“Lloyd Kerr,” she repeated, writing it down.
“Let the record show,” I said, “that there was a boy named Lloyd Kerr.”
She looked at me, pen poised. She has patience, that one. She could sit beside you in a foxhole and bide her time.
“I met him in basic training.”
“Where you met Kay.”
“That’s right, Fort Bragg.” I frowned.
She waited. “You could tell me about meeting Kay.”
“He took me to dances,” I said. “Lloyd Kerr. He squired me around. We were all very popular, you know. Not much on offer in the way of girls.”
“So you dated other boys, too?”
“Oh, yes. But Lloyd Kerr is the one I remember, because he found me again overseas. He popped up out of nowhere. That happened sometimes. Once I passed another soldier I knew in a jeep; he was going one way, I was going the other. We waved. I hadn’t seen him in months and months.”
“But that wasn’t Lloyd.”
“No, Lloyd just appeared one day. Somehow he knew where I was. This was in France. He took me to see a movie in an old chateau we’d taken back from the Germans. Casanova Brown—a silly romance with Gary Cooper and Teresa Wright. They put up a screen in the entry hall. And sitting on the marble floor watching that silly movie were hundreds of dirty unshaven GIs with guns in their hands. Topsy-turvy.”
“What happened to him?” Jennifer asked.
“He was in the infantry,” I said. “Somebody shot him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I repeated. I looked at her. Was she sorry? People always say that. They say it automatically. “How I found out was, the sergeant handed me a letter at mail call, and it was one I’d written to Lloyd, and across the address there was a red stamp that said deceased. All in capital letters. DECEASED.” I leaned toward her. “Here’s a little confession for you,” I said, “since you seem to want one. I used to tell people about Lloyd, because people thought I was strange for never marrying, and so he was my excuse. My beau who died. My tragic romance. I’d say I was in love with him, but I don’t even know if that was true. Poor old Lloyd.”
She looked at me, so serious, a line deepening in her forehead. Was that an expression of judgment or concern? “I don’t blame you for that,” she said.
I sat back in my chair. “Well, I opened my letter and read it. I’d written the usual prattle: These cigarettes are horrible – but I am slowly learning to drink beer – Our food is pretty good. What a ninny I was. When I wrote it he was probably already dead. You know what I think about sometimes? All the things he never had any idea about, because they happened after he died. He never saw a television. He never heard of the Internet, or an iPod. He couldn’t have imagined an iPod. He never even heard of Elvis! He didn’t know we’d win. He didn’t know that war wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t know about Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf War. Iraq. Could he have imagined 9/11?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“That’s a disappointing answer.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Well, someone shot him dead and after that nothing mattered. That was that for poor old Lloyd.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Stop apologizing. It doesn’t matter now.” I felt angry. “If he’d lived I might have married him and had a passel of brats and a dog. Who wants that happy ending?”
“A lot of people.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you,” I said. “I don’t know why we’re doing this. I don’t know what it is you want to know.”
“You told me you wanted to leave a record,” she said, keeping her temper when I was doing my best to make her lose it.
“But you must want to know something, or you’re only listening for the money, and then I don’t want to do it, Jennifer. I won’t pay for attention. I won’t. I told you I won’t. Tell me that there’s something you want to know or this little project is over, and you can kiss your one hundred dollars an hour goodbye.”
“Okay,” she said evenly. “Tell me about Kay.”
I felt myself flinch. “You need that money, don’t you?”
Jennifer looked at me a long moment and then she sighed, sinking back against the chair. “This is too upsetting for you, Margaret,” she said. “It was a bad idea.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
“I should go.”
“No, no, don’t do that. I’m sorry. Really. I’m old and cantankerous. I told you I’m not used to people. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you a story about Kay.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said. “Really. I have a story I want to tell. I’d like someone else to know it. Write it down. Come on.” I waved my hand at her notebook. “Write it down.”
So she did.