Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

He tapped his temple, then touched his chest. “In here, and in here.”

He’d never forget his family’s faces the night he’d come home, how he’d frightened the people he needed the most. Recognizing that he was responsible for their unease had motivated him to work harder, and Molly had helped with that as well. The people here had grieved for years, thinking he was dead, so now he needed to show them he knew how to live.

“Our head and our hearts might still be back there, but our lives are here now. We have to pay attention to the people around us, or else we’ll lose ourselves entirely.”

“I feel like I already have, Max. I can’t shake this. Jocko is like, he’s like…” He lifted his hand. “He’s like my hand. Always there. Part of me.”

Max searched Jimmy’s face for the scrappy kid he used to know, wondering how to reach him. His favourite memories of Jimmy were at the ball games, then talking and laughing about them after. So Max returned to the ballfield to find him.

“It’s the bottom of the ninth, Jimmy. Bases are loaded, but the other team’s brought in a new pitcher. You know he’s got the goods to beat you. What’s your move, Jimmy? You gonna pass the bat to someone else?”

Jimmy stared at him, and it took a full beat before he could respond. “No?” His voice was weak as a child’s.

“Don’t ask me, Jimmy. It’s not up to me. It’s up to you. Maybe you’re too scared. You can walk away and lose, then hope to play another day. Or you can fight back right now. Hit that home run.” He could see Jimmy’s need to understand. He was almost there. “I’m sorry Jocko died. I know what that feels like. And I’m sorry you were there at all, just like I’m sorry I was there. I’ll never stop being sorry that Richie, David, and Arnie never came back. But you and me, we’re here now. We need to live our lives. People here depend on us. Respect Jocko’s memory by being the guy he knew.”

A tear slipped down Jimmy’s cheek and dropped onto the table. “I can try.”

Max nudged the plate of sufganiyot. “You can start by having another one of these. You need to put on some pounds if you’re going to go up to bat.”

The corner of Jimmy’s mouth lifted slightly, then his smile grew, reaching toward his eyes. They crinkled at the corners, in a way Max remembered so well. “You know, Max, I could say the same about you.”

Max patted his ribs. “Should’ve seen me before.”

“No,” Jimmy said. “Not about that. He reached across the table and tapped his nail against Molly’s cold cup of coffee. “I think you’d better step up to the plate soon, Dreyfus. You’re letting the pitcher win.”

twenty-eight MOLLY

I set my fingers on the keys of my typewriter and waited for the words to come. They always came. They were my thoughts. My feelings. Myself. But nothing came to me. Not even a whisper.

I’d thought I could write this POW story. That I could be objective. Listening to the men’s stories and writing them all down was so important for them, for me, for everyone. But I hadn’t counted on what they’d do to me. Their memories had seeped into my subconscious. When I closed my eyes, I saw their nightmares. I had awoken this morning, sweating and shivering.

“Molly,” Ian said, coming up to my desk. “You’re looking…” He hesitated and took a seat on the corner of my desk. “Actually, you’re looking a little rough. You okay?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t sleep last night. After I left your house, my night got a little wild.”

His eyes widened when I told him how Max and I had come upon Jimmy, being beaten up on the street, then how Max had sewn him back together.

“I left Max with him this morning. They were still talking when I left for work. Jimmy’s a mess, as you know, but I think if anyone can help him, it’ll be Max. Jimmy always looked up to him as a kid.”

“You guys were all pretty close back then, huh? Why’d you drift apart?”

“Oh, it happened a long time ago. After the riot. Remember that night?”

He did. I’d told him long before about the brick that had led to my father’s stroke, but I hadn’t told him that Mum had blamed Max’s father all this time. There hadn’t been a reason to tell him, until now.

Ian leaned back, taking in this new information.

“That’s what Richie’s letter was about. We read it together last night.”

“Wow,” Ian said. “I missed a busy night. But I’m glad for you. It must feel good to know the truth after so long. I imagine Max’s family is relieved too.” He frowned. “So, Richie threw the brick to stop your dad from beating up Max. I get that. But I don’t think you ever said why your dad was going after Max in the first place. He was a cop. Had Max done something? A fight like that sounds like something personal.”

Heat shot up my neck. “Oh, it was nothing.”

He sat up a little taller. “Well, now you’ve got me curious. From the shade of your face, I’d say it was more than nothing.”

“It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.” I looked over at the stack of papers on my desk, searching for an exit. “I’m sorry. I really should get back to this article. It’s taking forever.”

He was watching me, the oddest expression on his face. “Did something happen between you and Max? Is that why your Dad went after him?”

My skin burned.

Ian took my silence as confirmation, and his eyebrows lifted. I couldn’t read his mind, but he definitely wasn’t smiling. “I see,” he said, almost to himself. “That explains some things.”

“We were young,” I said quickly. “It never would have worked, and we’ve