Page 14 of Black Box

‘The more blood, the better.’

I’ve never ordered room service before, and I’m certain the guy taking my order knows. He sighs audibly when I don’t immediately know what cut of steak I want to order or what I want to drink. A few minutes later, I hang up the hotel phone and Crush walks out of his bedroom looking like the lead character in a blockbuster movie about demon hunters. I press my lips together as I head for the sofa in the living room to keep from smiling.

We both sit down and he begins fiddling with the remote as he searches for something to watch. ‘If I can’t find Pretty in Kink, are you going to be upset? Like, will you start crying or force-feeding me muffin tops until I burst, or something?’

‘No, but I might nuke your steak in the microwave and force you to eat that.’

‘Fair enough.’ He continues flipping through the various apps on the TV, searching for somewhere he can purchase a movie and I pull my feet up on the sofa to hug my knees. ‘Maybe we should just read,’ he says after a few minutes of fruitless searching.

I turn to him and I can’t help but smile, even though I’m so tired from not having slept all night. Reading will probably put me to sleep. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

‘I’ll get the book.’ I spring up from the sofa, practically skipping as I make my way to my bedroom to retrieve the book from on top of the armchair where I left it yesterday.

When I come out of the room, Crush is letting in the room service guy. The guy sets all our dishes on the dining table and pours us each a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice and ice water while Crush signs the check. I sit down at the table again, laying the book in my lap as I wait for Crush to take a seat.

‘I don’t know what’s what, so go ahead and start unveiling,’ he says, lifting the lid on one of the plates.

He gets lucky and finds his steak on the first try. I lift the lid closest to me and find the warm croissants I ordered. Setting aside the lid, I pour myself a cup of coffee – black – then pull my legs up on the chair to sit cross-legged. I hand the book to Crush so he can place it on the other side of the table, away from all the food and drink, but he opens it up instead.

‘Can we start in the middle so we have time to finish it before the flight?’ he asks, thumbing through the pages until he finds the first page of chapter twenty-three. I know that chapter. So does he.

‘We can start wherever you want. It’s your book and you haven’t read it in way longer than I have.’ I tear off a chunk of the croissant and pop it in my mouth, letting out a soft moan. ‘This is fucking delicious. Have you tried these?’

He nods as he pulls the ribbon bookmark down the center of the book and closes it. ‘When was the last time you read Black Box?’

I wash down my croissant with some equally delicious black coffee before I respond. ‘Last week.’

He chuckles softly as he cuts off a piece of steak. The blood runs from the steak and all I can think is that I hope it doesn’t run into his scrambled eggs. That would be disgusting. Scrambled eggs should be eaten with ketchup. Not blood.

He swallows his food and gulps down some orange juice before he turns to me. ‘Black Box is my grandfather’s story. It’s the only book he ever wrote and he never got it published.’

‘You gave me the one copy of the only book your grandfather ever wrote?’ He nods and continues eating, as if this is no big deal. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’

He doesn’t flinch at my question. He finishes chewing his eggs then he slowly sets down his fork and turns to me. ‘You would have done the same thing.’

‘But . . . if that’s your grandfather’s story, that means . . . The black box exists?’ He nods and I feel as if I can’t breathe. ‘Can we start reading now?’ He hands me the book and I push my plate of croissants aside so I can lay the book on the table. I open the book to the page he marked and begin to read aloud.

‘Herman’s plane landed in Boston airport at seven in the evening. His relief to finally be home after eight months away could only be matched by his utter elation at finally being able to see Leah and June.’

I quickly close the book and cover my face as the tears begin. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. You have to read it.’

I know why he picked this chapter to start with and I’m almost angry with him. Though I’ve relived it a million times over the past three years, it still kills me when Herman returns from the war to find his seven-year-old daughter, June, has died. Now, knowing it’s his grandfather’s story only makes it worse.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks as he takes the book from me and sets it on the seat of the chair next to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber into my hands. ‘I just hate that she died. I really wanted him to read her letters.’

I can’t stop the tears. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I cry. Suddenly, I feel movement in my hair. I pull my hands away from my face and Crush is touching my hair.

‘This isn’t your real hair color,’ he says, mesmerized as he rubs a lock of black hair between his fingers.

‘I’ve dyed my hair a dozen different colors since that night, but black is my favorite. I’ll never go back to my natural color. I don’t want to see . . . I don’t want to even know what I used to look like.’

‘You mean, you don’t have any pictures of yourself before that?’

I shake my head as I use the sleeves of my sweater to wipe my face. ‘I burned them all.’

He reaches his hand forward slowly and I close my eyes as he brushes a tear from my jaw. ‘I think you’d look beautiful with any hair color.’ He pulls his hand away and I open my eyes. ‘Can you come with me to the library?’

‘The library?’

‘I know you don’t want to leave the hotel, but my grandfather donated some rare books to the Boston Public Library. They have them in a glass case on the third floor of the McKim Building. I’ve been too scared to go see them because I’ve missed him so much. Then Jordan died and . . . Anyway, I think I’m ready to go.’

I want to say yes to him. He obviously needs this. But I can’t risk getting caught. I’ve been planning this trip for too long. I’m not backing out now.

‘Can’t you go alone?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I can. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to go. I promised you we’d stay in. That’s what we’ll do.’ He places the silver lid over his half-eaten steak and eggs, then he drains the last drops of orange juice from his glass before he rises from the table. ‘Let’s go read.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BLACK BOX

Herman’s plane landed in Boston airport at seven in the evening. His relief to finally be home after eight months away could only be matched by his utter elation at finally being able to see Leah and June. Captain Winters sent his wife’s brother to retrieve Herman from the airport, since Leah and Herman didn’t own an automobile. The last letter he received from Leah six weeks earlier, she wrote of her outing with June to the marathon finish line. Three runners broke the world record this year. Leah said June was ecstatic to witness such an unbelievable feat.

Terry Knott, Captain Winters’ brother-in-law, seemed like a decent enough fellow. He worked as a longshoreman at the Port of Boston, loading and unloading the enormous crates on the cargo ships. He didn’t speak much on the drive home, but the ropy muscles in his neck tightened every time he nodded in reply to one of Herman’s questions. Herman got the sense Terry was tense about something, but it wasn’t his place to pry into William’s private life, so he kept quiet.

When they arrived at the apartment on Howard Avenue, the rain was coming down pretty hard. Terry helped him unload his army-issue duffel bag onto the sidewalk then, with a curt nod and a stiff good luck, he raced back into the driver’s seat and set off in his shiny Ford truck. Herman didn’t know if he had offended Terry, but he didn’t have much desire to find out. He had to get out of this downpour and upstairs to his two favorite girls.

The three-story, brick-f

aced home in Roxbury had been converted into six tiny apartments over a decade before. Herman, Leah, and June all shared one bedroom, living room, kitchen, and a bathroom the size of a matchbox. The neighborhood could be rough, but it was home to some of the best jazz clubs in Boston. And, other than his girls, there was nothing he loved more than nursing a glass of bourbon while puffing on a DC and listening to some great jazz.

Herman swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and dashed up the front walk and the six concrete steps, his boots splashing in the tiny puddles accumulated in the cracks of the concrete. The stairs delivered him to the front door of the building and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was home.

He didn’t have a key, but the landlord had installed a buzzer shortly before Herman left for Korea. He lived in apartment four, but he pressed the buzzer for apartment three; the apartment across the hall from theirs. He wanted to surprise Leah.

‘Who’s there?’ the female voice crackled through the speaker.

It was Mrs Yardley; a nice woman who did most of the ironing and mending for the neighborhood. Her husband was a drunk who beat her frequently. One of these days, Herman was going to move Leah and June into a big house in Cambridge and the day they left he’d tell Mrs Yardley that she and her two boys deserved better. But he couldn’t do that now. Her marriage wasn’t any of his business; even if Mr and Mrs Yardley did keep June up with their arguing on occasion.

‘Mrs Yardley, it’s Herman. Would you please buzz me in?’

‘Herman?’ she replied. ‘Would you like me to call Leah?’

‘No, no,’ he answered quickly. ‘I want to surprise her, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Just a moment.’

A second later, the door buzzed and he nearly broke the rusty doorknob off in his haste to yank it open. The smell of damp wood was heavy in the dark entry hall, but it diminished as he raced up the staircase to the second floor. The sight of the brass number four on the face of the dark wooden door made his stomach drop. He was home.

He knocked on the door and eventually heard signs of slow movement inside the apartment. His heart raced at the sound of the lock turning. Then the doorknob began to rotate and he had to stop himself from throwing the door open.

The door creaked inward and Leah was standing there with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open; but it wasn’t the same Leah. She’d changed.

She’d lost at least ten pounds, and she was already too thin when Herman shipped out. Her eyes were glassy and vacant and she appeared almost afraid. He knew he’d changed a bit over the past eight months; his skin had darkened from hours in the hot Korean sun on the deck of the USS Los Angeles.

‘Leah, it’s me. It’s Herman. I’m home.’ Her lip trembled as she stared at Herman, still unable to speak. ‘Darling, it’s me.’

He took one step forward and she took three steps back, bumping into the armchair in the sitting room. Herman dropped his duffel onto the floor and she shook her head adamantly as she began to cry.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I know I caught you by surprise.’ Herman reached for her, but she scuttled around the armchair to keep the distance between them. ‘Leah, what’s wrong? Where’s June?’

---