Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

W hen the air was warm with the smell of garlic and pepperoni, they sat at the table to eat. Dressed in soft, borrowed clothes and wrapped in a fluffy blue robe, Stanley ate a slice of pizza and drank the soda pop that Devon had poured over ice. It was a great combination of flavors, though he wasn't very hungry. He just wanted to sleep in Devon's arms forever. Wanted sleep to take him away from his thoughts about time taking him back to the war.

He felt Devon looking at him with dark eyes.

"What's the matter, Stanley?" asked Devon. He leaned forward and took Stanley's hand.

"I'm afraid that time will take me back at any moment," said Stanley, allowing his worries to surface. "I'm so tired, but I'm afraid that if I fall asleep, when I wake up, I'll be back there."

For a moment, Devon looked at the slice of pizza in his hands, examining it the way soldiers in the trenches had, as though looking for mice droppings or flakes of mud before eating something. Stanley could see that Devon was thinking this through with as much concentration as he might a section in his thesis paper. Then Devon looked up at him, determination making his jaw firm, his eyes bright .

"We're going to test it," he said. "I'll take pictures of you in your uniform like we did before. And then the second time when you took pictures of yourself."

"I wanted to go back," said Stanley, though he hated the thought that admitting it might hurt Devon's feelings and wound his tender heart. "I had to finish my mission or I wouldn't deserve being here with you. So I put on my uniform, recited the code in my head, and took a picture of myself with your phone. Like we did before. I think it was the flash that did it, that sent me back."

If he'd thought that Devon would get angry in any way, Stanley couldn't have been more wrong. Devon put down the pizza, got up, and came to Stanley's chair, and hugged Stanley very tight. Stanley pressed his cheek to Devon's belly, and circled his arms around Devon's hips, and then they were still, together like that.

"You were so brave," said Devon, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe how brave you were; you saved everybody, and you still came back to me."

"Time let me, I think," said Stanley, though he couldn't say how he knew this. "At least I feel like it did."

"You've got good feelings," said Devon. "And I'm so, so glad you're here, I can't tell you."

Stanley stood up in the circle of Devon's arms, feeling a little warm in the blue robe now that they were so close. Devon slipped his arms inside the robe, and it was as though they were both wearing it together. He could feel the warmth of Devon's skin, and taste traces of garlic on his lips as he kissed him.

"I am glad that I'm here," said Stanley. "But I want to be sure, too, at least more sure, that nothing's going to happen, that I won't be taken from you again."

"We'll repeat what we did," said Devon. "Then we'll be sure."

With some reluctance, Stanley got dressed in his uniform, hopefully for the last time. The wool was scratchy. It smelled of mud and blood and the sad mildew of age, as though it was very old and nobody had touched it in a long, long while. Which was odd, since he'd just taken it off .

He took the wrapped chocolate out of his pocket and put it on the table, as he didn't want the lump ruining the line of the uniform. He took the ID tag from around Devon's neck and let Devon tie it on him.

Devon knelt at Stanley's feet, lacing his boots with the 48 eyelets, and wrapped the puttees in careful layers. Devon handed him the dented canteen to sling over his shoulder, but there was no rifle. Stanley didn't ask about the rifle because he really never wanted to see it again.

When Devon posed him in the middle of the living room, Stanley made a point to stand in the same way he'd stood before. His heart beat fast with the fear that the war would open up behind him and he'd be there once more.

Except it felt different. He'd completed his mission, and it didn't have the same feel, it just didn't. Yes, he was a little tired, but he wasn't experiencing that bone-deep pull of gravity in the same way, the way that reminded him every minute that this was not his world. He wasn't feeling that, but it was scary just the same. Especially when Devon turned on the flash with a flip of his thumb and took the photos.

The brightness of the flash stung Stanley's eyes, but nothing happened. The photographs had been taken and Stanley was still standing next to the sturdy farm table.

Devon looked at him with questioning eyes.

"Anything?" asked Devon, his voice full of hope.

"No," said Stanley. "It's different from the last time. It's strange. I don't have any of the same sensations."

"Okay, okay," said Devon, as though to comfort Stanley as much as himself. "Now let's try the other thing you did—didn't you say you said the code? So maybe do that."

"I opened the door first," said Stanley. "To look at the rain."

"Okay," said Devon, nodding, his eyes wide with nervousness. "Let's try that."

Stanley went to the door the way he had that one night, when deep in the darkness he'd awoken with a pulling desire to save Isaac and Rex and Bertie and everybody, to save them all from certain death. To do the right thing.

Then, it had felt as though his whole body was buzzing, being pulled into the past. But as he opened the door, now, the mist was coming down. His face was wet, as with before, but his body felt the same as it had only a moment ago. He did not feel any urgency, nor any fear.

He turned from the open door and said the code, the whole of it aloud. The words resonated with only a shadow of their former power as Devon took another flash photo of him.

His heart was beating that he'd be taken from Devon and shoved back into the muddy trenches. Only nothing happened this time either. He looked over at Devon's tight body all drawn up as though in anticipation of the most mortal of pains, his face still and grave, no light in his eyes.

"Anything?" asked Devon. His lips barely moved. "Is anything happening?"

"No," said Stanley, shaking his head. "It's not the same at all. I just feel a little tired, but normal, like it was any other day."

"Maybe it is just another day," said Devon. "Maybe you'll get to stay with me now."

Stanley wanted to peel off his uniform and get Devon to build a fire in the fireplace so they could burn everything from the vest to the trousers to the puttees. He wanted to put the past behind him, but it was that same past that had brought Devon here, to the village of Ornes, where the last battle of the 44 th Battalion had been fought. So maybe some part of that past ought to be preserved, to mark the moment when their two lives had become entwined.

"I feel like I've always been with you," said Stanley. He half expected that Devon might pull back at the heartfelt sentiment.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Devon came close, pulled Stanley to him, and hugged him. A whiff of mold puffed up from the uniform, which was crumbling on his shoulders as though tearing with the pressure of Devon's arms .

"What is going on?" asked Devon. He stepped back, his hands on Stanley's shoulders. "Take that off, it's falling apart even as I look at it."

The whole of the uniform was falling into flakes, into tatters, the leather of Stanley's boots crumbling and shrinking, the collar of his shirt worn to the thinness of an autumn leaf.

As he stepped out of his uniform, the seams on his trousers split and every piece blew away into a puff of dust. The strap on the canteen disintegrated and the canteen fell. The hemp around his neck withered into a strand that melted on the faint draft from the radiator, and the ID tag, more rusted around the edges than it had been before, clattered to the floor.

Devon grabbed the blue robe and threw it around Stanley. He tied the sash at his waist, then bent to pick up the ID tag. He held it in the curl of his palm and looked up at Stanley.

"Maybe time is letting us keep this," he said, his eyes hopeful as he searched Stanley's face.

"And the canteen," said Stanley. He pointed at it. The canvas case around it was gone, but the metal, a bit dented in the middle, shone like dull nickel beneath the overhead light. "But what happened to the rifle, Devon?"

He meant the question as a joke, but was surprised when Devon blushed and looked away.

"I smashed it because you were gone."

"What?" asked Stanley, his mouth open.

"I couldn't bear to look at it anymore," said Devon. The corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes dark with sadness. "I couldn't bear to think of you suffering through the war, and every time I saw the rifle, well, it got to be too much. So I destroyed it."

This, as if Stanley needed it, was evidence of how much Devon cared about him. Not his experience, or his uniform, his soldier's kit, but him . Stanley Sullivan, ex-soldier, and soon to be returning to the States with his scholar, whom he loved.

"Please don't worry about it," said Stanley. "We'll get a new strap for the canteen, and we'll make you a necklace with a piece of ribbon you can loop through the tag so you can wear it forever. Okay?" He said the word as Devon always said it to him, as confirmation and an expression of care.

"Okay," said Devon as he reached into his pocket for his phone. "But I'm going to worry until we are away from here, you know? Put some clothes on, and we'll pack, and I'll call the airlines—Stanley, what is this?"

Huddled in the fluffy blue robe, Stanley hurried to the table where Devon was picking up the chocolate that Isaac had given him. The three or so squares were wrapped in waxed paper, which had the oily look of having been stored someplace where the heat had gotten to it.

"That's the chocolate Isaac gave me," said Stanley. "He was always doing that because he said he didn't like chocolate, but I always thought it was because he wanted me to forgive him for not, you know—"

Stanley waved his hand in the air as though conjuring up an explanation. The floppy sleeve of the robe slid back from his wrist as he reached to take the chocolate from Devon, who surely wouldn't want it.

"Isaac gave you that?" asked Devon, his voice hushed. "On that last day, on November 10 th , 1917?"

"Yes, he did," said Stanley. He didn't really understand the question until he saw that light of passion in Devon's eyes. Then he cleared his voice and told the story, laying out the scene as it ought to be done so that Devon could enjoy the moment to its fullest.

"Normally, we get our chocolate ration on a Thursday, after supper. It was always bully beef and rice, and the rice was usually undercooked, you know?"

Devon nodded, his eyes wide as he listened to Stanley, rapt with attention like a child preparing to hear a beloved story.

"You know that what they gave us had to last a week, right? Well, none of the fellows could last that long, and usually they had races to see who could finish first. There wasn't much point in holding back if you knew you might die before the end of the week."

With a shaking hand, Devon started to put the chocolate on the table, but Stanley went to him and put his arm around Devon's waist. With his other hand, he cupped Devon's hand, and lifted their joined hands so Devon could see the chocolate.

"Normally, Isaac gave me his chocolate ration on a Thursday, and I'd eat it all up before bedtime, and that's just how it was. But this time, Isaac gave his chocolate to me on the 10 th . I never had time to eat it and so now I'm giving it to you." Stanley unwrapped the waxed paper, pushing back the flap with his thumb. "Now, you do want to taste what it was like to be in the trenches on November 10 th , 1917, don't you? Go on, you can."

"Can I?" asked Devon, looking at Stanley with all the hope in his eyes, his obsession for the war and everything about it a wild, passionate spark. "Really, can I?"

"Yes," said Stanley. "And I'll have some too, so we can share it together, a gift from Isaac to us."

The thought of Isaac and his generous nature and what he might say if he ever learned about Stanley and Devon, made Stanley feel a little sad because they'd never again meet. But it was more important to focus on feeding Devon chocolate that had come from the very war he'd written his paper about.

Still holding on to Devon's waist, Stanley laid the chocolate on the table, the waxed paper beneath it, and with tender fingers broke off three even pieces. He lifted a piece and fed it to Devon, who took it on his tongue as though it were something holy. With a dreamlike expression in his green eyes, he let the chocolate melt for a moment, and then began to chew. Stanley could sense him taking notes the whole while.

Stanley popped a piece into his own mouth, the familiar gritty taste of the chocolate melting on his tongue. When he swallowed, he fed Devon the last piece, taking no refusal, and watched with all of his concentration as Devon devoured it.

"It's not as sweet as I'd thought it would be," said Devon, then he shook his head as though dissatisfied with his explanation. "It was more like dark chocolate than I expected. You know, like you would use making a cake from scratch. "

"Scratch?" asked Stanley, completely confused. "Do you buy it in a store?"

"No, no," said Devon with a little laugh. There was a smear of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, so Stanley leaned in and licked it off and stayed close while Devon explained. "It means—well, you make it from the ingredients, rather than a boxed mix, which is what we have nowadays."

Devon's world was filled with amazing things, like cake ingredients that came premixed in a box, and oranges in the middle of winter, and radiators that made chilly rooms warm. But the best thing was Devon himself, who was looking at Stanley with hopeful eyes. He seemed to need reassurance, and giving it to him would help Stanley feel more steady, which he was with every passing moment. Nothing was impossible now, and there was nothing to fear.

"You'll take me back to the States with you, right?" asked Stanley, doing his best to give Devon something to focus on besides the fading taste of World War I chocolate in his mouth. "You won't leave me here, right?"

"I will take you anywhere you want to go," said Devon. "And we'll be together for the rest of our lives."

Stanley tucked his face in Devon's neck and reached out to clasp the fist that Devon had made around Stanley's ID tag. He clenched tight and let go. Devon placed the tag on the table next to the waxed paper that, oddly, looked as new as it ever had, and hugged Stanley very tightly.

"I love you," said Devon, his voice a hushed whisper across Stanley's temple.

"And I love you," said Stanley, equally low, lifting his chin to kiss Devon's jaw. "I think I always have. I think I've loved you since forever began."

He was trying to say something about time, and how time had gifted them each with the other, but he wasn't making any sense, not even to himself.

As Devon had so often understood him, he seemed to do so now, for he pulled his hand back and cupped his palm against Stanley's cheek.

"Forever begins now," said Devon, solemnly, like a vow. "Forever begins with you and me, right now."