Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

T here was nothing but layers, layers black as pitch, hot like the sun. Stanley felt them all, his arms spread wide, his head tilted back, though whether he was moving forward or backward, he didn't know. Only that he was dizzy and still all at once, and that his fingertips felt frozen, and that the cold might be creeping closer to his heart with each moment, each eon, that passed.

He landed face down, his whole body slamming against something solid and cold. With a start, he opened his eyes, blinking against the damp. Slatted rain was falling on the still-green grass. Within moments, he was dotted with wet, flat flakes of snow.

Pushing himself up, he reeled as though he'd been tossed for hours. Then he was still, sitting with his hands braced behind him. He stared across the field to the cottage, shocked that there was no smoke coming up from the chimney.

A silver-colored car was heading out of the driveway and along the road to the village. In the back of the car was Devon's dark head, which was turning back to the cottage, as though for one last look.

Stanley opened his mouth to shout.

"Devon. "

It came out a croak; he couldn't find his voice to stop Devon, so he had to find another way.

Stanley stood up and started to run, except the grass was slippery. His legs felt like rubber, and he stumbled to his knees. He got up again and ran as fast as he could, though he felt like he was going in slow motion, mouth open as he searched inside of himself for the sound that simply wouldn't come.

He ran anyway, his arms up, reaching for the car that was about to turn the corner into the copse of trees. At which point, Devon would be out of sight and out of reach, and Stanley would be alone. He wouldn't know how to contact Devon in this land of small, portable phones, and metal laptops you could carry, and cups of coffee that tasted smoky and good.

His heart began to break, and his knees trembled.

Suddenly, to Stanley's astonishment, cutting through his fog of desperation, the taxi spun to a halt on the blacktopped road. Devon got out, jacketless, and began to run. He ran straight for Stanley, and within a moment, his arms were around Stanley. He was with Devon, finally , and Devon was protecting him from the cold, the snowy rain, a bulwark against the uncertainty of time.

"Stanley," said Devon, his face buried in Stanley's neck. His nose was cold, his lips were warm, his breath sweet and soft on Stanley's skin. "I waited and waited, but was leaving—"

"I saw you," said Stanley. He could hardly believe he was here with Devon, in the future, the war a faraway thing in his past. "I thought you didn't see me."

"Oh, I saw you," said Devon, and he was shaking all over as he held Stanley tight. The edge of the circle of Stanley's ID tag glittered on Devon's neck. Stanley admired it for a second before he kissed it, and kissed Devon's neck as he was held.

"One moment, there was green grass," said Devon. "I wanted to cry at the emptiness—but then you were there . I couldn't believe it, and then I couldn't get the driver to stop because I'd forgotten all of my French— "

"He's waiting." Stanley lifted his head. The driver had parked in the driveway in front of the door of the cottage and was standing next to his taxi, looking at his watch.

"I'll tell him—" said Devon, and then he stopped. "But first I need to show you something. You need to look behind you, just look."

Stanley resisted. He didn't want to look because behind him was the past that could snatch him back at any moment. Behind him were mud and trenches and barbed wire and exploding mortar shells. Behind him was the war, and he wanted it to stay there.

"No, it's okay," said Devon. He lifted his hand and gently turned Stanley around, away from the gray cottage and toward the soft, rippling humps that were the remains of the trenches built by the 44 th Battalion.

And that was all that was there. Gone were the white crosses, row on row, stark against the green, snow-flecked grass. Standing solitary at the far edge of the field stood a single narrow monument of smooth white stone. Devon ignored the cab chuffing in the driveway, the driver standing next to it, and dragged Stanley through the wet grass to where the monument stood, a single reminder, a sentinel to the war.

"Look and see," said Devon as Stanley scanned the words inscribed into marble, the flare of stone bunting on either side a small shield from the snow. "From the moment you left the second time, it said this. I looked at it a hundred times while finishing my paper. You did it, Stanley, you saved them all."

"Is that me?" asked Stanley, though he could hardly believe what the words said.

Dedicated to Wilifred Sullivan, who died November 10, 1917.

In honor of the brave soldier who saved every man in the 44 th Battalion.

He gave his life so that others might live.

"Yes, that's you," said Devon, his arm solid and warm around Stanley's waist. "You completed your mission."

"I hid," said Stanley as Devon led him across the grass and back to the cottage. "Then I went back and gave Lt. Billings the code. He ordered the retreat. I stayed behind to make sure everybody got out and then—the mustard gas got me, anyway."

"But you're here now," said Devon. "You're here now with me."

When they reached the driver, Devon talked to him in French. There were hand gestures on everybody's part until Devon handed over a small fold of bills, and helped the driver unload Devon's things. After which, he waved the driver away, which left them both standing at the door of the cottage while Devon fumbled with the lock, and then drew Stanley inside.

"Your things," said Stanley. He breathed in the sweet, warm air, and as Devon pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him, Stanley knew there was nothing better than this feeling, this moment.

"Screw my things," said Devon.

"Your papers," said Stanley. "Your metal laptop, you need those."

"I need you ," said Devon. "Besides, it's all done now. I sent everything to my thesis advisor yesterday. I was waiting till today to leave in the hopes—"

Stanley closed his eyes and buried his face against Devon's chest, and thought about staying there forever. Even then, he couldn't get enough of Devon's scent, the sound of the low pulse of his heartbeat, the solid feel of his arms, the way he swayed slightly back and forth as though rocking a child into a peaceful sleep.

Stanley opened his eyes and looked out at the falling snow, at the white flecks on Devon's suitcases, his boxes, the black cloth satchel that held his metal laptop.

"Where were you going?" asked Stanley. He pulled away and looked up at Devon.

"I was headed back to the States early," said Devon. He took his hand and traced the curve of Stanley's cheek. "I finished my paper like I promised you I would, so there was nothing for me here. You were gone forever, Stanley."

"Well, I'm back now," said Stanley. He meant for his voice to be firm and assured, but it shook. "And I want to stay with you, I want to stay. "

"You can stay with me in the States," said Devon. "I'm going to make phone calls."

Standing in the open doorway, they were both getting wet, and snow threatened to cover Devon's things with thick, damp layers. Stanley let go of Devon to bring Devon's things inside. Devon closed and locked the door while Stanley dusted off the snow and carried the suitcases back to the bedroom, and the satchel with the metal laptop, and the box of papers, back to the kitchen table where they belonged.

Each moment he'd been in the war, he'd thought of this cottage with its small rooms, the thick curtains that kept out the world, and it was important, at least for a moment, that everything was as he'd remembered it.

He realized that Devon had not moved from the door, and that he was staring at Stanley as though he were starving. His expression reflected how Stanley felt.

"I'm afraid time will take me back," Stanley said, admitting his biggest fear.

"It won't," said Devon. "You've done what you set out to do. You've completed your mission, so take off that uniform and have a hot shower. I'll make you something to eat, though it's only frozen pizza again, and we're out of milk."

Stanley smiled at the mundane concern about there being no milk to drink when they could easily go to the store and get more. He peeled off his jacket, now stiff with mud and blood. He'd forgotten about his wound until Devon made a sharp sound and was at his side.

"What the fuck, Stanley," said Devon, his hands on the bandage that the medic had so carefully wrapped only hours ago. "Are you wounded? Is that blood on your arm?"

"It's not bad," said Stanley, his hand going to test the edges of the bandage, as he would have done in the trenches to make sure that no dirt was getting beneath the edge. "It's only a little blood. The medic put iodine on before he wrapped it; a bit of shrapnel got me. It missed the radio, which still didn't work, which was why I had to go—"

"Take everything off and get into the shower," said Devon, making a slicing motion with his hands. "I'll unwrap your arm and after you shower, I'll get real antibiotic for that wound, and a clean bandage."

Devon began to peel off Stanley's shirt and was unwinding the bandage, though he was slowing down with every turn of the cloth, his eyes wide.

"This is a bandage from World War I," Devon said, his voice low with awe.

"Yes," said Stanley. He had to smile because Devon's face was lit with excitement, and it was okay now that Stanley was here and in one piece. The wound was a mere scratch, something to share with Devon. Maybe Devon could add something about the bandage to his paper, although he'd already handed it in. Or maybe he wouldn't add it, since it had nothing to do with the weather. "Rex checked that shrapnel hadn't gone all the way through to the bone and then the medic wrapped it."

"Rex was one of your army buddies, right?" asked Devon. His concentration was on the pile of muslin in his hand, which had little red lines from where the blood on Stanley's arm had soaked through.

"You remember. He was one of the fellows I went through basic with," said Stanley. "Him and Bertie and Isaac."

"Isaac made it out?" asked Devon, though the answer was obvious; every man had made it out alive because of Stanley. Unspoken was the question that Devon had asked before, whether Stanley had been in love with Isaac, and whether Isaac was like Stanley and Devon in that way.

With his chin tucked low, Stanley looked up at Devon through his lashes and, for a moment, both of them were still.

"He couldn't have loved me back," said Stanley, gently. "He wasn't afraid, he just didn't want it. But he was kind to me, always."

"He might have loved you in his own way," said Devon.

"Yes," said Stanley. "He was with me when I died, holding my hand."

"Stanley," said Devon in that soft way that told Stanley everything he needed to know. That Devon was glad he was there, was glad he made it through, and that he never wanted Stanley to leave. It strengthened him to be so loved; with Devon at his side, he knew everything would be good.

Devon kissed him and brushed some of the mud from his face as he put the bandage on the table. Then he walked Stanley into the bathroom, and helped Stanley out of his uniform. He tossed each piece aside in a casual way, as though the uniform didn't mean as much to him as Stanley did. Later, perhaps, he would examine the garments, though Stanley really didn't want to see any of them again.

Devon turned on the shower, and as the hot water ran and Stanley stood naked on the bathroom rug, Devon checked him over.

"Look at the amount of mud that soaked through your uniform," said Devon. "And the bits of shrapnel that made their way through the cloth. And where did you get all of these bruises?"

Stanley shook his head and let Devon fuss over him. He felt a little tired by the journey through time, but it was different, in a way. Devon felt more real, the cottage more familiar, and though he was worried about time changing its mind, he knew he had finally earned this time with Devon.

"Shower now," said Devon, pointing to the water. "I'll make food."

While Stanley soaked in the shower, the warm water washed away the numb, cold feeling in his bones. As he was getting dressed in the t-shirt and baggy cloth pants that Devon had left for him, he opened the door to let the steam out. He could hear Devon on the phone talking in a loud voice to someone about papers for Stanley. Then came the sounds of Devon puttering around, the sounds of a frozen pizza box being opened.

In a moment, Devon came into the bathroom and pushed up the sleeve of the t-shirt. He bathed the slender wound in something that looked like jelly from a packet, but which quickly numbed the pain. Then Devon unpeeled the wrapper from something that looked like a pre-made bandage, and carefully laid it over the wound.

"We'll check that in the morning," he said. "If it's infected, I'm taking you to a doctor, you got it? "

"I'm not arguing with you," said Stanley. Although he was confused by the fuss, he could easily see that in this future time, first aid was taken very seriously. Plus, Devon kissed the edge of the bandage and smoothed it with his fingers, as though his love would surely be the healing of the cut, which Stanley, on the receiving end of all that care, was sure would be the result.