Stars Over Clear Lake Page 27

  “I was just thinking of how hard it must have been for you to marry Dad, who was a German, especially after your brother was killed in the war. Did you ever have any regrets?”

  I reach over and pat her hand. “Not a single one,” I say.

  Forty-eight

  2007

  The warm air holds a crisp scent that means the Indian summer will be short-lived this year. I missed the harvest festival last year because of Sid. Now I walk through the park, where homemade jams, handcrafted jewelry, and tables of baked goods line the streets. The sound of polka music drifts from the bandshell. Wine and beer-tasting tents dot the sides of the park. It fills my heart to see my hometown overflowing with crowds shopping in the local boutiques, watching the pumpkin relay roll, and taking rides on the trolley. Babies in strollers, dogs on leashes, and young adults on bicycles are in abundance.

  I make my way to the Arts Center, where visitors are admiring the hanging art and tables crowded with paintings and sculptures. I find the long table where the memory tiles are on display next to the written memories. The instructors are there, along with Jane from our condominium, all of them beaming with pride for their students.

  “We have wonderful news,” Jane says. “These tiles are going to be part of a memorial wall in the entrance of the Arts Center, along with the written pages. What a lasting tribute they’ll make!”

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless.” I feel a certain pride in the tile I made, in the fact that I’ve created a visual memory, if only for myself. I look down at the image of the ballroom, the majestic turrets, the red-tiled roof, the fencing around the rooftop patio, and the lake in the background. And of course, the flames surging out from the top of the ballroom. Now everyone will see it and learn about the original Surf. I wish Sid could be here with me.

  Other artists arrive. Many have families in tow, and I feel strangely alone. I’d mentioned it to Daisy, but she didn’t seem interested. Group pictures are taken, as well as individual pictures that will be mounted next to the tiles on the wall display.

  I’m admiring some of the other artwork when I look up to see Harry and Daisy studying my tile and sketch.

  “We thought we’d see what you were up to,” Harry says.

  “This is really good,” Daisy says, with a bit of surprise in her voice.

  “Thank you. It turned out better than I thought it would.”

  “Well, I’ve always been very artistic. Maybe I got that from you.”

  Daisy has become so agreeable over the last two weeks that I’m not sure she’s my daughter. We’ve never gone this long without fighting. I’m not sure if it’s my recent confession or the fact that my surgery is scheduled for Thursday.

  I lean across the table and whisper to her. “Did you tell Harry?”

  “Yes. He’s thrilled about our tarnished past. He thinks it’s the best thing that’s ever happened.”

  “At least it isn’t dull.”

  “I prefer dull. But it’s a side of Dad that I never saw before. I’m glad you told me.” She gives my hand a squeeze, and I know that I did the right thing in telling her.

  “I’m going to wander,” she tells Harry, and moves on to the next table.

  Harry is bent over, reading my written memory of the fire. His brows go down in a way that I know means he’s struggling with something. He finally looks up. “You wrote that you were outside and saw the fire. But then you wrote that you helped the Fox family evacuate. That would be before the flames were visible outside. I don’t buy it, Lorraine.”

  “Oh, maybe I didn’t remember that correctly.” Harry has always been too smart for his own good. But I’ve been carrying secrets around for an awfully long time.

  Harry folds his arms. “I have a feeling you know more than you’ve been telling me, don’t you?”

  I let out a long sigh. “Okay, Harry. I have a confession. I was inside the Surf when the fire broke out. I was lucky to get out alive.” It feels good to speak the truth after all these years.

  Harry draws back as though I’ve gut-punched him.

  “I should have told you from the start,” I say. “I’ve never been good at disclosure. It’s taken me my entire life to live up to that flaw, as you know from recent events.” I motion toward Daisy, who’s speaking with another artist.

  He stares at me for a long moment. “You know what started that fire, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “It was an accident,” I assure him. “A neglected cigarette and spilled liquor on top of the bar. It spread so quickly that we barely got out alive.”

  “We,” he says, “You weren’t alone.”

  “No.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He lets out a forced laugh. “Yes. I feel as though I’ve been led on some wild goose chase this whole time. Are you protecting someone?”

  “More than one person, actually. No one knew we were inside at the time.”

  He leans forward. “If it was an accident, then it’s not as though we’re going to bring charges sixty years later.”

  “This is a small community, Harry. You’d be surprised how it still might affect people today.”

  “If it was a cigarette like you say, how does that account for the explosion Mr. Fox heard?”

  “The deep fat fryer was just on the other side of the wall behind the bar. There was an oil drum connected to it. I’ve always wondered if that caused the explosion.”

  Harry nods. “A deep fat fryer holds different levels of moisture. The old models were known to explode on occasion. But whose cigarette…”

  He steps aside as a wheelchair is pushed past. Lance Dugan. He’s hooked up to an oxygen tank, which is fastened to the side of his chair. He shows little reaction to the exhibits as a young woman pushes him through the center of the room. But when they pass my tile, the old man motions to stop.

  “Maybe we can talk later, Harry,” I say, excusing myself.

  Harry moves to the side, but he’s watching Lance. Lance’s eyes flare with recognition as he stares at my tile.

  “Hello, Lance,” I say. “It’s good to see you out.”

  He touches the faded scar. “Did you make this?” he asks, pointing to the tile.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “It’s good,” he says. “A nice likeness.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved.

  “I used to go there all the time, you know.”

  “I remember.”

  He leans forward to read the written memory. His shaking hands pat it afterward.

  “I was there the night of the fire,” he says. “I was inside.”

  “I know.” I glance back at Harry, who hasn’t moved.

  Lance peers at me closely and furrows his brows. “You didn’t go with Scotty. You went with … someone else.”

  I can see the confusion in his eyes as he struggles to remember. “Jens,” I say quietly.

  “Yes. That was his name.” He looks deep in thought when he suddenly bursts out, “War’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. Dugan!” The woman pushing his wheelchair covers her mouth.

  “Well, it is! But it’s all water under the bridge. Right, Lorraine?”

  “Right,” I say, surprised he remembers my name.

  “I never thanked you,” he says, touching his scar again. “Or Jens.”

  I can see the fear in his eyes, perhaps from remembering how close he came to dying. My own heart still pounds at the thought of how I’d almost lost Jens. Even old age and illness can’t erase the memories of that night.

  “It’s not necessary,” I tell him. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Everything was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “You take care,” he says, then motions for the woman to continue on.

  Harry’s eyes follow Lance and I can see him making the connection. It’s the wrong conne
ction, but my instinct is to let him draw it. If Lance hadn’t started the fight, I wouldn’t have broken the whiskey bottle on the bar, and it wouldn’t have caught fire. And if Sid hadn’t put his cigarette on the bar, or if we’d noticed the fire earlier, maybe we’d have had enough time to put it out. So many twists of fate, ones I’ve mulled over for the past sixty years.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself.

  “Are you going to tell me why you were inside the Surf with Lance that night?” Harry asks.

  “Let’s just say it was one of those childhood transgressions. The kind you’d just as soon forget about.”

  He sighs. “You’re right, Lorraine. Water under the bridge. I guess that’s a good conclusion for this investigation.”

  I nod. “Thank you, Harry.” I feel lighter; the weight of the secrets I’ve been carrying all these years has faded away. Finally. Except for this last one. I still feel a compulsion to protect Sid, even after his death.

  As Jimmy Dorsey once told me, some secrets are better left unspoken. This one I’ll take to my grave.

  Epilogue

  I wear a dress that hits my knees and has a short matching jacket. I dug it out of the closet, it’s fifty years old, but it was a favorite of my husband’s and it still fits, more or less. I spray a little vinegar-water solution on it to get rid of the musty smell, and dab Chanel No. 5 behind my ears. This is a special occasion. I’m not afraid of seeing ghosts at the Surf tonight. In fact, I’m counting on it. The cool night air carries the scent of the lake, and seagulls call out from across the road.

  The Surf’s parking lot is empty of cars. I recheck the invitation I received in the mail, wondering if I got the date wrong, or the time. I look at the fancy scrawl inviting me to a big-band performance with Ray Pearl and His Orchestra. I know it must be a tribute-style band in his memory, but I long to hear those old tunes, especially tonight. Is everyone else just fashionably late?

  I walk up to the box office. A woman stands inside. Violet, with her dark bobbed hair and cherry lipstick, her jaw working its way around the glob of gum in her mouth.

  “Violet?” I feel my pulse quicken.

  “Hi, Lorraine,” she says, as though she saw me just last week, as though years and death haven’t separated us. “Would you like a ticket?”

  I regain my composure. This is indeed going to be a special night. “Yes, please.”

  “One dollar,” Violet says.

  I fumble in my clutch and hand her a dollar bill. “Why isn’t the marquee lit up?”

  “This is a special dance. Only for invited guests. I love your outfit,” Violet says. “You must be meeting someone special.”

  “I hope so.” Seeing Violet makes it seem even more possible on this special day. “And in case I forgot to mention it, I appreciate all your hard work.”

  “You’re so sweet,” Violet says, and hands me a ticket. “I don’t want to keep you, though. The place is already packed.”

  Packed? “But there aren’t any other cars in the…” I stop, wondering who could be inside.

  “Go in and see for yourself,” Violet says, and blows a huge pink bubble, then inhales, causing a popping sound inside her mouth.

  I open the door, not knowing what to expect. From the lobby I can see the dance floor is already crowded, just like the old days. But as I step down onto the shiny floor and look more closely, I realize the guest list for this dance is most unusual. Some of the people on the dance floor are old musicians, long-departed ones. Everyone is dressed in clothing from another era. I look up on the stage and draw in a sharp breath. The past flickers before me like an old-time movie and I feel the years roll back. Ray Pearl and His Orchestra are playing a ballad while Darlene Benson sings. Just like the opening night back in 1948. It isn’t a tribute band. It’s the real one.

  I stand near the wall, taking it all in: the music, the smiling faces, the atmosphere. Whatever rabbit hole I’ve fallen into, I have no desire to climb out.

  A man with dark hair and a twinkle in his eye approaches. Jimmy Dorsey. “Can I have this dance?”

  I flush at the sight of the charismatic man standing in front of me, but shake my head. “I’m afraid not, Jimmy. I’m meeting someone special tonight.”

  “Lucky man.”

  He pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

  “No smoking allowed here,” I say. “It’s bad for your health.”

  He waves the cigarette in the air. “Who’da guessed? I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  The band is playing an old song called “Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland.” I sing along with the tune.

  Meet me tonight in dreamland

  where love’s sweet roses bloom.

  Come with the love light gleaming

  in your dear eyes of blue.

  Odd how these words still speak to me, and how the lyrics of long-ago songs seem to have stayed in my head for so many years.

  I look at my ticket. Booth 110 has been reserved for me. I sit down and wait, my hands tight in my lap, feeling more nervous than I have in years. The floor seems especially smooth and sparkly tonight, as though it’s been buffed and waxed for the occasion.

  Why had Sid and I stayed away from this place? We should have been dancing here every week! There was so much we should have done, so much we never had time to do. Time moved too quickly. We always thought we’d have more of it.

  We’d both been surprised when he became ill. After all he’d been through, after surviving the war and the POW camps. Cancer seemed too ordinary a disease for someone who’d been through all that.

  “Lorraine!” Miss Berkland stops at my booth. She’s younger and thinner than I remember her ever being while she was alive, and she has her hand on the arm of a young man with an irresistible grin. “Will you be singing tonight?”

  “Singing? I don’t know. Is that possible?”

  “Of course! Sly and I are doing a duet,” she says, motioning to the man next to her, whose dark eyes shine with a certain kindness.

  “You simply must sing for us, too. See you later, dear,” she says, and smiles at me.

  It has been so many years since I sang a solo. Sid and I had spent three years touring with the band, until I’d finally been offered a recording contract. I remember looking at my husband, asking if I should sign it.

  “It’s your dream, Lorraine,” he’d told me. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  But then I’d gotten news that Mom was dying, and suddenly I’d ached for the farm and the life I’d left behind. I knew Sid wanted to settle down, too. We made it back shortly before her death, and Daddy welcomed us with open arms. I never looked back and never regretted it. My life has been a happy one.

  I know that aging has caused my voice to lose its clarity, tone, and range. Of course, in this magical place, perhaps it is possible to sing again. But there’s something else I’m dreaming of tonight. A special someone.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a familiar young man in uniform. Pete! He’s standing by the wall next to his buddies Mike Schmitt and Jerry Ashland. He eyes a pretty girl walking by and raises his glass of beer in a toast to me from across the room.

  I start to get up. But before I can stand, a hand gently presses down on mine. I gasp and cover my mouth with my other hand.

  I’ve imagined this moment so many times, but now I don’t quite believe my eyes. His blond hair is neatly combed and his dimple more pronounced. He’s dashing in his white suit and black bow tie. He looks like the boy I knew so many years ago.

  He takes my hand and I stand. “Happy anniversary,” he says, drawing me close to him.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” I say in a quivering whisper. My eyes brim with tears. “I thought you’d be mad at me because I told your secret.”

  He shakes his head. “How could I be mad at you? It was the thought of you that kept me going during the years at the prison camp. I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t kissed me that day in the barn. If you hadn’t t
old me you loved me. You made my life worth living. You know I love you no matter what, Lorraine.”

  He kisses me and I forget everything. I’m a young girl again. I’m no longer in Iowa. I’m in a tropical paradise under a dark sky, watching a band play next to the flickering lights of the palm trees, while clouds float across the ceiling. I smell a whiff of salt air and see the waves washing against the shore on the far wall.

  “This can’t be real,” I say.

  “Don’t I feel real to you?” he asks, and his accent is thicker, like it was when he was young. He squeezes my hand and brings me closer.

  “Yes. But this is impossible.”

  “Wasn’t our love impossible?”

  “If this isn’t a hallucination, then what is it? A dream? Am I dead?”

  “It’s magic, mein Schatz.”

  Magic. Is it a twisted magic caused by a failing heart? But everything feels so grounded. I drove here in my car, walked across the hard pavement, put my keys and ticket stub in my clutch, which is sitting on top of the booth.

  And the love of my life is holding me, ready to waltz across the crowded dance floor. We’re among the spirits of this place who fell in love here, whose essence is part of the clouds floating above our heads and the floor beneath our feet. It’s like coming home again.

  “I don’t care what it is, Jens,” I whisper into his ear, and it feels good to use his real name again. “As long as you’re here with me.”

  The band is playing the song, “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and despite the crowd, it feels as though it’s just the two of us on that floor.

  And then we danced.

  Author’s Note

  Not many people are aware that approximately seven hundred POW camps were scattered across the U.S. during World War II, housing more than four hundred thousand German soldiers by the end of the war. Every state (with the exceptions of Nevada and Vermont) had POW camps that were demolished shortly after the war ended. The POW camp in Algona, Iowa, housed ten thousand Germans over the course of the war, with an average of 3,261 from April 1944 to February 1946. The POWs worked on neighboring farms in the community as well as at local factories. The Camp Algona POW Museum in Algona, Iowa, has done a good job of collecting artifacts pertaining to the camp.