Chapter 25
I retire to the covered couch. The lingering excitement from the firebomb, the creature, our flight from Cleo’s Clam House, has finally drained away, and I find myself unable to keep my eyes open.
I drift for a bit, Adrian’s warm voice wandering in and out of my consciousness as he speaks on the phone, until he gently shakes me.
I blink rapidly and sit up. “Did you reach Dr. Werner?”
“I did. He’s going to dinner, then has an evening lecture.
But we can meet him after, at nine o’clock in his office in the Main Building off Washington Square.
” He pats my knee. “I’m going to call the hospital to check on George, maybe make a couple of other calls while I’m at it. Why don’t you go wash up?”
I retreat to the bathroom and find myself once again fighting the impulse to avoid the mirror. Too wrung out to battle my own mind, I keep my eyes averted as much as possible while scrubbing the soot from my hands, neck, face, and hair.
When I return to the living room, Adrian is hanging up the phone. “George is in surgery,” he reports. “Cleo’s going to arrange for some fresh clothes for us. In the meantime, I think a nap will serve us best, eh?”
Any soldier soon learns to get rest whenever the opportunity presents itself. “I can stretch out on the couch.”
“No need—we’ll throw a couple of extra sheets over the bed and sleep in comfort. It’s a big bed,” he adds. “Cleo grew up having to share what was little more than a cot with two of our sisters, so the room to spread out is a necessity rather than an indulgence in her mind.”
I should probably demur, but I don’t. He offers me a hand and pulls me off the soft couch. For a moment, we’re startlingly close, almost chest to chest. So near, I can see that his brown eyes have a corona of dark gold around the pupil. My heart beats faster and my mouth goes dry.
He steps back and lets go of my hand. A bit disappointed, I follow him to the bedroom, which is sumptuously appointed: Persian carpets on the floor, rich curtains blocking the lone window, a French-colonial style bed, and a vanity covered with powders, creams, and perfume bottles.
We spread an extra sheet from the linen closet over the satin bedcovers, then add a second to cover ourselves.
Adrian begins to casually remove his suit, and I force myself to look away.
When I glance back, he’s down to his undershirt and drawers.
“Cleo will have someone to clean our suits,” he says.
“I’ll pay her back, don’t worry about that. ”
I unbutton my shirt, telling myself I’m being foolish. I was in the army, for heaven’s sake, used to being around men in various states of undress. There’s no reason for my pulse to quicken or my hands to tremble.
When I’m down to my underthings, I hand my suit to Adrian, who says, “I’m just going to fold these on the couch, then clean up a bit myself. Try to get some sleep.”
I lie down facing the wall and pull up the second sheet. Closing my eyes, I resolutely tell myself to sleep. Water runs in the bathroom, then the mattress sinks beneath Adrian’s weight. I listen to his breathing for a while, then shoot a glance back over my shoulder, even though I know I shouldn’t.
He’s only pulled his side of the covers up to his waist. The undershirt clings to his muscular shoulders, and I find myself fascinated with the strip of skin exposed between its collar and his hairline.
I wonder what his warm brown skin tastes like, whether a soft breath on the back of his neck would make him shiver or moan.
My thoughts are getting out of hand. I face the wall and squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think about the man on the other side of the bed. The man I could easily reach if I just rolled over.
Eventually, my pulse slows enough for me to slip into sleep. My dreams give me little rest, however, quickly becoming nightmares.
I’m back in France, slogging through what was once a forest. Shattered trunks protrude from earth churned into gray muck.
I’m covered in mud after hiding in holes whenever the whistle of shells comes from above.
There’s even grit between my teeth, and I try to spit it out, knowing the mud is mixed with human flesh and blood atomized by the shells.
Emerson is beside me. Older than me by a year, but just as inexperienced when it comes to warfare. Except this is the dead version of him, the one who appeared out of the fog while I stood watch, his eyes glowing with hellish light.
I try to flee from him, but the sucking mud clings to my boots.
Then, as happens sometimes in dreams, the setting changes.
The mud becomes stone, and I’m no longer trudging, but gliding smoothly up a long ramp to the top of a ziggurat.
At the top waits a terrifying creature with five great, multi-faceted eyes, a long trunk-like appendage lifted as if in greeting…
“Sterling, wake up.”
My eyes fly open. I’m still lying on my side, facing the wall, but Adrian’s hand rests on my upper arm. “What?” I ask groggily.
“Sorry, you were moaning in your sleep.”
I roll onto my back to find Adrian propped on an elbow over me. His expression is one of commiseration; perhaps the war left him with disordered dreams as well.
I try to recall the creature I glimpsed, but it’s already fading into a confused impression of eyes and trunk. The tusked horror at Cleo’s must have inspired my damaged mind to invent it to torment my dreams.
“It was nothing,” I say. “The usual nightmares.”
He smiles down at me, and I’m suddenly aware of our position. In a bed, separated by inches. Him over me. I could reach up and draw him down so easily…
A knock sounds at the front door.
Adrian rolls over in a single move and snags his gun from the floor beside the bed, where he must have left it when he laid down.
Holding it pointed at the floor, he stalks out of the bedroom, the thick carpet muffling his steps.
I follow him, pausing well back from the door while he peers out the peephole.
After a moment, his shoulders relax, and he unlocks and opens the door. “Harry! Did Cleo send you?”
The man who enters is a big fellow, though not quite as heavily muscled as George, holding a cowhide bag.
Like Cleo, his features bear an unmistakable resemblance to Adrian’s.
They hug each other, then Harry steps back and raises an eyebrow at Adrian’s attire—or rather, lack thereof.
“I guess you do need that suit Cleo asked me to get.” He glances at me. “Both of you.”
Heat rises to my face, as though we’ve been caught in a compromising position, even though it’s nothing of the sort.
“Thanks, Harry,” Adrian says. “Come on in, and I’ll make you something to eat once I’m dressed.”
“I don’t have the time. Next time you’re in the city, you’d best call me first. Are you going to see Mama?”
Adrian winces. “I doubt I’ll have the chance.”
“Then let’s hope she doesn’t notice the spare suit you store at her place is gone, or there’s going to be hell to pay for both of us.” Harry hands the cowhide bag over, tips his hat to me, and leaves without an introduction.
Adrian sighs and re-locks the door after him. “Harry thinks I need to find a wife and settle down, find something more respectable than working for an insurance company.”
“More respectable?” I ask. “It’s steady work, isn’t it? Certainly compared to Cleo’s.”
“Oh, he doesn’t approve of Cleo either, but knows better than to try and argue with her. Let’s just say Harry doesn’t hold insurance companies in high esteem.” Adrian waves the sentiment off and opens the bag. “Here.”
The dark blue suit, matching hat, fresh shirt, and underwear he hands me are familiar. “Wait—these are mine!”
“I passed your address along while I was on the phone with Cleo. She gave it to other people, who in turn know people who are good at getting in and out of apartments without being seen.” Adrian grins at my shocked look.
“Don’t worry about it, I didn’t see anything there worth stealing. No offense.”
“Offense taken,” I mutter, clutching my suit to my chest. “I’m going to get dressed.”
I retreat to the bedroom and, for the second time that day, try to put myself in order. The sun has set on the short fall day, and the clock on the wall indicates we have a bit over an hour to get to Washington Square and NYU’s Main Building.
Adrian’s suit is more somber than the one he wore before, not to mention several years out of date. Still, he seems to be one of those men who can look good in anything. For once, I’m more appreciative than envious.
We walk to the nearest El station only a few blocks west of Cleo’s apartment, both of us on the alert for anyone following us.
I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but that means little, considering the bustling nightlife all around.
Women have switched out day dresses for beads and T-strap heels, while the men wear wide-legged tuxedo trousers with silk stripes.
A touch of autumn chill hangs in the air, though the leaves in Central Park haven’t yet begun to fall.
I’m on edge until we board our train. Adrian chooses a seat all the way at the back of the final car, so no one can come up behind us. We keep a careful eye on everyone who boards afterward, but none of them seem to be paying us the slightest attention.
Eventually, we alight on 8th Street and walk the rest of the way to the university.
Though Washington Square is used for after-dark assignations, these streets are notably quieter than the ones in Harlem or Greenwich.
This time of night, few students or professors are about, and we have to knock on the great brass doors of the Main Building and summon a security guard to let us in.
Adrian slips him a folded bill, and he directs us to Dr. Werner’s office on an upper floor.
The office door stands open; when he sees us, Dr. Werner rises to his feet, a broad smile on his face.
He’s perhaps in his early sixties, his hair gray with a few strands of dark brown yet mixed in.
A thick beard brackets his smile, and he wears a sober tweed suit and gold-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Evans! Right on time.”