ever hear?’”
Jason groaned impatiently, dropping his arm down onto the bed next to him. He paused for a while, listening to the silence. The suddenly-broken silence. Jason turned his head sharply to the right as there was a second soft knock on his door. He climbed out of bed, hurried over and pulled the door open.
Chad pushed past him. “Quick, close the door!” he said.
“What are you doing?” Jason asked in surprise, trying to ignore that Chad apparently chose to sleep shirtless that night.
“So I, uh…I was looking through the bookshelves over there - ”
“You were snooping?”
“No! Yes. But don’t get offended until I tell you what I found.”
Jason stared at him for a moment, warring with himself. “What did you find?” he finally asked.
Chad held up an old, dusty book that clearly hadn’t been read for years before that night. “Sarah Walker Laurent’s diary. From 1956,” Chad informed him triumphantly.
“The year Kevin died?” Jason asked slowly.
Chad nodded.
“Does she write about his visit?”
Chad nodded again, a smile coming to his face.
Grief (1952)
I see you everywhere.
In a warm winter morning, of course,
When the snow is melting,
And clouds drift across the blue sky.
I hear you in a child’s laugh,
And a lover’s sigh.
I feel your touch in the soft breeze when I close my eyes.
I listen to your voice, hiding in the call of birds
And behind the rumble of engines
That just barely cover your whispered promises of forever,
I see you everywhere.
In the person rushing across the street,
Clutching a coat against the driving rain.
I see you in the crisp paper in front of me.
I taste you in sips of aged wine.
I smell you in brewing coffee and roasting meat.
I see you everywhere,
But I cannot mourn you.
For you are too long gone,
And all others would say -
Those people who never knew love like ours -
That I should have moved on.
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“You teach, isn’t that right?” Paige asked as she poured three cups of coffee.
Jason nodded. “Yes, creative writing. And I study poetry.”
“Uncle Kevin’s.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re playing him in Cooper’s movie?” Paige asked, turning to Chad.
Chad looked surprised, and Paige laughed. “I may be an old woman in France, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely shut off from the world. Cooper wanted to move home, and I wanted to stay here, so we each signed off on our half of the two estates. But we keep each other informed.”
“Do you remember much about Kevin?” Jason asked.
“A very little,” Paige said, “but more than Cooper, I’m sure. He came to visit a few times after the war, but we were still young.”
“He and your mother were very close, I gather.”
Paige nodded. “They were. But that isn’t why he came to visit.”
Jason looked up, startled. “It isn’t?”
“No, he barely spent any time here. He would stay for a day or two and then leave again. On his ‘quest,’ my mother called it.”
“Quest? He was looking for something?”
“Not something. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
Paige looked off to the side, remembering. “Mom argued with him once, saying it was either completely destroyed or built over. But Uncle Kevin said he would recognize it when he saw it, no matter how much it might have changed.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“I’m afraid so. Well, except that he did, in fact, find whatever it was. It was the last time he was here. I remember him running into the house; it was the happiest I’ve ever seen him. And a few days after he left, we had word that he died.”
“Your mother never said anything?”
“No, but I remember her sobbing. I could only make out a few words, something about how at least they were finally together.”
“They?” Chad asked.
“He and his wife, I imagine,” Paige said.
Jason and Chad looked at each other skeptically.
***
Kevin found a quiet corner of the base camp. It was mail day, and he had received something from Scotty. Kevin barely wrote to his family anymore; any spare paper and time went to writing letters for Scotty. He’d consider each word carefully. On the surface, the letters were nothing but a few friendly lines between two men who formed an attachment during war. Sometimes, he’d include a short, amusing poem. But if you paid closer attention - and judging by Scotty’s own measured responses, he did - much deeper feeling could be seen, and the words of love and devotion shone through. Because they were both moving up and down the European countryside under some pretty hectic conditions, he was never sure if or when Scotty would get his next letter, or when he would hear from Scotty. So he would savor each letter he received, treasure it and reread it over and over until he got the next, finding nooks and crannies inside his pack so he could hoard them all.
But it turned out that day was the last time he received a letter from Scotty. At the next mail call, Kevin’s name wasn’t shouted. Kevin, of course, didn’t think much of it, at first. Until the next one and the next one. Kevin got letters from Kitty and Sarah and Tommy (now home, discharged with only one leg left). He got a letter from Rebecca, responding to his note of sympathy. But nothing from Scotty. And then, one day, the last letter he had written to Scotty was returned, undeliverable.
Kevin tried as he could to casually find out what happened. No one seemed to know anything, unfortunately. Then, two weeks later, a ground troop passed through their base, some of whom had fought in the same recent battle as Scotty. It was then Kevin found out that three-quarters of the unit had been killed in the skirmish, while the rest were being held prisoners of war.
“A friend of mine was in that unit,” Kevin asked his informant, trying to hide his worry. “Do you know what happened to him - Scotty Wandell?”
The man was silent for a moment. “The Canadian, right?”
“Yes, his father is from Canada.”
“I’m sorry. They got him.”
“He’s been captured?”
“No. I mean…I mean, he’s dead.”
***
“Here, Chad. You can stay in my mother’s old room. And Jason, this guest room here is where Kevin would stay. I thought you would like that.”
“Very much, thank you.”
Jason glanced quickly at Chad, but not quick enough to avoid Paige’s sharp eyes. “Unless you two would prefer one...” she said leadingly.
“Oh, no. This is fine,” Chad said quickly. “Thank you again for letting us stay here.”
“Of course. Good night,” Paige said graciously as she walked away.
Jason entered the bedroom, closing the door before Chad could say anything to him. He looked around the room, trying to imagine Kevin Walker in it 50-odd years earlier. He took one step further in, running a hand along an old roll-top desk. Then he sighed.
Almost an hour later, Jason was still awake. He had bypassed his usual strategy of reading Kevin’s published poems and was now focusing on his copy of the unfinished poem again. He rested his fingers on the words in front of him. There were only a few phrases, crossed out and rewritten several times. All that had ever survived were these early drafts. Travis disregarded them entirely, and Jason sometimes suspected he was right - that the lines really didn’t mean anything. And other times, like now, he couldn’t escape the feeling that this poem was more important than all the others.
“’A church in the country,’” Jason mused aloud. “Then he scratched that out and wrote ‘cathedral.’ And specified it was France. Something about ‘a haven, a retreat.’ Retreat - could that be implying something related to the war? And what is the ‘secret confession no priest would ever hear?’”
Jason groaned impatiently, dropping his arm down onto the bed next to him. He paused for a while, listening to the silence. The suddenly-broken silence. Jason turned his head sharply to the right as there was a second soft knock on his door. He climbed out of bed, hurried over and pulled the door open.
Chad pushed past him. “Quick, close the door!” he said.
“What are you doing?” Jason asked in surprise, trying to ignore that Chad apparently chose to sleep shirtless that night.
“So I, uh…I was looking through the bookshelves over there - ”
“You were snooping?”
“No! Yes. But don’t get offended until I tell you what I found.”
Jason stared at him for a moment, warring with himself. “What did you find?” he finally asked.
Chad held up an old, dusty book that clearly hadn’t been read for years before that night. “Sarah Walker Laurent’s diary. From 1956,” Chad informed him triumphantly.
“The year Kevin died?” Jason asked slowly.
Chad nodded.
“Does she write about his visit?”
Chad nodded again, a smile coming to his face.
Grief (1952)
I see you everywhere.
In a warm winter morning, of course,
When the snow is melting,
And clouds drift across the blue sky.
I hear you in a child’s laugh,
And a lover’s sigh.
I feel your touch in the soft breeze when I close my eyes.
I listen to your voice, hiding in the call of birds
And behind the rumble of engines
That just barely cover your whispered promises of forever,
I see you everywhere.
In the person rushing across the street,
Clutching a coat against the driving rain.
I see you in the crisp paper in front of me.
I taste you in sips of aged wine.
I smell you in brewing coffee and roasting meat.
I see you everywhere,
But I cannot mourn you.
For you are too long gone,
And all others would say -
Those people who never knew love like ours -
That I should have moved on.
Next Chapter
Main Page