The Pieces We Keep(126)
When she raised her head, to see if she should continue, his gaze latched on to hers. Before she could think, he shifted her onto her back. He pulled off her nightgown in a single motion and flung it away. He kissed her neck and shoulder with ravaging force, pausing only to maneuver out of his drawers. His hand moved over her breast, down her side, and up again, hungry and searching. A burning sensation rushed through Vivian. Arching her back, she closed her eyes, eager for more. Yet after his knee parted her legs, she felt him hesitate. The first thought in her mind was the baby. He was worried about hurting the baby.
“It’s all right,” she said, her breaths gone shallow. “The doctor, he said it’s perfectly fine.”
Somehow she knew, even before she opened her eyes, that her words might as well have been ice water.
Gene held in place, sobering from the short-lived spell, then sat up on his side of the bed. His legs over the edge, he stared at the window, saying nothing. When he stood to replace his boxers, Vivian drew the sheet up over her chest. She wished the mattress would swallow her whole.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly before leaving the room. And those two words, coming from Gene, nearly broke her.
Vivian was still feeling the wound of that night when a phone call arrived days after. It was this weakness, she reasoned, that caused her to concede to a meeting with Agent Gerard. Either that, or on account of the guilt that would always bind them.
And so, on the first Thursday of September, she again ventured to Prospect Park. The spot had been her suggestion; it seemed, in a darkly odd way, appropriate for an ending.
When she arrived at Binnen Bridge, where birds chirped and water rushed, Agent Gerard was already there. He was fanning himself with the brim of his hat but stopped when she came into view.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s nice to see you.”
It bothered her how he’d known of her married name and new residence without her divulging either one. An occupational advantage.
“What is it you wanted to see me about?”
He nodded, acknowledging her desire to bypass frills. “Now that it’s over, I thought you deserved to hear how everything wrapped up with the case.”
Part of her preferred not to hear a word. Yet in her mind, a greater part knew that closure would come only through enduring such details. Thus, she gripped her purse upon the railing and waited for him to continue.
“Four weeks ago, a military tribunal did make a ruling on the other spies,” he said. “All eight were found guilty.”
The announcement brought clarity to a fuzzy memory. “I thought you said one of them helped turn the group in?”
“There were actually two that collaborated. One was George Dasch. He got thirty years in the federal pen. His buddy, Ernest Burger, got hard labor for life.”
She shook her head, astonished. “That was their reward for coming forward?”
“They were originally sentenced to death, like the others. Only reason that changed was because Hoover and the Attorney General made an appeal to FDR. The rest got the chair, just a few days after the trial.”
Vivian leaned toward the railing and looked out onto the water. A pair of young boys stood down by the boathouse, skimming stones across the surface.
She caught the vague sounds of Agent Gerard talking. Something about hysteria and paranoia, and the relocation of Japanese Americans. About the possibility of people feeling the same toward citizens with German blood.
“Point of the matter is,” he went on, “I need you to keep all this to yourself. It’ll be released to the press, but not for a while.”
Vivian almost asked why he bothered telling her a thing; he had no obligation to do so. But inside she knew the reason. He wanted her to know that Isaak Hemel hadn’t been singled out. That once again the system had run the show.
“I trust you’ll keep this confidential,” the agent stressed when she didn’t answer.
Still gazing at the boathouse, she considered the alternative and laughed to herself. “Who would I possibly tell?” she said. It was hardly a boast-worthy accomplishment. She exhaled her morbid amusement and turned to face him. “Is there anything else?”
He paused a moment. “I suppose not.”
“Then, I’ll say good-bye, Agent Gerard.” She headed off without waiting for a response.
How wrong she had been to come here; the final details were not a source of closure.
“Congratulations,” he said, “by the way.”
The comment stopped her short. His casual tone clashed with the only reference she could summon: the three-month-old baby growing within her.
This, she realized, could be the true purpose of their meeting. But how could the man have known? Had the FBI tracked her every move, confiscated her medical files?