Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I t was too easy to dismiss Stanley as a liar with the worst possible intentions. The other alternative was to imagine that Stanley was just plain crazy. Or maybe he was a troubled young man who needed more attention than the world could give him, and thus had come up with the idea of dressing as a World War I soldier who'd become detached from his battalion.

Or maybe Stanley was telling the truth. The uniform and the gear were hard to ignore, though, at the same time, it was not altogether impossible to get hold of articles with the dust of the battlefield still clinging to them.

Devon gave the trousers one last pat and went into the kitchen. He could still hear the water running and hoped the on-demand water heater could keep up. Meanwhile, he needed to get supper going, and find the bottle of wine to go with it in the vague hope that the wine would loosen Stanley up enough to tell Devon the truth.

To that end, he got out two steaks, the remains of the lovely potatoes au gratin that he'd bought from the French equivalent of a deli in the village, and made a quick salad. He set the table and poured himself a glass of red wine. He used a jelly jar, as the real wine glasses had both broken when he'd first tried to use them, and he'd never gotten around to replacing them. Besides, jelly glasses worked just as well, if not better. They didn't hold more but were sturdier in the hand.

He washed his hands and prepped the steaks with salt and pepper, and realized that he was nervous. Part of the problem was that he'd been alone in the cottage for over half a year, and had spent a great deal of time in his own head, staring at his computer screen and writing. Sometimes he walked the trenches, but he was always alone. Having someone near like this was not the same as going into the village and greeting a stranger when buying bread, though after a month, the baker had warmed to Devon, on account of he bought so many pastries on a regular basis. No, it was more that having someone in the cottage made him realize how different everyone else was, and how solitary his life had been.

People liked being with other people, and Devon usually didn't mind being alone, even if it was lonely. Back home, his college friends had often chided him for this habit, and Devon had ignored them, though now it was impossible to ignore. Especially since Devon's dream of meeting a doughboy had come true. That is, if it had come true, if Stanley was telling the truth.

Devon wanted to believe because Stanley was a handsome American doughboy, and it was hard to ignore how that pulled on his heart. But time travel was impossible. Which meant that Stanley was either a liar or crazy. Devon hated that either one might be more true than the other option. Though, if memory served him, there were several theories that time travel was possible. And, if he wanted to, he could take the time to open his laptop, bring up Google, and search.

Except that would take him down a very complex rabbit hole, which in the past always took him to YouTube, which would end with him at three o'clock in the morning, watching yet another video about five impossible images that shouldn't exist in photographs that could shock you. That or recipes involving potatoes, which he had not the strength to resist. Besides, he needed to stop going round and round in his own mind anyway, and just let everything play itself out.

As he took another drink of his wine, a lovely merlot that the wine merchant in the village had sold him, he decided he would watch Stanley and study him as though they were together in an experiment. Devon knew more about World War I than anybody except his thesis advisor, but that didn't mean there wasn't somebody who knew more than him. Which wouldn't be proof, only that Stanley had studied the era. But to what end?

When the water in the bathroom turned off, Devon's heart sped up. He tried to ignore the fact that his new guest was somebody he could actually talk to about his project, and who seemed interested. He must not forget that Stanley was probably a liar, he must not forget that what he should have done was call les gendarmes. He had, instead, called the council offices in the village, which had proven itself worthless.

In another minute, Stanley was going to come walking out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Devon's dream come true. He needed to make up his mind about Stanley, only he didn't know how.

Devon's mental version of an American doughboy had been more along the lines of someone who was eager to go and had not yet seen the horror of it all. Round-faced and bright eyed and full of energy. Which was not what he got when Stanley came out, although yes, it was in a cloud of steam.

Stanley was wearing Devon's jeans that no longer fit Devon on account of the pastries he'd been eating since day one. The jeans hung low on Stanley's hips. The long-sleeved gray t-shirt that was so big on him that his collarbones showed, and when he moved, was proof of how thin he was.

"Hey," said Devon in an effort to seem calm, rather than the fact that his heart was beating even faster and he really didn't know what to say.

Stanley was not the round-faced boy going off to war for the first time, no. He was all angles and lines, his dark eyes the color of whiskey, his shorn hair a shade darker, his face pale, the skin pulled to the bone. If Stanley were troubled, then obsessing over him like this might make his delusions worse, so though he was hard to resist, Devon knew he had to try .

"How was the shower?" asked Devon, doing his best to sound normal.

"It was good," said Stanley, speaking in the way he had, as if all the joy had been drained out of him and he was doing the best he could to be polite. "I like your soap."

"It's French," said Devon. It felt foolish to be talking about such mundane matters when he wanted to be grilling Stanley about the war. As if he believed him, as if it were all true. "France has got a lot of great things, bread, soap, wine—"

Stanley had come to a complete stop near the wooden table that Devon had cleared his papers off of. In the middle was a bowl of fruit that had pears and apples and oranges. It had been Devon's goal to eat at least a piece of fruit a day, but that had gone the way of toast and butter, crepes in the village, and potatoes au gratin.

Stanley was staring at the oranges as if he'd seen Santa Claus, or a pile of gold, like he'd not seen them in years . Which, if he'd been at the front lines, was a very good possibility. But not proof. Maybe he'd been in a mental hospital, where fresh food was scarce. Or maybe he'd been on the run from the law, and caring for his health had been the last thing on his mind. Regardless, Devon could afford to make the offer.

"Do you want an orange?" asked Devon. "Help yourself while I cook the steaks."

"Really?" Stanley's eyes were wide as he looked at Devon.

Devon wanted to smother him with reassurances, but it was important to stay cool. At least, it seemed like it was important to stay cool, to keep himself safe if Stanley turned out to be a con artist. But it was hard and growing more difficult with each passing moment because the things Stanley needed were so easy to give. Not to mention that those big eyes of Stanley's were tugging at Devon's heart.

"Sure," said Devon, swallowing. "Sit down, help yourself."

Stanley pulled out the chair and sat at the table, and when he picked up the orange, his hands were shaking. Devon drank his wine and looked away while Stanley peeled away the skin, though his eyes were drawn back so he could watch when Stanley ate the first piece.

His mouth was tender around the slice of orange, as though slowing the moment down to savor it. Except when he looked like he was about to bite into it, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth, cheeks bulging, eyes closed, dark lashes long on his cheeks. He chewed slowly, and Devon was easily able to imagine the burst of sweet flavors, the tang of it.

When Stanley opened his eyes, it was slowly, as though from a dream. It took a little of the shell-shocked look away, the look of a man who had seen too much too soon, and shaded him a little softer, to that of a young man, a boy from home who had come to visit Devon while he worked on his paper.

"So you realize why I have a hard time believing this," said Devon, clearing his throat. "Time travel is just a theory, right, and not something that just happens." Then he laughed, thinking of his life of study and silence. "Well, not to me anyway."

"Nor to me," said Stanley. "As far as I know, I died and I'm a ghost right now." His voice trembled, and Devon felt bad for doubting him.

"That," said Stanley, as he took another bite of his orange, seeming to rally himself. "That or this is heaven."

Devon smiled and sighed inwardly, warning himself against the cascade of feelings in his heart, and how that smile made him want to be able to see it forever. Which was impossible.

"Do you think you died from mustard gas?" said Devon, making himself stay serious and focused.

He knew all about the terrible effects of chemical warfare, which was partly why he'd been dragging his heels for a while. The futility of war, especially when he'd gotten into the details of different ways that had been invented for men to kill each other, made it hard to be disciplined about writing.

Before he'd started his master's degree, in his mind the war contained images of bon voyage parties, and doughboys in hastily erected dining halls being served hot coffee and donuts or was that World War II? The fact that there'd been more than one worldwide conflict always depressed him.

"Yes," said Stanley in a low voice, as though dragging himself from his own memories. "One minute I was running along the trench—"

"On the top or along the bottom?" asked Devon before he could stop himself because it looked like all of this talk about war was upsetting Stanley, and Devon should really stop asking questions. "I'm sorry, go on, but mustard gas is most potent at a certain level. On the top of the trench, you're golden, except for the bullets. At the bottom of the trench, it can be safer from bullets, but you're more at risk from mustard gas. Plus the damp weather made the gas even more dense, so it really collected at the bottom of the trenches. Sorry. Go on."

"Sometimes I had to go to the top to cross over, but mostly I was at the bottom. Then, when I was climbing up the side of a trench, I heard the click over my head. It's a really tinny click, that means—"

"That means it's too late," said Devon, filling in the blank.

He wanted to ask about the sound of the mustard gas canister coming open, and whether it came down with a sound like wings falling or whether it was something else. How long you could breathe, really breathe, before the effect of it overtook you. What had happened to the gas masks for Stanley's battalion anyway? How had they gone astray when they were such an important part of a soldier's kit?

It would be unnecessarily cruel to make Stanley go over these details, whether or not he was delusional. More importantly, why was Devon staring? He tried not to as Stanley finished his orange, but it was hard. Stanley was an American doughboy, Devon's dream, sitting right here at his table, eating an orange, dusting his hands as he finished. It must be that Devon was obsessed with doughboys, and that was why he was staring, and not because of Stanley himself. Right?

Regardless, Devon wanted to sit at the table with Stanley and ask him questions, listen to him talk, and encourage him to talk about anything, anything at all. Then Devon could watch his eyes brighten, and his mouth move, and his hands make gestures in the air. It had happened from time to time, but then Stanley would remember the war. His features would fall silent, and his hands would fall to his lap, and all the joy would go out of him. It was difficult to watch, so Devon reminded himself not to poke for information about the war, but to talk about something else.

"So," he said, brightly. "Now that you're here, do you know what this is?" He pointed to the fridge, sure that Stanley wouldn't know, not if he really was from 1917.

"It looks like an icebox," said Stanley. "A really big icebox, but I don't see where the ice will go—"

He leaned from his chair to get a better view, and Devon waved him into the kitchen. Stanley got up and came to Devon's side, which was distracting, so Devon made himself concentrate on his little tour.

"You're right, only we call it a fridge. See?" With a sweeping gesture, Devon opened the door and presented all of the food inside, thinking that, as it was a French fridge, it was a little smaller, more compact, than an American one, but it still held a lot.

"Is that milk ?" asked Stanley. "It's not in a bottle, but it's got a cow on it."

"You want some?" asked Devon. Without waiting, he got out a glass, poured milk into it, and handed it to Stanley. He wanted Stanley to know it was for him so that he wouldn't be able to try and pretend that he didn't want any.

Stanley got up, reaching for the glass with both hands.

The mistake on Devon's part was to stand so close while Stanley drank from the glass because his throat moved as he swallowed, and his eyes closed in pleasure, and the sleeve of the t-shirt fell away from his thin wrist, where the bones were pushing through. Devon wanted to take him, hold him close, and feed him till a flush came to his cheeks, and his bones weren't so stark, so obvious beneath his skin. But that would be pushing it, pushing too fast for someone who came from 1917.