Secrets of the Red Box (3 page)

“Oh, come now, you’re just being modest,” Bonnie encouraged.
“No,” Christine said, tracing the hem of her napkin. “I have two brothers and one sister. My
parents are still alive. I’ve lived here all my life. I went to Omaha High School, then to secretarial
school. I went to work for Johnson, Peck, and Sutter right after that and have been there ever
since.”
“But you know, there’s something to be said for that too,” Bonnie said with assurance. “You
know where you come from, who you are, and where you’re going.”
Christine huffed. “Where I’m going…that’s a good one. I don’t know where I’m going. I should
have married Joe when he asked me. Maybe I could have had his baby, you know? He would have
had something to fight for, someone to come home to…or at least
believed
he would come home to.
Now I just feel sort of lost.”
Bonnie suddenly grew rigid in her chair. She knew about rejection, about emotional pain. She
felt her gaze harden and her fingers tensed around her napkin. “Whether you’d married him or not,
you’d still be left alone. And as to having a baby, well, how much harder would it be for you to raise
it on your own if he doesn’t come home? And what guy wants to marry a widow with a child? No, I
think you were smart, really.”
“Maybe,” Christine conceded. “But at least he would have known…” A deep blush crept up her
neck. “Well, that he was loved.”
Bonnie let go a brittle laugh, one tainted with contempt. “Oh, don’t you worry about GIs
finding love. They find it every chance they get. Every port, every camp, with every girl who feels
sorry for them.”
Christine appeared shocked and couldn’t seem to find her tongue. Bonnie laughed with a
mocking tone.
Men are all alike—they use and then they leave. That’swhat they do…that’swhat they’re good at.
Bonnie shook her head. “Don’t be so naïve. You don’t know what men are really like. You don’t
know what they’re capable of.”
“Well, I know Joe,” Christine defended, “and he isn’t like that.”
Bonnie pursed her lips and nodded slowly. She didn’t want to say more. She didn’t want to tell
Christine how brutal men could be, how ugly and hateful. She didn’t want to tell her how a man
could knot his fist and beat a little girl into unconsciousness, how he could use his body as a
weapon.
The waiter placed a plate of sweet and sour pork in front of her. She peered at Christine and
smiled. “It looks delicious.”
///////

Bonnie got undressed and slipped into bed. She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes unready for
sleep, her thoughts unsettled. She felt a heaviness pressing down on her chest, a domineering weight
of darkness and gloom. It pushed the air from her lungs and seized her gut with its thick, probing
fingers until she felt unable to breathe. Her lips parted and she inhaled deeply as though she could
dislodge the weight, but when she exhaled it remained, pinning her to the mattress.

She thought about Christine and her unremarkable life, her unremarkably
normal
life. She envied
the woman for parents who loved her, for a home with walls papered in sanity. She imagined
Christine sitting at the kitchen table with her brothers and sister, eating Sunday breakfast together as
a family. She could see Christine’s mother smiling over a plate of pancakes and fussing over her
children’s manners. She thought of Christine in high school, imagining her circled with friends,
going to dances, giving parties. She thought about how Christine loved Joe, but let him go off to war
without her heart.

Christine’s life was so unremarkable that the thought of it stabbed Bonnie like a bitter reminder
of how different her life had been. Bonnie yearned for a life so normal. Tears burned her eyes and
she cursed the emptiness of her life, the ugliness, the dark shadows. Bonnie’s sobs became louder as
she pulled the pillow around her face. Her throat tightened, her lungs heaved, but she could not
dislodge the weight from her chest. It consumed her, swallowing her whole until she was lost in the
blackness of her soul.

She surrendered to sleep and dreamed about Christine and pancakes and Sunday afternoons.
Chapter 3

Italy 1945
Corporal Glen Taggart plodded along a dirt road carved into the Apennine mountainside. Ahead
of him walked fellow soldiers in single file or side by side as far as he could see. The rugged
mountains were scarred with outcroppings of rock and clusters of evergreens. The deciduous trees
had only begun to bud, their naked limbs rising stark and barren against the sky. To his left mounted
several stone houses, centuries old, built staggered up the incline. To his right a broken cart lay
abandoned alongside the road, one of its wheels missing. Two Italian men stood on top of a rock
fence, watching passively as the American soldiers tromped through their tiny village.
Glen’s feet felt numb after miles of walking, yet they continued to carry him forward. A heavy
pack weighed against his back, and he shifted his rifle to the other shoulder to relieve his tired arm.
He was filthy and exhausted after the month-long advance into northern Italy. His regiment had
breached the Gothic line once again after an earlier attack in the autumn of 1944.As they marched
toward Bologna, the Germans were in retreat.
Glen ached for rest, his body drained almost beyond endurance. But as long as the men in front
of him continued to move, so would he. Up the sloping road he pushed himself onward, praying
they would soon stop for the night. He focused on the dull throb in his head, the one he felt so
often now, right behind his eyes. He wondered if it would ever go away, waking with it every
morning as if it were his parasitic twin.
His throat was desert dry, his canteen nearly empty after the last time he’d sipped from it. He
yearned for a shower and a clean change of clothes, for a real bed and a decent hot meal. But all the
yearning in the world wouldn’t make it so. Glen pushed those thoughts aside and kept his eyes
focused on the line ahead, charting the slow progress it made.
He heard a scuffle of boots behind him and then his name. Recognizing the voice, he turned and
looked back at his friend, Charlie Larkin. “Hey, buddy,” he croaked, his throat too parched to sound
normal.
“I’ve been tryin’ to catch up,” Charlie wheezed, coming in step with Glen. “I got behind on
account of my blisters. I had to stop and change into some dry socks.” Charlie glanced up at the
cloudless sky. “I hope we make camp pretty soon.” He paused and then added, “I heard rumors that
we’ll get mail after we take Bologna.”
“Yeah?” Glen didn’t care about the mail. He had no one to write to, except immediate family.
Letters from his father and his Aunt Irene were welcome, but it wasn’t like Charlie who had a wife
back home. Charlie lived for her letters, and in a way, so did Glen. Charlie and Amy Larkin were
young, barely twenty years old—newlyweds, in fact. They were still in that foggy haze of new love,
when neither had a fault and could do no wrong. Glen hated to admit it, but he was jealous of the
couple.
The two men had formed a fast friendship during boot camp and had bonded as closely as
brothers. In fact, Charlie reminded Glen of his younger brother, Sam who was serving in the Navy.
He’d always felt protective of Sam, especially after their mother died when they were boys.
Five years older than Charlie, Glen was a level-headed man, cool under pressure. His dark eyes
rarely missed a thing, taking in the whole of every situation with his mind one step ahead, already
calculating the next move. Whenever Charlie was ready to race ahead, Glen would clamp his hand
on Charlie’s arm until the time was right. Glen had somehow made it his personal responsibility to
see Charlie through this war, to make sure he returned home to Amy.
Whenever mail found the men as they pressed through Italy, Charlie read his letters aloud to
Glen. He talked about Amy incessantly, sharing his memories, his hopes for the future. It wasn’t
long before Glen felt he knew as much about Amy as Charlie did. He knew where she was born,
that she had three sisters, that she had a scar on her left knee from falling off her bicycle when she
was eight years old. He knew she had light brown hair and soft brown eyes, and didn’t like milk. He
knew one of her front teeth was a little crooked and that Charlie loved it that way. He knew they
loved each other more than anything in the world. Glen only wished he had someone like Amy, had
ever loved a woman the way Charlie loved Amy.
Glen reached for his canteen and drained the last few drops of water from it. It wasn’t enough,
but even the taste of the metal-tainted liquid was welcome. When he shook out the last stubborn
dribble onto his tongue, he felt a nudge as Charlie handed over his own canteen. “Here,” he said.
“Have some more. We’ll be stopping soon.”
Glen felt a surge of fondness for his friend. He took the offered canteen and swallowed a long
draw. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. “Your feet okay?”
Charlie hunched a shoulder and grimaced. “I’ll live. Times like these, Iwish I’d joined the Navy
or the Air Corp—a lot less walking, I’ll bet.”
“When I get back to Omaha, I want to sit on the front porch for about a million years—not take
one step.”
Charlie nodded in sympathy. “When I get home, I want the biggest, thickest steak Ican find,
with about an inch of fat all the way around.”
Glen shot him a grin. As he turned his gaze back to the road, he noticed a medium-sized dog
limping on his front paw. “Hey, look at that,” Glen said, pointing to the wounded creature. He had a
soft spot for animals, and the sight of the tawny-colored dog in obvious pain was too much for him
to ignore.
“He looks pretty bad,” Charlie said. “Bet he stepped on something.”
Shrugging off his pack, Glen crouched low and coaxed the dog forward with a soft, gentle voice,
patting his knee. The dog paused, his injured foot suspended above the ground. “Here, boy,” Glen
said, tapping his knee again. “Let me help.”
The dog cocked his head and raised one floppy ear.
“
Venire
—come,” Glen said in his limited Italian. The dog inched forward, wary but interested in
the stranger. Glen reached into his breast pocket and took out a piece of hard candy, hoping he
might entice the dog into thinking he had a treat. “
Venire
.”
The dog scented the air, and Glen suspected the dog was too smart to fall for his ploy. He
continued to hold out the candy, patting his knee. Gradually, the dog moved toward him, extending
his neck, sniffing as he did. As the dog took a cursory lick of the candy, Glen wrapped his free arm
around the dog’s middle. “Good boy,” he breathed, hoisting the animal into his arms. “You like
butterscotch, huh?”
Charlie stood at the side of the road with registered surprise. “Good job.”
Glen gingerly lifted the dog’s injured paw to examine it. There was some dried blood matted in
the fur, and the large pad of his foot had two deep lacerations. “
Buona,
” he murmured consolingly.
“Good dog.”
“Is he hurt bad?” Charlie asked.
Glen shook his head. “Nah, I think we can help him.”
“Maybe he lives around here?”
“Who knows? With all the bombing and shelling, he could have run off from anywhere.”
Charlie raised his hand toward the dog for him to sniff. “You’re okay now, boy. You just met
the best friend you’ll ever have,” he said, looking at Glen with admiration.
Glen offered the dog to Charlie. “Hold him while I get my stuff.”
Glen replaced his pack, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and had the dog back in his arms in a
matter of seconds. The dog wagged his tail and licked Glen’s chin. He laughed and turned his face
from the dog’s slobbery tongue. “You’re welcome, and I like you too.”
As he rejoined the progression of men, Glen felt his mood lighten. Rescuing the stray had given
him a sense of renewed energy. It was good to know he could aid the little dog, especially since he
could do so little for so many of his wounded and dead comrades. It might have been a small thing,
but to Glen, it felt like he’d accomplished something wonderful.
After they made camp, Glen untied the dog from the tether he’d attached to a tree and picked
him up. “Now let’s see what we can do, huh?” he said into the dog’s floppy ear. “We’ll have you
good as new.”
The dog licked his cheek and Glen chuckled. “Okay, okay.”
Glen sat on the ground beside some things he’d readied, including his helmet full of water and
some bandaging and ointment he’d begged from the medic. He’d told the medic it was for his sore
feet. The sun was fading quickly over the shadowed mountains, so he had to work fast. As a
diversion, he’d opened his ration of beans and offered it to the dog, holding the can in one hand
while he lowered the dog’s injured foot into the helmet of water. The animal lapped at the beans,
barely taking time to chew, and didn’t seem to care about his foot.
Glen stroked his wetted fingers down the dog’s leg to loosen the dried dirt and blood. He spoke
softly to the animal as he did, shaking the beans forward in the can. “Hungry, aren’t you, boy? Sure.
I’ll bet you’re pretty far from home too. So am I.”
When the dog had emptied the can, Glen lifted the paw to see how it looked. The lacerations
were deep and raw and probably would have benefited from a couple of stitches. He was fairly
certain he couldn’t beg the medic for sutures, so the salve and bandages would have to do.
Carefully, Glen tipped the dog onto its back and cradled him in his lap. He was surprised at how
complacent the animal seemed, relaxing against Glen’s legs and blinking sleepily at him. “That’s it,”
he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Glen set to work. He dried the foot, then gingerly applied the ointment. It was amazing how the
animal remained prone, didn’t try to struggle or growl. As Glen began to wrap the foot securely with
the gauze bandaging, he couldn’t help but think that maybe the dog was as tired of the war as he
was. Maybe, for a moment at least, the two of them felt safe together. Glen realized how good it felt
to hold something alive in his arms. He couldn’t count the number of soldiers he’d cradled in their
final moments of life, how many men he’d watched die beside him. Now, this simple demonstration
of trust filled his eyes with tears.
Glen placed the dog carefully on its feet and stretched out on his bedroll. Turning onto his side,
Glen patted the empty space beside him. The dog took a tentative step, suspending the injured paw
in the air, then curled up beside him and rested his head on the crook of Glen’s arm. Glen stroked
the animal’s dusty fur and scratched behind his floppy ears.
Charlie lowered himself beside Glen and gave a brief smile. “Looks like he’s going to be all
right.”
Glen nodded, the fading light slipping into inky darkness. “I think so.”
“You kind of reminded me of my mom,” Charlie said, leaning back against his bedroll. “I mean,
the way you were taking care of the dog just now. She sure fixed me up plenty of times. Did yours?”
“Did mine what?” Glen asked, stroking the dog’s head.
“Your mom. Did she patch you up when you got hurt?”
Glen didn’t answer right away. It always upset him to think about his mother. “Sure, I guess. She
died a long time ago. My Aunt Irene pretty much raised me after that.”
Charlie stretched out on his blankets, the stray lifting his head as a cautionary measure. “It’s
okay, boy,” he said to the dog. “I’m just getting settled.”
There was a moment of silence between the two men, though around them were muffled
conversations, occasional bursts of laughter, the sound of spoons clanking into cans of beans.
Charlie clasped his hands behind his head. “How’d she die?”
Glen felt the oppressive weight of guilt settle on his chest. “She fell and broke her neck.”
Even in the dusky light, Glen could see Charlie’s eyes widen. “Gee. That’s awful. How’d it
happen?”
He closed his eyes and could see it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, the sight of his
mother’s body heaped at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes staring into oblivion. He could still feel
the cold, sick sensation groping its way into his stomach, could smell the dankness of the cellar, hear
the groaning of the furnace as his mother lay there, still and broken.
Glen pulled his concentration to the feel of the stray’s grimy fur beneath his fingers. “Go to
sleep, Charlie. This quiet might not last.”
Closing his eyes, Glen stroked the dog, pushing back the memories of his mother. How often he
wished she were still alive, had been there for him as he grew up. How he missed the sweetness of
her voice, the gentle laugh she so easily shared, the way she ran her fingers through his tousled hair.
But it was his fault she was dead, his fault she laid at the bottom of the cellar stairs.
When Glen awoke the next morning, the dog was gone. He sat up, looking around the camp,
searching for his new friend. He scrambled to his feet, frantic to find the stray. Men were already
securing their bedrolls, attempting a dry shave, and opening more cans of beans for breakfast. Glen
whistled, hoping the dog would come to him. When there was no sign of the animal, Glen’s heart
sank. Although he knew it was foolish, he’d believed he could keep the dog with him, could
somehow protect him as he did Charlie. He realized the idea was completely impractical—still, deep
down, he wished it were so.
As he returned to pick up his bedroll, Glen felt a stinging loss. It was stupid, he knew, but he
couldn’t help it. It was only a dumb dog, only a wounded stray,but it felt as if it were more than that.
For all the endless months of death and loss he’d experienced, this one incident brought him a sense
of hope, that not everything was doomed to die in this tragic war, that at least
something
might make
it through another day. But with the dog’s disappearance, he’d lost that moment of comfort, and
he’d lost another friend.