In the middle of the night, William hears Bea sniffling. She hasn’t cried much at all since they learned her father had died. That was a week ago. She’s not present, though. It feels to him as though she’s somewhere else. It takes her a moment to respond, to engage. It’s like it was when she first arrived. There’s something behind her eyes, something unreadable, but something he almost understands. Sorrow, loneliness, loss. This is what grief must look like.
He’s stayed up late this week, wondering whether she wanted to talk, but he never could get up the nerve to come into her room. Now he knocks on her door, not using their code but just tapping. Bea, he whispers as loudly as he dares, are you awake? She comes to the door and opens it. She’s in a flannel nightgown, her feet pale against the floor. He steps in and shuts the door behind him, as she climbs back into bed and pulls the quilt up around her legs. William stands, awkwardly, between the door and the bed.
You okay, he asks. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help. She sort of smiles at him. Don’t look so miserable, she says. There’s nothing to do. My father died. My mother is all alone. And I am here, not there. I can’t even go to the funeral, William. What kind of daughter doesn’t go to her father’s funeral? Then she starts laughing. I mean, how ridiculous is this? He survives the Blitz, he rescues people out of burning buildings, he stands guard night after night, waiting for the Germans to arrive, and then he dies because his heart stops working? It just doesn’t make any sense.
I know, he says. What kind of a God would let that happen? A stupid God, she says, and then wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head. But don’t let your mother hear me say that. Then she leans toward him. That’s what you could do, though, William. Play interference. I know she means well, but I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about him. I just want everything to go on like before.
Okay, he says. That I can do.
She’s silent for a few moments. I have an idea, William says. She looks up. You can’t go there for the funeral, but we could have a funeral for him, right? Just the two of us? How could we do that? she asks. He starts pacing back and forth between the window and the door. We could do something in the woods. The cemetery. Or maybe the chapel. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he only knows he wants to do something, to help her in some small way. You know, I showed you that side door that’s always unlocked. He’s never been to a funeral. He has little idea of what happens at one. But she seems to like the idea. Yes, she says, her eyes meeting his, that sounds good. Let’s do that.
Later, in his room, he lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It frightens him, sometimes, how he longs for her approval. For her smile.