Secrets of the Red Box (19 page)

Again Glen raised his hand. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, scratching his forehead, “but I
won’t be in town long enough for any of that.”
“Oh. Well, then here is the hotel,” he said, circling the map. “You’ll have no trouble finding it.”
Glen pulled the map between his thumb and forefinger, bowing it in half with the motion.
“Thanks for your help.”
“No trouble, Corporal. Welcome home.”
Glen smiled and stuffed the map into his pocket. “Thanks,” he replied as he turned from the
counter. He left the depot and headed left for Main Street. The hotel wasn’t far, and Glen sighed as
he entered the hotel lobby. He was more tired than he initially thought, and decided he’d take a nap
before contacting Amy.
Glen liked the dark Spanish leather chairs and overstuffed velour furniture of the lobby. Palm
and fern stands anchored sections of sitting arrangements atop colorful oriental rugs. His eyes
swept to an impressive painting of Indians astride their ponies that stood on a bluff. Dark red velour
drapes hung in rich swags over the windows, and on a fireplace mantel rested a sculpture of an
Alaskan dog team.
He checked in and procured a copy of the
Helena Daily Independent,
then went to his room on the
third floor. From his open window, Glen scanned the town. The ochre-colored rise of Mount
Helena stood at the southwest edge of the city, dotted with dense clusters of pine trees and rising up
from the city floor. In the distance to the west lay the purple-shadowed Scapegoat mountain range,
to the north the Big Belt range. Glen left the window open and took off his uniform. He sprawled
out on the comfortable bed without considering the time, sank into the mattress and closed his eyes,
feeling the slight breeze from the window skating across his body.
It was too quiet. He wasn’t used to it. It made him nervous, filled him with restlessness. He’d
grown used to the pounding of artillery, gunfire, exploding hand grenades, men shouting, screaming,
crying for their wives and mothers. The quiet seemed suddenly unbearable.
Glen was exhausted, but the silence drove him from the bed. He went to the bathroom and ran
some cool water. He splashed it onto his face and neck, dried off, and cursed. Flipping on the light
beside the bed, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He wasn’t sure he could go to
sleep—not for a while, anyway. It was far too late to call Amy. That would have to wait until the
morning.
He looked out the window and thought about Amy. He was here, in the same town, where even
now, she probably slept. He pictured her curled up in bed, her soft brown hair cascading across the
pillow, her full lips slightly parted as she breathed. He shook his head and forced the images from
his mind. Glen got dressed and went to find a drink.
///////
Glen awoke around ten in the morning and stumbled into the shower. The hot water eased his
aching head as he stood beneath its steady stream. He thought about meeting Amy and felt a
gnawing guilt in his stomach. He wanted Amy. He tried to argue with himself that he had no right to
her, no right to violate his friendship with Charlie. But Charlie was dead, and it was up to Glen to
console his grieving widow.
He cursed out loud and turned off the water. Why hadn’t he just mailed the letter to her? It
would have been so much simpler if he had. Glen snagged a towel and began drying off as he
berated himself for his selfish thoughts. He didn’t know Amy, he only knew
about
her. There was a
vast difference between the two. So why did he torture himself with wanting her? Maybe it wasn’t
Amy he wanted, but what she represented—what she had been to Charlie.
Glen pulled on his shirt and trousers. He looped the tie around his collar and tied it using a full
Windsor knot, fitting it in place with a tug. Tucking the shirt into his trousers, Glen fastened his belt
then reached for his shoes and socks. He slipped into his coat and caught a glimpse of himself in the
dresser mirror, saw the chest of medals and citations he’d earned during the war, the corporal stripes
at the shoulders, and the polished buttons of the jacket. For the striking image he cut in the mirror,
why did he feel so empty?
He had an early lunch at the hotel, praying it would give him enough strength to face Amy Larkin.
He was trying to keep his nerves from getting the better of him as he drew in a calming breath, held
it, and let it loose. She’d asked him to meet her at her apartment at noon and supplied him with
directions. She lived nearby, only two blocks west of the hotel. He’d been surprised at the tone of
her voice when he’d called. She seemed eager to meet him, told him she was happy to talk to
someone who’d known her husband.
Glen paced himself as he walked, so he wouldn’t arrive too soon, nor did he want to be late. He
licked his parched lips and stood outside the Mission Revival-styled Bonneville Apartment building
to check his watch. Glen absently fingered the letter in his coat pocket and swallowed. He went
inside and stepped onto the colorful mosaic tiles decorating the floor of what was once the West
Hotel. Amy was on the second floor. Finding the correct apartment number, Glen curled his hand
into a loose fist and rapped on the door.
He took off his cap and tucked it beneath his arm. He had to remind himself to stop holding his
breath as he waited for Amy to answer. When the door opened, Glen caught his breath again. Amy
smiled, her soft brown eyes inviting. Her chestnut hair was long and curled at the ends with a
sweeping bang that perfectly framed her face. She was lovely, he thought, even more so than the
picture Charlie carried with him.
She spoke first, Glen still numb with their meeting. “Glen?” she asked, extending her hand.
“Please, come in. I was so surprised to hear from you.” Glen took her hand and shook his tongue
loose. “Hi, Amy,” he said, making his way inside the apartment.
Amy motioned him toward a chair. “I feel as though I already know you. Charlie’s letters talked
about you all the time. Glen said this, and Glen did that, and Glen…” She broke off and sat down
on the sofa opposite him. “Well, he thought very highly of you. He looked up to you.”
Glen smiled and skimmed his eyes over the small apartment. It was furnished with family handme-downs, sparse of extras and knick-knacks. On the table near the window sat a framed picture of
Charlie in his uniform. He looked so dashing, so young and innocent. There was a sparkle in
Charlie’s eyes that even the camera caught, and Glen had to force himself to look away.
Amy pointed at him and smiled. “You
do
have dimples,” she said with a half laugh. “Charlie
wrote me about them.”
Glen blushed now and rubbed a dimple with his fingers as if he could smudge it away. “I, uh, do
have dimples, yes, I’m sorry to say.”
“Sorry?” she said. “You shouldn’t be. I rather like them.”
He blushed again, and Amy reached for a pot of coffee she had prepared and placed on the side
table. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked, taking a cup from the tray.
“Sure,” he said, finding his nerves calming a bit with her pleasant way.
“I wish you’d let me know sooner that you were coming to Helena.” She handed him the coffee.
“I would have made arrangements to meet you at the depot, had a place for you to stay.”
Glen took the offered cup and scooped a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want you to go to any
trouble. I knew you’d be thoughtful that way.”
“Did you?” she asked, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “Well, it wouldn’t have been any trouble.”
Glen tugged at his necktie and eased it back from the collar. He felt a knot of apprehension
settle in his gut, one that had been growing since the day before. She was so beautiful, so alluring to
him. He fought back his urge to touch her and reminded himself why he had come. He knew she’d
want to know how Charlie died, what he’d said, what had happened afterward. He knew she’d
probably cry and he would be the cause of it, dredging up fresh salt to grind into her wounded heart.
He’d hurt her again, he imagined, and he didn’t like the thought of that.
“How have you been?” Glen asked. He winced and wished he hadn’t asked her such a stupid
question.
Amy took a sip of coffee and waited a moment before she spoke. “I’m okay,” she said, her
words softened with sadness. “I just take one day at a time.” She sipped again as if to still the
shaking in her voice. “We talked about it…before Charlie left…just in case he…” She sipped again.
“I can’t say I was prepared for it, but, well, it’s something that never leaves the back of your
mind…that your husband might not come home.”
Glen felt a crushing weight land on his chest. How he wished it had been him who’d died
instead of Charlie. “Amy,” he said as he set down his cup, “I have a letter for you.” He braced
himself as he retrieved it from his pocket. “Charlie asked me to deliver it in person.” He saw his
hand trembling as he extended the letter toward her, and for the first time he noticed some dried
blood on the back of the envelope. It was Charlie’s blood. His heart lurched as she took the letter,
too late to do anything about the stain.
Amy’s eyes welled with tears as she placed the envelope in her lap. “I’ll read it later…when I’m
alone…” She looked at Glen, and for a moment their eyes locked in shared sorrow. Amy bit her lip
in an effort to force back her tears. “Charlie never had a better friend, Glen. I know this can’t be
easy for you…”
Glen scrubbed his face with some annoyance. It couldn’t be easy for her either, he thought. “I
was happy to honor his wish, that’s all. He was the best friend I ever had.”
Amy picked up the coffee pot and topped off Glen’s cup. “How did it happen? How did he
die?”
“You don’t know?” he asked with some surprise.
Amy shook her head. “The telegram only stated that he’d been killed in action.”
“You didn’t get a letter from the CO?”
She shook her head again. “Should I have?”
Glen huffed out a breath. “Not necessarily. Some wrote the families, some didn’t.”
He had to make a decision. He could tell Amy the truth, that Charlie died on the last day of the
war, beneath a collapsed balcony, saving the lives of three prostitutes, or he could tell her he died a
war hero, had given his life for a comrade. The truth didn’t seem a fitting way to die in a war. He
believed Amy deserved a memory that would honor her late husband as a warrior. It didn’t take
Glen much deliberation before he began to speak. He hoped he was helping Amy.
Glen stared at the coffee in his cup, then forced himself to look at her. “We were advancing just
outside Verona. We were taking some fire. One of our guys got hit, and Charlie took off after him.
The guy was hurt pretty bad, but Charlie managed to get him to his feet. He was bringing him back
where we were dug in when Charlie got hit.”
Amy pressed her fingers to her lips, tears staining her cheeks. Glen couldn’t take the look of pain
spreading over her face. He pushed himself to complete the story. “I got to him just as the medic
arrived. He didn’t suffer, Amy. I promise you that. And he died a hero.”
Amy swiped at her eyes. “Did the man make it? The one Charlie saved?”
Glen suddenly wished he’d just told her the truth. He weighed the option of telling her the man
lived, that Charlie saved his life, but then she might want to know his name, write him a letter, call
him, something, and the man didn’t exist. “He died the next day. He’d lost too much blood, but that
doesn’t mean Charlie wasn’t a hero. It took a lot of courage to do what he did.”
Amy nodded, her eyes rimmed in red now. “And you were with him at the end…when he…”
“Yes,” Glen said quietly. “He gave me your letter and asked me to bring it to you. The last thing
he said was, tell Amy I love her…”
“Where was he buried?”
Glen felt as if his insides were being carved out of him with a dull knife. “We buried him in a
little church cemetery there in the village. He had a proper funeral, Amy. We sent his buri al location
on and he’ll be returned to you eventually. He’ll come home to his final resting place here.”
Amy’s chin began to quiver and she burst into sobbing tears. Glen didn’t know what to do. He’d
been afraid this would happen. He pushed himself up from the chair and went to her. Sitting beside
Amy, he draped his arm around her shoulder. She turned to him, laid her head against his chest, and
wept. Glen pulled her close, his arms holding her tight. He could think of nothing to say that would
comfort her, nothing that would ease her pain. But having her in his arms was weakening his will
and he felt himself trembling.
“I loved him so much…” she sobbed. “So much…”
Glen stroked her hair. It smelled of lavender and felt like strands of silk beneath his finge rs. He
was holding the woman Charlie had loved, the woman who adored Charlie. In that moment, he
knew he could take advantage of her vulnerability. He could sample what Charlie had known, taste
her lips, feel her body beneath him. He could tell when she looked up at him that he could taste her
lips right now, that she wouldn’t push him away. But he couldn’t do it. He had no right to Amy, not
even if she was willing—no matter how much he wanted her.
Glen withdrew from her, pushed her gently back as he got to his feet. “I’d better go,” he said
abruptly, reaching for his cap. He had to leave now before it was too late.
Amy gave him a beseeching look. “No, please don’t…not yet…”
Glen went to the door. “I’d better go, Amy. If I don’t, I might regret it.”
She held out her hand and walked toward him. “Please, Glen, stay…”
He glanced to Charlie’s picture, feeling his presence in the room. It was enough to cool off his
rising passion. “I’m sorry, Amy. I can’t.”
Glen closed the door behind him, left the building, and turned at the corner, veering from the
route he’d taken to the apartment. All he wanted was distance now, and a way to assuage his guilt.
He felt as if he’d somehow betrayed Charlie, not in actions, but at least in thought. He wanted Amy,
and he knew he could have had her. But not this way. She was lonely and hurt, and the only
connection between them was a dead man. Amy deserved better, and so did he.

Bonnie heard footsteps overhead. She looked at her watch—it was a little before eight o’clock.
Why were Don and Irene up so early on a Sunday morning? Baby Girl stirred from her pillow as
Bonnie rolled over to get up. The kitten mewed, stretched her front legs out until they we re twice
the length of her body, then jumped down.