Marcus Evers was killed on a field in France. The poison of a yellow-green gas had found him where he lay wounded with a dozen others. It was only one loss among many, but made more noteworthy because he did not have to be there. He had chosen his own place in time.
Henry turned the knob on the microfiche machine and refocused on the gray film. A woman nearby complained of something to the librarian at the desk. Henry tried to shut out the distraction.
The first report, on July 24, 1916, had been too short.
Marcus Evers, correspondent for the Chicago Times, has been reported killed during the ongoing British military action at the Somme. His timely dispatches have been a constant feature in these pages in recent months.
And a week later.
The death of Chicago Times reporter Marcus Evers has been confirmed by British War Office. Some question has been raised concerning his reason for being on the field of battle. American reporters have often been excluded from field action during the European conflict. Most dispatches are filed from Paris or London, and Berlin. Evers’ detailed reports of ongoing hostilities have been the cause of frequent criticism from British authorities.
A month later, the last newspaper story appeared.
The father of Marcus Evers, the Times reporter recently killed in the ongoing military action at Somme, has made a donation to the City of Chicago to be used in part for a memorial plaque.
Evers died in July after suffering wounds received from a shell burst. His death occurred during a German counterattack employing poison gas following a British offensive action when he was unable to move to safety due to his previous injuries. His dispatches have been sorely missed. As an American correspondent, Evers was not officially attached to the British battalion which had become the subject of his reports. His presence had been a matter of controversy. It appears that Evers’ previous friendship with Field Commander Lieutenant General David Wright had served as his pass to the front lines. A letter from General Wright to William Evers, the father, offers further details confirming the death of the Times reporter. Evers’ sharp eye for detail and his patent disregard for his own safety gave American readers a most revealing look at the ongoing horrors of war. His untimely death has made him a tragic part of the very subject he had so well covered. General Wright's condolence noted Evers’ bravery and the reporter's own recent private loss as a source of inspiration for his brave work. The Times has established a scholarship in Marcus Evers’ name at the University of Illinois. The memorial plaque will be placed at the Chicago Public Library.
What private loss had Evers suffered? Henry had found the book by Charles Whitman, the former Chicago Times editor. He had ordered it from a bookshop in Ann Arbor. Only one paragraph referred to Evers.
Henry reread the passage when he got home. The shadow in the words was not clear—but it was there.
"Several of our reporters were to die in that war. One, because he was the first to go, stands clear in memory. Marcus Evers, always eager, always quick, who had worked with me in the newsroom fresh out of college, had grown in a few short years to be a featured correspondent. He might have remained at his desk and enjoyed his success, and one day even taken my own chair. But the sting of personal misfortune stole away his care for mundane things. Nothing less than the larger tragedy of our time could quiet his mind. He pulled strings enjoyed by few and placed himself in the forefront of the Great War. He died there, only twenty-nine years old."
What personal misfortune?
Had he lost the woman he loved? Had life become so bleak for him that only the cut and stench of war might be felt?
Henry ignored the buzz of the doorbell. He wanted to sleep. It felt as if he had only just closed his eyes, but it was the sun that burned now against his eyelids. He thought for a moment, with his eyes held shut against the light, that it was Saturday and he would have to be getting up for the auction in Concord, and then realized it could only be Friday. He had spent his Thursday at the library. The buzz of the doorbell broke the silence again.
Whoever it was wanted to talk, and he was not in the mood for conversation. He rolled over and faced the relative darkness of the wall. His phone rang.
He capitulated and picked up the receiver.
"Good morning, Henry."
It was Leona. The huskiness in her voice was smooth.
He said, “I suppose. I was trying to sleep."
She said, “It's gorgeous out here. You can smell the autumn, and there's just a hint of the ocean."
Henry was afraid to ask, “Where are you?"
She said, “Sitting on your front steps."
He was trapped.
"What did you want?"
"You. I came to get you up and out of your little library. Come have breakfast with me."
He had not eaten the night before. The confrontation with Arthur had come back to him in his dreams. He had awakened twice in the midst of a struggle with his blanket in the dark. Now he was, in fact, very hungry.
He relented. “It'll take a minute. I have to get dressed."
Leona said, “I'll wait. It's a little cold, though. Can I come in?"
He climbed out of bed as he put the phone back in its cradle and took the few steps to the button which unlocked the front door, and then turned the latch on his own door as he went through his kitchenette to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet in the tub and heard his apartment door open as he waited for the hot water to rise to the shower head.
He said, “I'll be out in a minute.... Read a book."
He heard her say, “Which one?"
He said, “Take a chance. Any one."
Her question struck him as funny. For all his critical judgments about books, he would read almost anything given the spare time.
He had just gotten the soap out of his eyes when the bathroom door opened.
She said, “Can I come in? I'm really not in the mood to read right now."
Through the break in the shower curtain he could see the red petals of the rose, not far below the dark chocolate bud of her right breast.