Louise's War by Sarah Shaber Read Free Book Online Page B

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    Dora left us to join a group of the branch researchers across the room.
    ‘She has to watch herself,’ Joan said. ‘Can’t hang out with us clerks too much. Doesn’t want to be taken for one herself.’
    ‘I admire her so much,’ I said. ‘She’s got a real career. Of course she’s not married, she couldn’t do both.’
    ‘You don’t want to spread it around how much you admire her,’ Joan said. ‘You know she’s a lesbian, don’t you?’
    ‘A what?’ I asked.
    Joan pulled me aside and explained.
    ‘Good God,’ I said. I knew there were men like that, but I’d never heard of a woman doing such a thing. ‘How do you know?’
    ‘It’s not a secret. She taught at Smith before the war. I took her class on Asian cultures. I was shocked at first, but now we’re great friends.’ I glanced over at Dora. She didn’t look like a pervert. She was a tiny woman with short coal-black hair and thick glasses, thicker than mine even, but a lovely smile.
    ‘I want another ham biscuit,’ Joan said. We went back to the buffet and reloaded our plates.
    ‘Were you particularly close to Mr Holman?’ Joan asked.
    I took a chance on her discretion.
    ‘Not really, but I left some important information with him the afternoon he died. I’m worried about what became of it. I read in the newspaper what a mess his office was.’
    ‘How important is this information?’
    ‘It’s hard to say. Mr Holman seemed to think it should go to the Projects Committee.’ I paused, wondering if I dared tell Joan about Rachel.
    Joan noticed my hesitation.
    ‘We can’t talk about it here,’ she said. ‘You’ll be in the cafeteria for coffee break tomorrow?’
    ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘If my girls have recovered from food poisoning by then.’
    The crowd thinned quickly, but the widow didn’t seem to mind. She took her hand off her husband’s coffin and breathed a sigh of relief.
    All the mourners leaving the wake murmured about paperwork they had to get back to, but I knew better. The Washington Senators and Detroit Tigers game was about to start.
    ‘Can you come over to my place for the rest of the afternoon?’ Joan asked me. ‘I’ve invited Charles and Dora too.’
    ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That would be fun.’
    The funeral director mopped his face and under his arms with a damp towel. He was sure his shirt was ruined, the second one this week. He’d been a nervous wreck since Bob Holman’s corpse arrived at his funeral home escorted by two FBI agents. He glanced out the window. The same two agents sat in a black Packard that waited at the curb, engine running, poised to follow the hearse to the cemetery for the deceased’s burial. There wouldn’t be a church funeral as such, only a minister speaking a few words at the gravesite. It’d had been like that since the country had gotten into this war. Not enough time or gasoline to drive all over town for separate services.
    He’d embalmed and arranged Holman’s corpse exactly as the G-men had instructed him, obscuring all evidence of the wound at the base of his neck. It was barely visible anyway. Puncture wounds closed quickly, leaking only a trickle of blood. He’d caked foundation a quarter of an inch deep over the mark and powdered it liberally, dressed him and settled the man’s head into the deep folds of the thick silk pillow in the coffin.
    Holman’s widow was the last person to leave. The mortuary assistants lifted the heavy coffin onto a gurney, rolled it out to the curb and heaved it into the hearse. The vehicle pulled away from the curb, trailed by the G-men a few car lengths behind. He’d be glad when Holman was safely planted six feet deep. Then maybe he’d stop ruining shirts.

SIX
    I ’d visited Joan’s studio apartment at the Mayflower Hotel a few times before. I wished I lived there and owned everything in it, from the Pullman davenport that opened into a bed, to the club chairs slip-covered in blue-flowered chintz, to the sculpted wool