Heroes, Page 6

  On that hot and humid afternoon, a crowd gathered at the Monument Depot to greet his arrival, including kids from the Wreck Center, Joey LeBlanc, Louis Arabelle, Marie LaCroix and me among them, and parents who knew that Larry LaSalle had been a bright Pied Piper for their children in the bleakness of the Depression.

  I looked toward Monument Park, impatient for Nicole to join us. As a volunteer now with the Monument Red Cross, she was preparing food kits for servicemen that day and said she would join us in time for Larry LaSalle’s arrival.

  I placed a foot on the rail, hoping to feel the slight trembling that would announce the train’s approach. The heat of the rail burned through the sole of my shoe. Turning, I saw Nicole coming into view through the haze of heat. She wore a dark blue skirt and a white blouse. She waved to me as she hurried toward the depot. At the same time, the chug of engine, blast of horn and hiss of steam announced the arrival of the train from Boston.

  A moment later Larry LaSalle stood on the platform, resplendent in the green uniform with the lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders and the ribbons and medals on his chest. He smiled, the old movie-star smile, skin tanned and glowing, small wrinkles around his eyes as he squinted down at us.

  We cheered as he stepped down from the platform and walked toward our group, that touch of Fred Astaire still in his walk but something different about him. His slenderness was knifelike now, lethal, his features sharper, nose and cheekbones. I remembered how hard it had been to think of him as a fighting marine when he announced his enlistment but seeing his lean hard body now I could picture him storming a hillside on Guadalcanal, rifle in hand, bayonet fixed, grenades dangling from his belt, pumping bullets into the enemy.

  Then he was among us and we surrounded him, crowding him, embracing him, getting as close to him as possible.

  “My hero from the war,” Joey LeBlanc called out, clowning, of course, but saying what we all thought. Larry was our war hero, yes, but he had been a hero to us long before he went to war.

  He drew away, holding us off at arm’s length, stepping back. “The better to see you,” he said, looking at each of us in turn. When his eyes fell on me, I made a gesture, as if serving the small white ball over the net, and he swiveled his arm, as if returning the ball. His eyes moved to Nicole and I saw the rush of affection on his face. Nicole bowed, tilting her head like a ballet dancer, and he dipped his head in return, his eyes full of her. A blush turned her cheeks crimson and only added to her beauty.

  Mayor Harold Burnham arrived in a big black car, followed by city officials, most of whom walked the short distance from City Hall. Car horns blew and more cheers rose in the afternoon heat as the mayor vigorously shook Larry LaSalle’s hand, embraced him fiercely and presented him with a silver key to the city.

  “You are our celebration,” the mayor declared, referring to the fact that holidays were observed quietly during the war years. No bonfires or fireworks and no parades. “Your presence in this great city of ours, Lieutenant Lawrence LaSalle, is cause enough for jubilation.” Other officials made speeches, and the words sailed over our heads meaninglessly, while Larry LaSalle stood modestly before the crowd, eyes lowered. Finally, a stillness fell and he turned to the gathering. “Thank you,” he said.

  He spoke of the men and women serving in all parts of the globe who were defending freedom and how some of them would give their lives, willingly and courageously. He paused and looked down at us, his kids from the Wreck Center.

  “I’m glad to be home, even if it’s only for a little while. And most of all I want to be with the Wreck Center gang.”

  Once again, he had made us feel special, singling us out from the townspeople who gathered there. Nicole squeezed my hand and my eyes grew moist.

  “We have to keep the world safe for these young people—they are our future …”

  The celebration went on during the afternoon and evening, culminating in a Welcome Home dance that night at City Hall. The hall was a bright spot in the dark wartime city, streetlights dim, air-raid wardens patrolling the peak of Moosock Hill on the lookout for enemy planes, although an air attack on Monument was a remote possibility. But better be vigilant than sorry, said an editorial in The Monument Times. German U-boats had been sighted in the waters off the Massachusetts shore and rumors claimed that Nazis prowled the streets of New England in disguise. But City Hall blazed with lights behind the blackout curtains and the big orchestra played the tunes of the day while the dancers twirled on the floor.

  We were a merry group, Larry LaSalle’s guests at the dance. Sitting in a special section of the balcony, we looked down as he moved among the city officials and their wives, shaking hands, enduring slaps on the back, the embraces of beautiful women. I glanced occasionally at Nicole as she gazed, wide-eyed and wistful, at the ladies in their fancy gowns, glittery sequins catching the lights from a crystal ball revolving on the ceiling.

  “Isn’t that beautiful?” Nicole said, pointing to a woman in a simple white gown that clung to her body like whipped cream.

  “I’ll buy you one like that someday,” I whispered in her ear, my voice trembling a bit, betraying my love for her.

  Squeezing my hand, she leaned toward me, and her warm cheek rested against mine.

  Finally, Larry LaSalle looked up and motioned toward the front of the hall, meaning he wanted us to join him there. He met us at the entrance, the music muted in the background, and announced:

  “A surprise awaits.”

  With a flourish, he led us outside and down the City Hall steps.

  He lined us up and we began a wild snake dance through Monument Square, among the statues of generals and the Civil War cannon and by the water fountain. Larry LaSalle headed the line; Nicole was next with her hands on his hips and mine on hers. We laughed and yelled and stopped at the fountain to drink and splash our faces, then crossed the intersection of Main and West and began to march down Mechanic Street, breaking ranks occasionally to pause and laugh, as if we were all drunk without having taken a sip of liquor.

  Once, Nicole whispered: “Stay close to me,” as we resumed our parade in the shadowed streets, and a thrill went through me like a jolt as I pulled her close and said: “I’ll never leave you.” As if we were living a love scene at the Plymouth.

  Finally, the big surprise was at hand as Larry led us along Third Street until we stood in front of the Wreck Center. He bowed to us, produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and swung it open.

  “Voilà,” he said, ushering us inside. And then told us he had arranged for Henry Roussier, the old retired janitor, to sweep and clean up the center for a special night. When Larry turned on the lights, we saw the Ping-Pong table, rackets and white balls on it. A table with cans of soda pop and candy bars, not chocolate bars anymore because of wartime restrictions, but candy all the same. Larry placed a record on the phonograph and the hall was filled with an old song from the bright and exciting days of the Wreck Center, before the war, in the time of table tennis tournaments and Follies and Fancies musicals.

  Never in a million years

  Will there be another you …

  We played table tennis without keeping score, hitting the ball back and forth, trying for and sometimes making impossible shots, Larry rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, removing the medals and ribbons that he called scrambled eggs. We played game after game while Nicole changed the records and jitterbugged with Marie LaCroix.

  The evening wore down and Joey LeBlanc and Louis Arabelle said good night and later Marie and the others wandered off until finally there were only Larry and Nicole and me. He embraced us both. “My favorite champion and my favorite dancer,” he said.

  “Find ‘Dancing in the Dark’ ” he told Nicole.

  As she went off to search among the records, Larry placed his arm around my shoulder. “Time to go home, Francis,” he said. “You look tired … it’s been a long day.”

  The day had not been long enough for me.

  “I don’t
mind staying,” I said.

  “Nicole and I are going to have one last dance,” he said. “Just her and me alone. It’s important, Francis.”

  I wondered if he had a big announcement for her. That he had found a way to make her a star. Entertaining the troops, maybe. Nothing was impossible with Larry LaSalle. His face was flushed and his eyes shone with excitement. “So, you’d better go, okay?”

  Nicole placed the record on the spindle and turned toward us, an expectant look on her face, glancing at Larry.

  “I’ve got to go,” I told her. “You and Larry stay. One last dance …” The words sounded false as I said them and I realized they were Larry’s words, not mine.

  Nicole frowned. “Stay and watch,” she said, and I was puzzled by the expression on her face. Was she only being polite, asking me to stay? Did she want to be alone with Larry?

  He went to her, placed his arm around her, drawing her to him gently. “He’s tired,” Larry said. “He wants to go …”

  We always did what Larry LaSalle told us to do. Always carried out his slightest wish. And now I seemed actually to be tired, as Larry had suggested, the events of the day and all the excitement catching up to me. I saw Larry raising his eyebrows at me, the way he looked at me when I made a stupid move at table tennis. Get going …

  “I’d better go,” I said, keeping my eyes away from Nicole, a pang of regret gnawing at me even as I spoke, because I really wanted to stay, wanted to be a part of them.

  As I turned away I heard the plop the record made, dropping onto the turntable. A patter of feet, then a hand touched my shoulder.

  “Don’t go,” Nicole whispered into my ear.

  But Larry LaSalle had told me to go.

  “No, I’d better leave,” I said. “I think he wants to tell you something.”

  The first notes of “Dancing in the Dark” filled the air, and the singer sang:

  Dancing in the dark

  Till the tune ends …

  Suddenly, he was there, sweeping her into his arms, and as he did so, he reached out and flicked the switch, plunging the hall into darkness. I made my way toward the front door but drew back, didn’t leave, stationed myself in the small foyer, in a slant of moonlight, as the music filled the place, miserable in my aloneness, wanting to be dancing with her, the way Larry LaSalle was dancing with her, holding her close.

  In the shadows of the hallway, I stood in agony and waited for the song to end, and then I would tell Nicole that I had not left, that I had stayed, would never desert her, that she had told me not to go and I hadn’t, that she was more important to me than Larry LaSalle.

  The song ended and the scratching of the needle on the record did not stop and I heard a sigh and a sound that could have been a moan and a rustle of clothing.

  How long did I stand there listening? Hearing the small sounds, then a sudden gasp, and the needle scratching as the record went round and round, and I couldn’t breathe, my body rigid, my lungs burning, and at the moment of panic, heart thudding, my breath returned, and I listened and heard nothing now. What were they doing? But I knew what they were doing—the thought streaked through my mind so fast that it could hardly be acknowledged.

  Then, a whimpering, like a small animal caught and trapped, moaning distinct now. The scratching of the needle stopped. Footsteps approaching, coming close, closer, and suddenly she stumbled into the hallway, her face caught in the slash of moonlight.

  She saw me the moment I saw her. Saw her face, her eyes. Her hair disheveled, mouth flung open, lips swollen. Cheeks moist with tears. Her white blouse torn and one hand clutching the front of her blouse to hold it together.

  I drew out of the darkness toward her and she raised a hand to stop me, gasping now, her breath like a moan escaping her body.

  In the spill of moonlight, her eyes flashed black with anger as she looked at me. More than anger. But what? What? I brought my hand up to my face, not to brush away my own tears but to hide from her terrible gaze. But I couldn’t cover my eyes, had to look at her. And I recognized in her eyes now what I could not deny: betrayal. My betrayal of her in her eyes.

  For another long moment she stared at me, mouth still agape, then shook her head as if in disbelief and fled toward the door, fumbling with the doorknob. She pulled the door open, stepped through, slamming the door behind her while I stood there helplessly.

  Numb, I stepped out of the moonlight’s rays, wanting to hide in the dark.

  Larry’s voice called from inside the hall.

  “Anybody there?”

  I stood hushed, pressed to the wall, heard my own breathing so harsh that I was afraid he could hear it. His footsteps grew louder as he approached. He passed through the flash of moonlight, a ghostly silhouette, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to see him. Then, no footsteps. Had he seen me? My eyes flew open. He was at the door, a shadow now, turning the knob, whistling a tune … “Dancing in the Dark” … whistling softly as he stepped through the doorway, closing the door gently behind him, and went off into the night.

  I stood there thinking of what I had seen in Nicole’s eyes.

  It’s amazing that the heart makes no noise when it cracks.

  A heat wave gripped Frenchtown, the heat almost visible in the air. People moved as if in a slow-motion movie, gathering on front lawns and piazzas in the evening after the shops closed, hoping for a breeze to cool them off. Men walked slowly as they went off to work in the shops as weary looking in the morning as they were late in the day after their shifts were over.

  For three days, I haunted Sixth Street at all hours, standing across the street and looking up at the second floor of Nicole’s house, venturing sometimes into the yard, hoping that I might catch a glimpse of her coming or going or at a window. Despite the heat, the piazza on Nicole’s second-floor tenement remained vacant. The windows were open to allow cooler air to enter the tenement but no one came or went.

  Nicole’s father left the tenement to go to the shop just before seven o’clock in the morning and returned shortly after five in the afternoon and I avoided him, kept away from the street during those times.

  A small boy in the house across the street from Nicole’s rode his bicycle endlessly on the sidewalk and gazed at me occasionally as I waited. Finally, squinting against the sun, he asked: “Why are you here all the time?”

  I shrugged. “Waiting.”

  “Are you the boogeyman?” he asked, scratching his chin.

  Yes, I wanted to say. A kind of boogeyman who does terrible things like letting his girl get hurt and attacked, purposely avoiding even in my mind that terrible word: what had actually happened to her.

  The boy waited a moment for my reply, then pedaled back into his yard, silent as he gazed at me over his shoulder. He went into the house and did not come out again.

  • • •

  In Laurier’s Drug Store, rumors were rampant about Larry LaSalle’s sudden departure from Frenchtown so soon after his arrival. Someone said his furlough had been canceled, that his outfit had been recalled to duty for a big push in Europe against the Nazis. There was talk of a Western Union messenger bicycling down Mechanic Street in the middle of the night, bringing a telegram to the tenement Larry LaSalle rented on Spruce Street.

  “That wasn’t a messenger,” Mr. Laurier scoffed. “That was Crazy Joe Touraine trying to cool off from the heat of the day …”

  I could not sleep at night. Lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, glad for the heat that was so relentless, as if it were part of the hell that I had earned.

  • • •

  Finally, on the fourth day, I saw her emerging from the hallway to the piazza on the first floor.

  She did not move away as I came into the yard.

  “Nicole,” I called.

  She saw me, frowned, drew back a step, then paused, as if waiting for me to approach.

  “Nicole.” My voice breaking, not like the days of my shyness with her but because my heart was so full it destroyed her na
me as I spoke it.

  Her eyes met mine. She didn’t say anything for a long moment and when she finally spoke, her voice was harsh.

  “You were there all the time,” she said.

  I couldn’t reply, could find no words to utter in my defense. Because I had no defense.

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  The accusation in her voice was worse than the harshness.

  “I know.” I wasn’t sure whether I spoke those words or only thought them.

  “You knew what he was doing, didn’t you?”

  My head so heavy, pounding with blood, that I could barely nod in agreement.

  Leaning against the banister, she asked: “Why didn’t you do something? Tell him to stop. Run for help. Anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing how pitiful those words must sound to her.

  She shook her head, turning away, and I couldn’t afford to let her go.

  “Are you …,” I began to ask, but hesitated as she turned back and looked at me again. What word could I use? Are you hurt? Torn apart?

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not all right,” she answered, anger flashing in her eyes. “I hurt. I hurt all over.”

  I could only stand there mute, as if all my sins had been revealed and there was no forgiveness for them.

  Finally, I asked: “What can I do?”

  “Poor Francis,” she said at last. But no pity in her voice. Contempt, maybe, as her eyes swept me. She flung her hand in the air, a gesture of dismissal. “Go away, Francis,” she said. “Just go away.”

  And she herself went away, pulled away from the banister, stepped into the hallway, one moment there, the next moment gone.

  I waited for her to appear again.

  I waited through long empty minutes.

  Somewhere a door slammed. Later, a dog barked, a car roared by.

  I finally went away.

  • • •

  Later that week, I went to church after supper and slipped into Father Balthazar’s confessional, waiting there until Mr. Boudreau, the janitor, closed the doors for the night. Finally I stepped out into the old smell of burning wax and incense and walked through the shadows to the back of the church. I climbed the stairs to the choir loft and opened the door that led to the exterior of the tallest steeple. Father Balthazar had shown me the door during my altar boy days.