She was ruminating on this thought when a dog barked. She reflexively glanced up but honed in on a stranger. A man sat in the driver side of his SUV, alone in the parking lot, his face angled in Audra’s direction. The tree shading his windshield lent his eyes a hooded look. Atop his steering wheel an object glinted in his hand. Whether a phone or a camera, either one could be taking photos.
Could her in-laws have hired a PI? What would the evidence he’d collected here show? Just look at her poor judgment, bringing into Jack’s world a mentally troubled war vet, a guy who actually believes he’s somehow linked to her son’s past life.
“Daddy!” a little girl hollered, playing by the slide. Beside her, a woman made “come here” motions toward the same SUV. The man smiled and pointed to his cell phone, an illustration of finishing a call.
Though relieved, Audra had been sobered by her nerves. She turned to Sean and Jack, who were pitching the last of the bread crumbs. “Sorry, guys,” she said, “fun’s over for today.”
They soon collected their things and headed for the apartment. Almost there, Sean asked to use the restroom before he left. Naturally Audra agreed, but part of her—unjust as it was—felt anxious to see him go.
In the meantime, she helped Jack store his scooter in their laundry room. “Why don’t you wash up in the kitchen,” she said, “and I’ll slice you an apple?”
Jack hung his helmet on the handles. “Is Sean having dinner with us?”
“Not this time, baby.” A knock came from the front door. “I’ll get that. You get cleaned up.”
He nodded with a dash of disappointment. As he shuffled away, Audra went to the door and checked the peephole. Two policemen stood outside.
She told herself not to be paranoid, like she had been at the park. And yet there was no ignoring the callers’ demeanors. The way they anchored their hands on their gun belts, facing the door without taking, not smiling.
The officers weren’t here for a friendly house call.
40
Vivian worked to calm the jittering of her pulse. Any second now the projector’s beam would blink to life. From the balcony of the movie palace, alone in the far back row, Vivian assessed the room yet again. For a Tuesday evening, attendance was lower than usual. With all but a few people opting for the main floor, vacancies surrounded her like a moat. Including the seat meant for Isaak.
At last, a newsreel flickered onto the screen. Parade music blared from the speakers. Boasting steadfast skill, fresh-faced GIs wove through obstacle courses and under wires, heaved themselves over slatted walls. They charged invisible enemies with bayoneted rifles. Airmen with equal zeal strapped on parachute packs to simulate jumps over cushioned mats. In a wisp of levity, they painted dedications on the canvas of bombs–Delivery for Tojo, Greetings to Hitler–the enemy so clearly defined.
Enviously so.
Then came the planes. Propellers whirred on P-38 Lightnings. The pilots roared down the runway, machine guns at the ready, and a revelation came to Vivian: Isaak’s craving for wartime reports originated not from concern for his mother but from his father’s military feats. Bedtime stories would have described the man donning a German uniform before zeroing in on Allied targets.
Could Vivian’s father be among those targets now? Isaak had appeared genuinely disappointed that her father remained in London. Had there been a plan involving his connections, his knowledge? Perhaps this was the true reason Isaak had summoned her to Prospect Park, the only reason he had courted her from the start. It would make sense why he had been secretive, about both their romance and his past.
Even their initial meeting could have been the product of a scheme. At the outdoor market, where he had covered her debt and whisked her off in the air raid, he might have been following her already when the opportunity arose.
How useful she had been, an indirect line to confidential, prewar updates. Until now, she had actually believed it was her idea to seek out the file-cabinet key and eavesdrop on her father. A brilliant manipulation.
Come to think of it, on the university campus she had not found a single acquaintance of Isaak’s. A spy would keep to himself. Except, of course, when it came to collaborators, like his professor Herr Klein, or fellow spies with whom Isaak would have met covertly-in such hideaways as the store cellar.
It was a plot befitting a Hollywood film, too outlandish for reality. But then what else was she to believe?
So many deceptions. Too many to count.
All day long they had accumulated in the pit of her stomach. They now began to churn. To keep from retching, she channeled her focus to the cinematic images. Sailors stood at attention on a massive Navy ship, straight as perfect rows of teeth. Churchill and FDR shook hands in united display. “The Axis powers will soon see their error,” the narrator asserted. “They have woken a sleeping giant that will not rest until the fallen heroes of Pearl Harbor are avenged.”