Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

D evon woke up and got up from the couch carefully. Needing a distraction from waking Stanley, he puttered around the cottage, rinsing the dishes in the sink, straightening his papers and books so they weren't all over the place. Mostly, he kept his eye on Stanley, who was asleep on the couch, looking a tad more rested, his eyes closed, his lashes dark on his cheeks. The point of all this, of every bit of it, was to make it easy for Stanley to stay with him.

He hadn't quite told Stanley how scary it had been to watch Stanley vanish in front of his eyes. When he'd thought about mentioning it, the more important thing had been about how Stanley had felt about getting dragged back into the war, into the trenches, on the verge of watching his friends die all over again. Which they would have, except for Stanley's quick thinking.

That had taken guts and a steel nerve, none of which were visible now, or even when Stanley was awake. He seemed, then, as always, an innocent youngster from a small farming community. He'd had no idea of the scope of the war, except that some foreign duke had been killed, and the idea of it had seemed glorious. Enlist, get a free trip overseas, kill some Germans, and come home again .

Devon wondered how quickly it had taken Stanley to figure out that this was not so. Probably only a handful of days, which had been driven home when the weather had turned sour in the middle of September. In Stanley's world, it was November 10 th , the day the entire battalion had been wiped out. It had been raining, and Stanley had had no coat. This thought above all others was driving Devon crazy; why the hell had there been no thought to bringing in much needed coats for the men?

Against his better judgment, but with the thought of keeping himself occupied while Stanley slept, he opened his laptop and looked it up. He brought up a brand new webpage that he'd not seen before, and he read it, half sick at what the details revealed. The rain had flooded the nearby River Ornes, wiping out the bridge, thus preventing supplies from coming in. For weeks before that, the supply corps had been battered by German attacks, and unable to get their trucks across broad expanses. Even if the river hadn't been out, there wouldn't have been any supplies.

Part of him wanted to tell Stanley about this, as if it would make any difference to him. What did Stanley need to know about the war? Now that he was with Devon, he could forget about all of that. Except that Stanley deserved a medal for not complaining more, about the lack of coat, about the weather, about any of it. He seemed stoic in nature, and might have determined it wouldn't have made any difference anyway, so why waste the energy. Maybe the war had ground him down at that point to where his only defense was in pretending not to mind, until this had become ingrained within him.

All of this was too much. Devon needed to do what was best for Stanley. Not telling him what had happened to the 44 th Battalion because Stanley didn't need to worry seemed kind, but it was also a lie. Devon snapped the laptop shut and buried his head in his hands. Why had he ever thought that writing a thesis about the war, even from the distant vantage point of the weather, would be a good idea? He was an idiot, that's why. He'd had high ideals that none of it would truly affect him, that he would be immune to the ethos of it all—until Stanley. Stanley, who was like a dream come true and who deserved better than what he'd gotten.

Well, he was with Devon now, and Devon would make sure that he got all the good things in the world. He would take Stanley far away from the little village of Ornes so that time would not be able to yank him back into the past.

It all depended on how soon he could finish up his research, though to be honest, he'd been dragging that out just so he could stay in France, where the bread was better. Only now, that wasn't important anymore. Once back in the States, they could have the bread shipped to them, or they could make it at home—if Stanley was willing to stay with him.

Stanley would have to overcome his own background. He'd have to become used to being gay out in the open rather than like it must have been in 1917, where you had to hide all the time. But, if he were brave enough to make his friends do weird things, like move along a muddy bench for no apparent reason, then he would be brave enough to face the future. But he wouldn't be alone. He would be with Devon.

Devon lifted his head and looked over at Stanley, who was still sleeping. Eventually, he would wake up and need feeding. Only there wasn't a whole lot in the cottage, as Devon had been remiss in taking care of anything while Stanley had been missing. They needed to go to the village and get groceries, and Devon needed to finish his thesis so that he and Stanley could go home.

With firm determination, he got up to grab his canvas notebook, sat down, opened his laptop, and began working. If he could focus, it wouldn't take long to finish. Then, after that, it didn't matter. He would have completed his thesis work, and then he and Stanley could start their new life together.

When Stanley woke up, Devon was at the kitchen table with his coat on, and it looked like he had keys in one hand and his wallet in the other. Stanley watched, only half awake, as Devon put the items in his pockets and, with one quick gesture, pulled up the collar of his jacket just the way Isaac would do it. A quick flick of both wrists, his thumbs standing up to draw a line along the seam, setting everything just so.

Devon being Devon, he probably had no idea of the image he presented, how familiar it was, and the way it both warmed Stanley's heart and alarmed him. He didn't want to keep making these kinds of comparisons, and besides, any thoughts of the trenches, and the misery of war, or even of Isaac, felt like a threat that could yank him back in time at any moment.

"Are you going somewhere?" asked Stanley as he sat up, a repeat of the last time he slept on Devon's couch. A secret hope bloomed in his chest that the next time he slept it would be in Devon's bed, with Devon.

"Yes, I thought we'd go into the village and maybe have a little supper, then get some groceries," said Devon.

Devon came over to Stanley and reached to pull him up from the couch. He did a little wave with both his hands and shuffled his feet that, in a way, oddly reminded Stanley of a dance hall girl attempting to entice a customer into spending a dime. But Devon's smile made the gesture sweet and innocent.

"French wine, French cheese," said Devon with a laugh. "And French fries, too, though you probably don't know what those are."

"Yes, I do," said Stanley. He captured Devon's hands, folded them together in his own, and kissed them. He felt a little shy as he did this, not because it was intimate, but because he wasn't used to being so purposeful with his affection. "I've had them, though it was when we shipped over, not before."

"Ah, yes," said Devon. "Doughboys and their pommes frites ."

"We just called them French fries," said Stanley, though he smiled rather than rolling his eyes because he didn't want to tease too much, not when Devon was showing off a little, sharing what he loved to learn about.

"So you want to go?"

"Into the village, yes," said Stanley. "I'll get dressed. Do you have a coat for me? "

As Stanley pulled on his socks and blue jeans, Devon promptly went to the closet by the front door and brought out the dark blue pea coat that Stanley remembered from before. He was glad for the pea coat because he did not want to put his uniform on, not even to keep off the rain. He wanted to leave the war far behind him as fast as possible.

When Devon opened the door, Stanley was almost surprised to find it was only afternoon, and though there were gray clouds sweeping overhead, the pale blue sky shone through in places, and it wasn't raining. It was, however, terribly cold, so Devon got them both knitted caps from the top shelf of the closet and, as they put them on, Stanley grinned. He remembered the cap from before, too.

As Devon tugged the cap over Stanley's ears, Stanley put his hands over Devon's hands to keep them there a moment longer. He laughed out loud, glad to be where he was—with Devon on a cloudy, frost-speckled afternoon, far away from the thunder of war, the explosions of shells and mortar, and the smell of stale sweat.

"I don't have a car, but it's only about half a mile," said Devon as they started walking along the blacktopped road that led into a copse of trees. "Just through there and over a little hill."

"I'll help you carry the groceries," said Stanley, wanting to be of use.

"I'm counting on it," said Devon. He moved close as they walked and looped his arm through Stanley's so they could walk together that way.

It was on the tip of Stanley's tongue the entire distance to the village to tell Devon how he felt, to say out loud everything that was in his heart. How dizzy with happiness being with Devon made him feel. But as they walked through the woods and especially as the village, with the cluster of red-tiled roofs bright against the dreary day, came into view, he felt that being with Devon was enough. Later, when they could share a private moment, he would tell Devon everything.

Also, as they walked into the village along the blacktopped road, Stanley was distracted by the number of cars and how fast they went, the motorized bicycles, and all the bright signs in the windows. Stanley could hardly believe the world he'd arrived in. What's more, even though he and Devon, two men, were walking arm in arm, nobody seemed to pay them any mind, except to nod a greeting or to let them pass on the sidewalk. It was only as they got near the village square that Devon dropped his arm, and that was only because he was opening the door for Stanley and gesturing that he should go ahead.

Instantly, the smells of garlic and butter and grease greeted Stanley, the warmth of the place soaking into his skin. He remembered this smell from one of the times he and the fellows had gone into the village. They'd not had enough money for a full meal, but had gotten sausages fried in batter, one per soldier, each almost too small to make any difference to their hungry bellies. But the sausages had been good, and as they'd all walked back to the battalion, they'd licked their fingers and agreed on how delicious French food was.

Inside the restaurant, a host greeted them with a little bow, his hands spread across his snowy white apron. As Devon spoke to him, Stanley stayed politely quiet and then followed behind Devon as their host led them to a little table by a window.

"Is this good?" asked Devon. As if Stanley could find anything to complain about. As if it made any difference to Stanley, as long as he was with Devon.

"Yes," said Stanley. "Can we start eating now?"

"Yes," said Devon, laughing as he sat down, gesturing that Stanley should do the same.

The host came to take their coats and knitted caps. As soon as they were settled in their chairs, a waiter, thin, his hair oiled back the way Stanley was used to seeing, brought them a bottle of water and two narrow glasses. Someone else brought them a little cloth-lined basket of bread and a white china bowl filled with curls of yellow butter.

The menu that the waiter brought them was in French, of course, the words printed in silky black ink on the creamy paper. Devon slowly parsed the French into English, describing various options that inevitably involved a great deal of butter and garlic, and all of which sounded delicious .

Overwhelmed by such richness, Stanley could hardly decide. Besides, being with Devon, like this, in this clean, well-lighted place seemed enough of a bounty that he didn't need to eat. Though he did, he knew he did, so he thought about it and made up his mind.

"Which is the one again?" asked Stanley. He ran his fingers down the page to feel the smoothness of it. "The chicken in wine one? Cock o' van?"

" Coq au vin ," said Devon, though he could hardly manage for laughing at Stanley's mispronunciation of it. Not to mention that Stanley's was the naughtier version, and it filled him with a sense of joy that he'd found a way to make Devon laugh. Playing the fool when he didn't know the language was quite easy, and the result was Devon's bright eyes and handsome smile.

The waiter came, delivered the wine and bread, and took their order. Once he discovered that only Devon knew French, even if very little, he focused his attention away from Stanley. Which was rude, in a way, but Stanley shrugged, reached for the bread and butter, and drank from the glass of red wine that the waiter poured for him, happy to be where he was, happy to be with Devon. If thoughts of the war intruded, he would simply push them back; he wouldn't let time jerk him around anymore.

When the food came, Stanley's dish contained a mess of chicken parts in red sauce. He was dubious, for it looked like stewed chicken, which he'd had back home and didn't like very much. Except, when he ate it, the chicken was silky with butter and bursting with all sorts of flavors. He quickly inhaled the chicken and mopped up the sauce with more bread and butter, which the waiter disdainfully brought for them. Devon plowed silently through his steak and frites. To finish, they had sliced cheese and fruit. Stanley's stomach was so full he was never going to have to eat again.

"We can get groceries and go back," said Devon as the waiter brought him the bill to pay.

Devon took the bill and handed the waiter a thin bit of plastic from his wallet. He used the same motion someone might if they were handing over cash. Only there was no cash. Stanley stared, but no matter how carefully he watched, no money changed hands.

The waiter didn't seem to mind this, and went away. When he came back, he smiled with a bow as he gave the card back to Devon and gave Devon several slips of paper to sign. Then the host brought them their jackets and caps, and they stepped into the late afternoon street, the sunshine struggling to get through the clouds.

Several automobiles whizzed by them on the street and then two young men on a small, motorized bike. Again, Stanley had to work hard not to stare. He'd seen military vehicles, of course, but back home regular automobiles had been thin, black, spidery contraptions that belched smoke and bounced about. He'd ridden on the trolley car that you could get on for a nickel, which was a bit more reliable than automobiles.

He'd seen soldiers on motorized bikes before, too, but the young men were civilians, and it filled Stanley with the thought that if he stayed, if time allowed him to stay, he might get to ride one someday. With Devon in the front, and Stanley clinging on behind, his arms around Devon's waist, and the wind in their hair.

"Better hurry," said Devon, his words shaking Stanley out of his daze. "I think it's going to start raining again."

Devon led Stanley into a store that turned out to be a grocery store. The food was piled so high in every aisle that it was almost too much. Even in the middle of November, there were all the fruits of summer, shiny and polished, row upon row of red and yellow and green.

Stanley followed Devon around, carrying the basket, being of use. He ended up looking at the floor a great deal because it became overwhelming, otherwise. The food in that store would have fed every man in the battalion for a year, and then some.

It was a little better when they got to the bakery section; the smells were familiar, and the baker seemed happy to hand over samples. Devon dithered over his choices, and Stanley was content to breathe in the fresh baked bread smells, watching while various pastries and loaves were wrapped in silky waxed paper .

After they waited in line at the sleek-looking cash register, the bored clerk took each item and moved it from one part of the counter to the other in a ritual that Stanley didn't understand. The machine somehow totted up a long line of numbers that represented what Devon had purchased, though as to how the machine knew that, Stanley could not fathom.

Devon again paid for everything with the thin card that he showed to the machine. Then they piled everything in the string bags that Devon had brought with him, stuffed in his pockets, and together they staggered out of the store and into the street.

"It's only half a mile," said Devon, as though Stanley needed encouragement. He couldn't wait to get back, to be alone with Devon in the cottage. In the warm, still air, where the war seemed far away, and where the modern world had yet to encroach.