Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

A s Devon watched Stanley eat, shoving slices of pizza into his mouth till his cheeks bulged, he was reminded of a feral cat the guys in his dorm had found in a snowstorm. They'd fed the cat, left trays of dried food and fresh water in the alley all for a lark, though Devon privately thought that every one of them had serious intentions of being kind.

This had gone on for weeks, each guy trying to outdo the other by leaving toys, or catnip, or open cans of the most expensive cat food. Finally, one of the girls on the co-ed floor who was moving into her own apartment caught the cat in a box, took it home, and the last time Devon had seen it, it had been a sassy and sleek tiger-striped cat, sleeping in the sun on the arm of a couch.

Stanley should be that comfortable and happy, should be able to eat without looking over his shoulder. He should be able to have a second and, yes, third glass of milk without acting like he thought it would be his last treat until the end of time. Stanley should be sleek and well-petted and loved and at home, home with Devon.

When Devon opened his mouth to say something about it, it felt a little abrupt and too soon. He promised himself that before too long, he would be telling Stanley how he felt and about second chances and about saying things when you thought them. Also about love and about Stanley coming home with Devon to the States.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" asked Devon. Not so much because he was desperate to get more information about the time period, though that was always interesting. More because Stanley was looking at him with large eyes, that deep whiskey color, his mouth curved as though he wanted to speak, but didn't know what Devon might like to hear. "Just to get it off your mind, you know?"

After a long pause, a hectic flush on his cheeks, Stanley began to tell the story. About how he'd found himself in the past, in that same morning, but earlier, before the bomb had exploded. How his friends had looked at him while trying not to listen when, in the command bunker, Lt. Billings discussed the issue of Commander Helmer's desertion. About how Isaac, Rex, and Bertie had all survived the shelling because he'd gotten them to move in time, though he'd neglected to save the radio. How Stanley had gone to discuss the issue of retreat, and how the lieutenant had needed the second half of the code. How the map showed Stanley the better path to take. How Isaac had practically begged Stanley not to go.

"But it was different this time," said Stanley slowly, drawing out the words as though drawing out a half-forgotten memory. "We said almost the same things, and did some of the same things, but it was different, though the outcome was exactly the same."

"How was it different?" asked Devon. He didn't understand any of what had happened, and he was horrified at the thought of Stanley having to relive that all over again.

"Well, before," said Stanley. "Before I was alone in the trench in front of the radio while Lt. Billings tried to get it to work. There was a piece of howitzer muzzle jammed into the mud behind me, and nobody else was around. The second time the chaplain was there, along with a scout, I think, and the supply sergeant. My friends were alive, and there was no howitzer muzzle. The radio still got busted though."

Devon got up and cleared the dishes, nodding at Stanley to let him know he was thinking about what Stanley had just said and not ignoring it.

He made them both some coffee in the French press. When he sat down at the table to drink his, he saw that Stanley didn't seem to want any. Maybe he was too full or too distracted. Probably a little of both.

Devon didn't press it. Instead, he drank his coffee black with just a little bit of the brown sugar, moved his chair closer to Stanley's so their shoulders were touching, and waited the silence out. Stanley could have all the time he needed, if he would just stay with Devon.

"The conversation was pretty much the same," said Stanley into the silence. "We all said the same things about Commander Helmer's desertion, and meant the same things, but we said them from different places in the trench. The chaplain was there, and the scout who had gone out to reconnoiter for Commander Helmer. Then there was the lead commander—"

Stanley stopped and lifted his hand in the air as though pointing out the lead commander, and Devon could almost see it take shape in front of him.

"The chaplain was standing there talking to Lt. Billings, and I think it was about our weapons supply. All those officers were all in the bunker together, though I know it hadn't happened that way the first time. But how would I know I'd not seen that before unless there'd been a before ?"

"Because there'd been a before?" asked Devon. "Maybe you're remembering both versions, just like I'm remembering you being here the first time?"

He shook his head; it was all too much quantum physics for him to manage. He was just a history student with an obsession about World War I, a huge piece of which was sitting right in front of him: an American doughboy in the flesh. Who, as Devon could plainly see, was falling asleep at the table, his belly full of food, his mind full of an experience he could not comprehend.

"You look tired, Stanley," said Devon. He put his hand on the table next to Stanley's hand, close enough so that their pinkies touched.

"Like last time," said Stanley. He didn't take his hand away, but instead moved it closer. "I remember I could barely keep my eyes open and it's happening again."

"Coming through time must be tiring," said Devon, and though he was worried about how exhausted Stanley was, he was smiling, too, because Stanley was here with him.

"You could take a nap on the couch," said Devon, now. "I'll watch over you, make sure you don't go anywhere."

What Devon meant was that he would watch over to make sure Stanley didn't go backwards in time, though he had no idea how to manage that. What he really meant was that he wanted to watch over Stanley forever, to keep him safe and near, and help him forget about the war, which was, in its own way, one of the most ironic things he'd ever considered. His dearest wish was to help a young man forget the exact same thing that Devon had been obsessing over since he could remember.

Stanley got up, nodding, his borrowed clothes hanging off him in the same way that they had before. This time, he seemed less an object of study and more a real person wanting care, which Devon intended to give him.

He turned up the heat and grabbed the bedding from the closet, the same bedding Stanley had used before that he'd so carefully put away, and made up the couch. Stanley shuffled over and slithered in between the sheets. On impulse, Devon sat in the space near Stanley's waist and took his hand, which Stanley gave to him to hold, his whiskey-colored eyes blinking with a little bit of surprise.

"I'm glad the map helped," said Devon, "and that your friends survived."

"Thank you," said Stanley. "I didn't want to ask, but would you sit for a while with me?"

"Yes," said Devon. "Of course, I'm happy to."

He wanted to say more than that, all the things he'd been thinking about that he'd say if Stanley came back. Only he couldn't say them now, for they might overload Stanley, cause him distress. He'd been through enough, and all Devon wanted to do was look after him.

Worst of all, he didn't want to point out that although Isaac, Rex, Bertie, and a whole host of others might have survived the mortar shell explosion that morning, they'd not, ultimately, survived the German attack. They'd been out-manned, out-gunned, out-supplied. Not to mention that the 44 th Battalion had been made up of young, inexperienced men who'd enlisted just at the point when the Americans had entered the war with no idea what they were getting into and no idea how to get out of it. Except by following the rules, which Lt. Billings had diligently done, to the demise of the entire battalion.

Wanting to lighten his own thoughts, as well as tender Stanley into sleep, Devon patted Stanley's hand and smiled as Stanley opened his sleepy eyes to look at him. Devon felt a surge of pleasure to have Stanley back with him, where they could be this way, quiet and content together.

"Is your first name really Wilifred?" asked Devon. He smiled a little wider when Stanley groaned and pretended to be glum, as Devon now knew, his mouth moving into a lovely pout, his whole expression very put-upon. "I looked for you on the list because there was no trace of you in the cottage. I wanted to be sure that you really existed, and that I wasn't going crazy."

Gone unsaid were Devon's faint but lingering doubts that Stanley had somehow come across the information about the war and used it to torment Devon, though Devon had had a difficult time finding the list of names himself, and he knew where to look. Stanley didn't, and probably nobody else in the world knew or cared about that list, except the person who'd made it.

"It is," said Stanley, solemnly, as though confessing. "I hate the name Wilifred. Stanley was the name of a boxer I read about in a magazine. He knocked out Jack Johnson in 1909, and I thought he was swell. All the fellows did, but I did the most. I guess I talked about him a lot, so that was my nickname. Been mine ever since."

Stanley smiled at him, sleepy and warm, but then his forehead crinkled and he tugged on Devon's hand to get his attention.

"What did you mean, no trace of me?" asked Stanley. "I must have left a track of mud a mile wide when I came in that first time."

"It was funny, strange, you know?" said Devon. "You were gone, and I'd already put away the bedding, so there was no trace of you having slept on the couch. I thought I was going crazy because everywhere I looked, if I could imagine that you'd used a mug or a washcloth, it was just as easy to explain it away that I'd used those things. And the pictures I took, they were just black blobs, except for the last one, which was a bright white blob."

"None of them were of me?" asked Stanley.

"No, none," said Devon. "They were just pictures of blurs. The only thing—the only thing—that could prove you'd been here, and it wasn't very much, was the scrape in the plaster from the bayonet on your rifle."

Stanley stirred beneath the blanket, as though he wanted to get up and do something about it, like leave traces of himself all throughout the cottage. There was nothing he could have done differently, nothing anybody could have done, so Devon soothed him with long pets to his arm, tucking in the covers. He traced his fingers along the side of Stanley's face, a long, slow gesture meant to be calming, but which opened Stanley's eyes, though he looked exhausted.

"I have a second chance to get it right, this time," said Stanley. "I have a chance to be brave. With you."

It sounded as though Stanley meant being brave about the war, rather than about coming into the future and facing the unknown. Except he gripped Devon's hand in his and pulled it up to tuck beneath his chin.

"I mean about—" Then Stanley stopped, as if the words and the thoughts behind it were too much. "Having a second chance."

"Yes," said Devon. He wanted to say all the things he'd been feeling, but he tempered it because the last thing Stanley needed was for Devon to unload all of that when Stanley had just been through a harrowing ordeal that the last time had killed his friends.

"I'm glad you're back," Devon said. "I'm glad you're here with me because now I have a second chance, too." He carefully spread his hand so his fingers were over Stanley's, and his palm rested over the hollow in Stanley's shoulder. "You should get some rest, and then we'll go from there, okay? "

For some reason, this question made Stanley smile, but he obediently closed his eyes, and Devon waited with him while he fell asleep.