I was amazed by her charcoal portraits, her ability to capture not just the likeness but the essence of her subjects. It’s the perfect thing to distract me while I wait. I pick it up and carry it to the bed, where I start to leaf through the pages.
The first sketch is of Dean, the lines of his face serious, a touch of laughter in the shape of his mouth. There’s one of Mrs. Bentley and Dr. Bentley sitting in the parlor, listening to the radio, theirs heads close together. A self-portrait of Mary. I am again startled by how similar we look. I have slightly darker hair, and larger, wider eyes, but we have the same pointed chin, the same full shape to our lips. We could definitely be sisters.
I keep flipping through the pages, watching Mary’s life emerge in the well-drawn pictures. There’s one of Lucas, laughing, and I stare at it for a long time. Mary captured every detail, from the crinkling around the corner of his eyes to the way he smiles with his whole face. She really knows him.
I stop, staring down at a picture of myself toward the back of the book. In it, I’m wearing Mary’s green dress. I look strong, fierce almost. My shoulders are back and my mouth is pulled into a serious frown. But there’s also a certain sadness, and a lost expression around my eyes. Is this how Mary sees me? As some sort of tragic heroine?
I’m about to put the sketchbook aside when a piece of paper falls out and drifts to the floor. I pick it up. It’s the charcoal rendering of Lucas. There’s some writing on the back that I didn’t notice before. I scan it as I place the picture back inside the notebook. Lucas Clarke, February 1944, “Georgia Boy.” I smile. Didn’t Lucas tell me he grew up on a farm in South Carolina? I try to think back to our conversation at the fundraiser. No, he’d said Georgia. White Plains, Georgia, “a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.” Where did I get South Carolina from?
As I close the sketchbook, a memory tugs at the back of my mind. My grandfather’s room in the morning, light falling through the lace curtains. A mourning dove calling outside. Grandfather’s voice: “She eloped with a soldier from the base not long after my father left, and they moved back to his family farm as soon as the war was over. I think it was in South Carolina? Maybe Georgia.”
How could I not have put the pieces together before now?
Lucas is Mary’s future husband.
I carefully close the sketchbook and place it neatly on the bed. It was confusing and exciting to think about Lucas harboring feelings for me, but he’s meant for Mary. I don’t want to get in the way of her happiness—their happiness. If Lucas does like me, then I need to discourage him as much as I can. It’s not like I don’t have enough going on to be convincing about it.
I abruptly stand up from the bed, determined to carry out my mission tonight. Opening the bedroom door a crack, I listen to the voices downstairs. They’ve finished dessert. They’re walking into the living room, laughing and talking. The radio clicks on and the tinny, high voice of an announcer talks about the night’s programs. Then a news announcement, and everyone falls silent. The troops are moving through the European theater, the front lines in the Pacific are expanding. A detective program comes on and conversation starts again, a low murmur.
I sneak out the door and into Mary’s room. Her window is open a little, and the light breeze is cool on my flushed skin. I push the blackout curtains farther aside and lean out into the night, looking for the rose trellis that crawls up this side of the house. Moving slowly, I work my way down the wooden slats. When I reach the bottom, I crouch near the windows, inching my way around the dark house. The crickets are louder at night, a constant clicking sound. I pause near the blacked-out window that I know leads to the den. The window is open beyond the heavy curtains and I hear the hum of the radio, Mary’s laugh, Lucas’s deep voice.
I make my way over to the truck. It’s darker near the front of the house, and I creep through the shadows. The military truck has a large truck bed, with olive-colored canvas stretched over the back. It reminds me of those old covered wagons people used to take out west.
As I tiptoe closer, I hear the front door of the house open.
“It was a pleasure, Sergeant Clarke,” Dr. Bentley says. His voice is muffled, and I can tell he’s standing inside the entryway.
“Thank you for having me.” Lucas sounds clearer, and I picture him standing on the front steps, his cap clutched between his hands. “Tell Lydia I hope she feels better.”
“I will.”
“Bye, Lucas!” Mary calls out from somewhere far away. I can hear the happiness in her voice.
There’s a moment of silence followed by the sound of footsteps in the dirt. I have to move quickly. I climb onto the back bumper, trying to keep my movements steady. Slowly, I crawl forward until I’m all the way inside the truck. It smells like an old basement, dusty and earthy and wet. There’s a black tarp on the floor, covering a pile of empty crates. I lie down on the floor next to the crates and pull the tarp over my body. As soon as I’m settled, I hear the driver-side door open. The truck shifts under Lucas’s weight as he gets in. A moment later the engine roars to life, and we start moving slowly away from the Bentleys’ house.
The ride to Camp Hero is bumpy and uncomfortable. One of the crates is digging into my side
