The End of Innocence (12 page)

Concord, Massachusetts

“Trust me,” said Riley loudly, over the noise of the idling engine. “You'll not have to say anything to her after you win. And to make her jealous, I'll kiss you when we win.”

Helen nearly choked. “You will not.”

“Yes, I will, and you'll like it. Now try turning the wheel.”

“You won't,” she mumbled. Her cheeks turned slightly pink as she wondered about whether she'd like his kiss. She shook off the thought and put both hands on the wheel trying to turn it. It felt as if she were lifting an entire trunk of clothes. She needed to concentrate, but it was difficult. The engine noise had been so loud she'd not been able to make much of the directions offered by the mechanic about a new brake system.

But by the time she decided she'd not want a kiss under any circumstance, she heard Caroline's voice erupt in anger over the cars' loud engines. To Helen's surprise, Caroline exited her car and gave Frank a cold glance.

She couldn't hear a thing being said, but suddenly Mrs. Darlington appeared. Helen thought she looked like what Martin Luther must have pictured when he wrote “a bulwark never failing.”

She turned back and swallowed a smile as Caroline obediently got back in her car at the sight of her mother. All the engines were rumbling when Dr. Harris gave the signal.

“On your marks! Get set!”

Reverend Ames fired the signal gun.

“Go!” boomed Brooks. The race was on.

Ann's and Jane's cars purred off smoothly down the uneven dirt road. Dust blew in a small cloud behind each of them. Helen released her brakes, her car gave a little sputter, and then it stalled, jerking both her and Riley back and forth. The crowd laughed as the mechanics ran out to help start the car again.

“The car, Helen. Don't worry about them, Helen,” said Riley. Caroline's car hadn't moved either, and Frank looked miserable. “Give it a lot of fuel this time,” offered Riley. She tried it. The car lurched a few feet and over to one side and died again—in the path of lane number one, and the mechanic, who'd not left, cranked the engine again.

Caroline's car came roaring to life in that lane behind them as Riley looked up in horror. “We are going to die!”

“Not today!” said Helen, setting the car back into second gear and pulling hard on the wheel as fast as she could. Her car shot off like a bullet, to the cheers of the crowd she left behind.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

“Force of will,” she said with her eyes fixed on the road ahead. They rounded the first turn by the river, and there, beside a trove of golden-leaved trees, they passed car number three.

“Do Ann and Peter have a problem?”

Riley turned. “Peter's inspecting Ann's hand.”

“Hope she is all right,” said Helen. “But we have to catch Miss Billings.”

“Helen, I'm not sure the car can handle more speed on this uneven road.”

“Peter said that this car could go more than seventy miles per hour.”

“Rubbish. Not on a dirt road. Too dangerous.”

“But we have to go faster to win,” she said, speeding up while rounding the next turn, trying to close the distance with Miss Billings. “How will we get to the finish line if we don't drive?”

Riley grasped the back of her seat more firmly.

“Mr. Spencer!”

“No intimacy intended, Miss Brooks, but there's no door handle for me to hold on to and I must say I fear for my life right now more so than at any other times past.”

“Or times future?” she asked. “I heard you are enlisting in the British army?”

“I got my physical this week. I'm to go in a few weeks if things continue. Watch for the trees.”

The last stretch of the first lap was fairly straight. Miss Billings looked to be only two lengths ahead.

Helen sped up. The car began to shift in the grooves of the soft dirt.

Suddenly a loud pop came from Miss Billings's car ahead as a tire blew out. The car swerved directly in front of them. Helen pulled the steering wheel sharply and they ran off the track into the soft grass. The car immediately stalled out. Helen used all her strength to turn the steering wheel back to a neutral position.

But Riley jumped out and ran back to Jane's car. “Are you two all right?”

The passengers nodded. “We'll walk back,” called Robert.

“Not at all! We'll signal for help at the end of the race,” yelled Riley, running back to Helen's car.

Just then Caroline's car flew by. She passed the two stopped cars without a moment's hesitation.

“Riley, she didn't even stop!”

Riley cranked the engine again and they sped off. “That's damned uncharitable.
We
stopped.”

“We stopped because we were run off the road. Just catch up with her and watch your language.”

Helen bucked her car into a higher gear. The car began to hurtle toward Caroline and the distance began to close.

“Do you remember what the mechanic said about braking at high speeds?” said Riley.

“Did he say something about that? I've never driven a car before. I thought you were aware of that,” she said. Once again the car was starting to weave from side to side as dirt and rocks were kicked up behind them. But they were gaining on Caroline—just one length behind now.

“H-Helen, the car is going out of control!” he stammered as she sped even faster.

“Out of control but across the line first!”

“You must slow down!” he yelled as she jerked the car out of the grooves in the middle of the road and onto the wide arc of the grassy shoulder.

“If I slow, I won't win,” she said exuberantly as she swept cleanly past Caroline's car. She grimaced as she pulled the wheel hard to get back into the grooves in the middle of the track. Their car lunged forward through the tape.

The applause was audible over the engine's roar and Helen pulled the steering wheel hard to avoid running into the spindly chair legs of the announcers' seats.

“I won!” she said, amazed at the result.

But unfortunately, the car had not stopped. It bobbled over onto the green, where a servant was setting up the quilt auction.

“That woman!” said Riley.

Helen spied her not thirty yards ahead, bending down to pull quilts out of a trunk and quickly pulled the hand brake, but the car continued to coast.

“How does the car stop?” she cried.

“The brake! The brake!”

“I'm pulling it!” she said, starting to panic as the lever did nothing. “It's broken!”

“Stop the car! The other pedal!”

“There's another one?” she said, feeling around the floor with her foot.

“Yes! That's what the mechanic said! The car was fitted for this race with another one!”

“Where?” she asked.

“On the floor!” yelled Riley.

She looked up. Fifteen yards to the table. She started stepping on everything on the floor. The car jerked forward.

“I can't get anything to work!” Closer and closer they came.

“Helen, pull any lever you can find!”

The hood cover launched up. “That isn't it, Riley!”

Riley put his foot over on her side, where the pedals were covered with the lengths of her skirt. “This is going to hurt,” he said as he pounded his foot down.

“Ouch!” she squealed.

The car stopped abruptly, shaking Helen and Riley in their seats.

Riley looked up. “I'm so sorry, Helen.”

“I won, Riley!” she said, taking in a deep breath. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair was half fallen from its knot.

“Yes, you did!” he cheered.

“Helen! Helen! Hurrah!” called Peter as a large crowd ran out to the car. Dr. Harris squeezed through the group, holding a gleaming trophy overhead. A crowd rushed past Caroline toward her.

“A picture! A picture for the
Boston
Evening
Transcript
!” yelled a reporter.

“Wait, Helen!” said Riley. He jumped out of the red car, ran around to her side, and swept her from her seat into his arms.

Overcome with the joy of winning a race, of flying through the air faster than ever before on such a beautiful September day, she felt she would burst. But just as she wished he would put her down, he kissed her fully on her lips as the reporters' cameras flashed. She blushed deeply as he looked up from the embrace and gave an exuberant smile to a crowd that cheered them with many huzzahs.

And Helen, in the middle of all the attention, realized that she had just won something she did not want at all.

* * *

As the crowd dispersed, Wils approached the pair. His face was pale. “Riley, something has come up. I need to return to Cambridge.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Helen quickly. “Arnold Archer—”

His cold look silenced her. “Riley, I've got to go.”

“How will Helen get back?” asked Riley.

“I'll take her,” said a voice beside them. Helen withered under her father's angry glare.

She took his arm silently. The pair walked off in subdued silence as Riley glowered at Wils.

Harvard College

Helen's Great-Aunt Longworth's portrait, hung in the main foyer of Longworth Hall, scowled at her as she opened the door after her father returned her to campus. The thin-beaked Great-Aunt Longworth, dressed in a white ruffled cap, certainly did not kiss men of short acquaintance in her day, especially in front of the press.

As for the rest of the residents of Longworth Hall, much was made of the photograph published by the
Boston
Evening
Transcript
. Such lack of reserve was certainly not Boston. It hadn't helped that Riley had come by and left a conspicuous flower arrangement. Even Ann had treated her with distance, greeting her after the race with distant reserve. Helen tried to explain later in private that she'd not wanted the kiss, but felt it stupid as she spoke. She had, after all, brazenly asked Mr. Spencer to join her.

One act of charity gone completely awry!

She had a hard time pinning down her feelings for this young man. He was handsome and rich, and he had made her laugh. But his words—what had he actually said? Nothing of depth. Nothing stirring. She had the sense that he would say anything to avoid a disappointed look from a pretty girl. He'd spoil her rather than speak honestly. Riley was genial and that was it.

On the one hand, he'd been nothing but kind to her, and she didn't want to return the gift of such kindness with a cold shoulder. However, it was also harder to fall in love with a man who was constantly followed by others insisting you hear how terrible he was toward women. And it was even worse that he was rumored to be engaged, and she wasn't supposed to ask him about it.

How stupid she'd been to let him kiss her! She wasn't in love with him; she was only trying to be polite. And that was horribly unfortunate given what had publicly transpired. She could hear Ann scolding her now: “What if he wanted to give you the gift of the plague? Would you accept the plague out of politeness?” Best to avoid Mr. Spencer for the next few weeks.

The next morning Helen left for class early, avoiding the newspaper on the table by the door, angrily pulling on her gloves, and affixing to her head a wide-brimmed hat in hopes that it would shield her from prying eyes as she walked to the Harvard Union to meet her study group.

* * *

As Helen opened the large wooden door to the dining hall, she was hit by the caustic smell of soap and the heat of the room, which clung to the heavy wooden tables, despite the tall Gothic ceilings rising above. Her face broke into perspiration and tendrils of her hair, fallen from under the hat, clung to her skin as she looked around for Morris and Wils. It was still early and she felt a fine mess, jumpy and irritable as she walked to the far side of the nearly deserted dining hall. She placed her hat on a table by a window and pulled her hair back into place, pinning it tightly.

She opened the latch on the window and pushed it open, sticking her face over its sill. The window looked into a small garden, a sad bramble of roses and spindly ivy growing along a shaded brick wall. For several minutes she let the crisp outside air waft over her. Compared to the kitchens nearby, even this city air filled with factory dust smelled better.

After a few minutes, she felt someone's eyes on her, an odd sensation. Turning, she saw Wils standing at her table, as polished as an apple. His blond hair was in place, his blue crested jacket immaculate, white shirt starched. Even his shoes gleamed. Helen caught her breath. How long he had been standing there she did not know.

“Wils, you left so quickly yesterday,” she said, looking toward her hat. He'd placed his notebook beside it. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. In fact,” he said, with a kind smile, “better than all right. I've solved a riddle.”

“A riddle?” she asked, as he pulled out a chair and offered it to her.

“Do know about the death of my friend Max von Steiger?”

“Everyone does, I'm afraid,” she said as they both sat down. She felt herself blush.

He gave a half smile. “I guess that's so. I've been devastated by it. I've not felt this terrible since my father died when I was ten. But Max sent me a letter that I just received—he must have written it before he died—and that note has done me more good than any judgment that could be brought down upon Arnold Archer. I turned it over to my lawyer on Saturday and have a feeling things are going to get back on track.”

“But Max is—he's not coming back. How is it better?”

He gave a soft laugh. “You're right about that. But I thought I could have done something about it, prevented him from dying somehow. That I had failed him in some way. And I learned that I didn't. He actually wished me well.”

“So he wasn't a spy for the kaiser?”

“Max had…problems. But the fact that he wrote me was important because it shows that Arnold Archer indeed didn't kill him, which gave me great relief, especially during such a difficult time for Germans living in America. Yes, he sadly did take his own life and that's devastating. But he wished me to have peace. And I finally feel at peace with my friend because he said that he would be all right and that I'd not failed him. His blessing apparently meant a great deal to me,” he finished with an embarrassed cough.

“Where is that Morris Rabin anyway?” he said as his blue eyes glistened. “Morris is another good friend, but one with a penchant for being late.” He sat back in his chair and said nothing else.

“You have courage, Wils.”

Her hair curls around her face in such beauty
, he thought as he looked at her. “Courage?” he asked with that half smile again. “I've done nothing but tried to keep my head in this ordeal, and that none too successfully. Perhaps I should have seen more about what Max was up to or how difficult things were getting for him. But I just didn't want to acknowledge it.”

His tone had fallen to a whisper and he looked away. Suddenly the conversation halted and became difficult.

And yet he needed to know that his trouble was not over.

“I have some bad news, Wils, and I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to tell you. Arnold Archer asked me to say that you were a German spy.”

Wils closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Wils—”

“You told Archer you wouldn't help him, right?”

“That's right.”

“I am not America's enemy,” he said, and, before she could stop herself, Helen raised her finger to his lips, to gently silence him with her touch.

Her touch. Her fingers were warm and tender and sent a shock through his body.

She pulled back instantly and looked down at her books. The startled silence between them accentuated the clink of plates and the scraping of wooden chairs being rearranged around them as the Union began to fill.

“Will you be at the reading tonight?” he asked, scrambling for something to say. His skin felt on fire as she sat before him, her hair loose in a low knot, her long skirts so close to him that he could feel the heat of her body through them.

“Of course,” she said, looking across the hall. “Where is Morris? I thought he was joining us for this study group.”

“He's unusually late.”

They were silent again.

“Wils, why did you leave so quickly after the race on Saturday?”

“I had to get Max's letter to my lawyer.”

“But what—?”

“Yes?”

She drew a deep breath. “What if I told you I was kissed by someone on Saturday and on Sunday I wished I had not been?”

A smile appeared at the corners of his lips. “That kiss with Riley that's in the papers was a mistake?”

“Yes,” she whispered back.

A curious look came to his eyes. “I could have told you that.”

“You can't torment me about it any more than I have myself.”

“I'm creative.”

“Wils Brandl!”

His smile brightened her heart as he spoke. It was spring again, and she could smell the honeysuckle blooms, even in the caustic fumes of the Harvard Union.

“Wils! Helen! Sorry to have been so late!” came Morris's voice from the doors of the kitchens. “Not only are the Germans marching on Paris but the crooks who run this place scheduled me to work tonight during Copeland's reading!”

Wils grinned casually as Morris pulled up a chair, and Helen put on an outward show of being happy to see him. The talk was no more that day about Arnold Archer or a kiss in the newspaper, but about schoolwork and assignments and the hundreds of details that no longer mattered to either Wils or Helen.