The Number 7 (31 page)

Louisa Eloise Magnusson.

“It's a beautiful collection of art, Louisa,” Rosemary complimented, as she found a spot next to me staring at the photographs.

“Thanks.”

“Your mom appears to have been quite the woman.” She leaned in closer to the wall to examine the shots.

The first in the series included old black-and-white headshots from when Mom thought she wanted to be an actress—a career that was over practically by the time the headshots were developed. I'd also decided to include a playful print from a trip to the zoo, where Mom licked hungrily at a chocolate ice cream cone while an Asian elephant watched her longingly. Next, I'd mounted colorful portraits of Mom's wedding day at the courthouse, where she and Dad looked too beautiful, too happy to be in the small, sterile confines of an industrial office building.

“I like this one the best.” Rosemary pointed to the one of Mom and me in our leotards.

“Me, too.” I smiled.

“How's it going? You haven't come to visit in a while,” Rosemary said. It was the first time we'd been alone all night.

I shrugged and took a sip of my ginger ale. “I know what I'm supposed to do now.”

“Oh?” Rosemary looked to me inquisitively, crossing her arms.

“I think she wants me to appreciate the life I have. Or celebrate the life I've been given. Or something like that.”

“Sounds about right,” Rosemary agreed. “I really loved your grandparents, as I think I've told you. Your grandpa always used to bring me a pint of strawberries from the market every weekend in the spring. He didn't say anything, of course, but he and Eloise would stop by and deliver the berries, even if I wasn't around. They were wonderful neighbors and wonderful friends. I hope you'll share their story with me someday.”

“I will.”

“So is it over?” she asked, turning back to my art.

“I don't know.” My voice sounded very sad, and I knew Rosemary could hear it, too. “I hope not, but it will have to be, eventually, I suppose.”

She turned to me and gave me a hug. She smelled like primrose and powder.

“You're an incredible girl, Louisa. Stop by sometime soon, okay? Even if it's just for a cup of coffee.”

I returned the hug and nodded. And then Rosemary turned around to go and find Dad. I stood at one of the bar tables positioned around the room, ripping my napkin into tiny little pieces. Dad came over to congratulate me and to express his unending pride in the person I had become. Standard Dad stuff. Then, Greta floated over with a middle-aged woman who was interested in talking to me about my work and my interests. At the end of our conversation, the woman handed me her card.

“It's never too soon to start looking at schools,” the woman said with a wink. She was outfitted in a '60s mod dress, black cloche hat, and orange heels. She leaned in toward Greta. “Good luck with everything.” Then she was gone.

“Wasn't
she
a little Mary Tyler Moore? So cute!” Greta giggled.

I smiled, looking down at her card. It was nice to know that someone other than my dad, my sister, and my teacher saw some talent in my work. This essay project—and this exhibit—opened up my eyes to new possibilities. I decided to start taking my Film Photography II class more seriously. Mr. Franz would demand it of me, and besides, I wanted to grow as an artist.

“Want something from the bar?” Greta asked. “The crab cakes are pretty good.”

“No, thanks, I'm okay. You go; I'll wait here.”

She disappeared into the crowd, and I was alone again.

Then suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. “I've been growing those mums in my greenhouse for the past four years. They've never looked better.”

I spun around, caught off guard, and found myself face to face with Gabe. He grabbed my hand and adjusted my corsage. He was dressed in black and white from head to toe, a classic tuxedo with black bowtie. He looked amazing.

“Gabe!” I gasped, and he laughed at my surprise. “How are you here?” I wanted to throw my arms around him and nuzzle his neck, but I was too afraid.

“We need to talk.” He glanced around the room for a quiet corner before spying my collection. “But first, why don't you introduce me to your mom?” Gabe gestured to the wall where my project hung in the lights. He grasped my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine, and led me over to the spot.

“She's beautiful,” Gabe observed, making his way down the line of pictures. “And she looks . . . really kind.”

“She was.” I squeezed his hand, letting him continue studying the images.

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I smiled to myself. I didn't care who was watching us: Dad or Greta or Mr. Franz. This was my moment. And as Gabe pulled me eagerly toward the exit, I was happy to let the rest of the room disappear.

Outside, in front of the gallery, Gabe hopped up, taking a seat on a brick wall. “You know, Jenn called me and told me you were cheating on me with Chris Harris,” he admitted, staring at his hands folded in his lap.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything.

“I'm sorry I lied about the walking pneumonia,” he continued, “but I needed to buy some time to figure things out.”

“And have you?” I croaked, trying to mask the lump in my throat.

“Well, I talked to Chris.” He finally looked up and stared deeply into me.

“And?” I managed to whisper.

“And he said that whatever you guys had was lost. ‘Disappeared in history' was his phrase.” Gabe ran his hand through his hair and then casually untied his bowtie, letting it hang loosely around his neck. “Lou, you know I think you're kind of spectacular.” He grabbed my hand, and his words rushed out with an uncontrollable force. “I finally told Jenn that she and I were never, ever going to happen. I want to be with
you
. I want to be with you on Valentine's Day, I want to take you to the prom, I want to spend our summer together. I don't want there to be any more doubt about whether we are or we aren't together. But I can't tell whether you think we are . . . or we're not.”

“Gabe,” I tried to explain, “everything about you is different. And I like your different. It takes me a while to figure things out, but I always find my path. I'm kind of like my mom that way.” When I uttered those last words, one vivid, once-lost memory came flooding back to me. My indecisive mom used to agonize over which color was her favorite. But then, after tirelessly going back and forth between muted earth tones and bright primaries, she'd always find her answer. “Yellow,” Mom would proudly declare. “It's always been yellow. And I've always known it was yellow.”

“Yellow. Memory 523,” I grinned. It was a lost memory now returned. The first memory to add to my list in two years.

“What?” Gabe squeezed my hand.

I took his hand and pulled him close.

“We definitely, definitely are together,” I smiled.

We kissed like two people first in love. This was the beginning of everything. On the way home, in the safety of Greta and Rosemary in the car, I made the announcement.

“Dad, I have a boyfriend.” I braced myself for the worst.

“That's great, kiddo. I have a girlfriend.” Dad grinned.

Rosemary turned in the passenger's seat to face my father. “You do?” She looked shocked.

Dad took his hand off the steering wheel to affectionately squeeze Rosemary's knee. She smiled and sat back in her seat, before Dad added quickly, “Well, you are, aren't you?”

“Oh, yes, I am,” she agreed assertively, looking pleased.

Sitting side by side in the Subaru, the two of them looked completely at home with one another. Greta only rolled her eyes at us all.

Gerhard traveled for forty-eight straight hours through wood and bog, keeping off the main roads and steering clear of people until he finally collapsed near a farm south of Växjö. He had nothing but the clothes on his back.

He'd fallen from his bicycle when its tire blew two towns back, so he'd abandoned it and continued his journey on foot. His beloved pocket watch's face had cracked in his tumble, and it lay lifeless in his pocket. He spent the night in a barn next to a warm heifer in a pile of hay. When he awoke, he wasn't alone. A small boy stood watching him.

Guardedly, Gerhard rubbed his eyes and stretched. His body was stiff and ached.

“Are you him?” the small boy asked, taking a seat on the barn floor. He picked up a piece of straw and placed it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The cow shifted her weight.

“Who?” Gerhard sat up slowly, staring at the boy with both interest and confusion.

The youngster reached behind him, grabbed the daily news, and tossed it to Gerhard's feet. Gerhard lifted the paper up to a stream of light breaking through a crack in the wooden wall behind him. The front page contained a large picture of the train wreckage at Mile Marker Two between Trelleborg and Kornsjø. The headline read, “Local Vigilante Brothers Sabotage Nazi Route.”

Gerhard read the article, which vaguely described the events leading up to the accident. It reported that Gerhard Magnusson, conductor of Trelleborg's Number 7 train, died either in the crash or in the fire that ensued afterwards. His brother, Lars “Lyckliga Lasse”

Magnusson, hadn't reported home that evening; he had disappeared from Trelleborg and was assumed an accomplice in the crime. Reading further, Gerhard wasn't surprised to see that the Nazi party had announced a full-scale investigation and search for the missing brother. Swedish Prime Minister Hansson, in agreement with Lukas Österberg, was quoted as saying that Sweden did not condone, support, or encourage acts of rebellion of any kind. Österberg continued to say that Swedes were a peaceful and neutral people. The only portion of the article Gerhard found shocking was that the order for the search party came directly from the Führer himself.

Herr Hitler's official statement was, “This act of brutal injustice, including the murder of 479 innocent German soldiers, will not go unpunished.”

Gerhard smiled to himself, realizing how big a disruption the Trelleborg sabotage must have triggered in Germany for Hitler himself to make such a statement. Lasse had been right: the two brothers
could
influence the war.

“So, are you him? Are you Lars “Lyckliga Lasse” Magnusson?” The boy pointed at the front page.

Gerhard smiled tenderly at his brother's childhood name, Lucky Lasse. But Gerhard didn't deserve the glory. He also realized, however, that this moment, sitting in this barn, a wanted fugitive, was not the time to expose himself. He needed to be a ghost.

“
Nej
, it's not me,” Gerhard winced as he stood. His muscles felt tightly wrapped over his bones. “Thank you for the shelter.”

“My father is gone for the day. He told me to give this to you, if you were him,” the boy held up a small aluminum pail. “But I'll give it to you anyway.”

Inside the pail, Gerhard discovered two loaves of rye bread, a small wheel of cheese, and a liter of fresh milk. He thanked the boy for the charity before he consumed one of the loaves with a few bites of the cheese, and continued his journey without destination.

The following week, after making his way through most of Småland and taking up lodging in the occasional vacant summer house or farm stable, Gerhard felt brave enough to travel through Jönköping, a middle-class town situated at the base of Lake Vättern. He took a seat on a stone bench in the center of town, facing the water. It was late in the day, and the sun was setting slowly on the west shore. Seagulls skipped across the waves, scavenging for small fish. A fat man with thick fingers slumped down next to him on the bench. He was panting heavily. Immediately, Gerhard inhaled the pleasant smell of boiled sausage. He turned and saw that his companion was a sausage cart salesman. Gerhard had no money to purchase a sausage, but his growing hunger didn't care.

“
Hejsan
,” the man greeted, continuing to gaze out at the water.

“Hey to you,” Gerhard smiled, hoping to work an angle.

“Crap for a day, huh?” The man laughed heartily and winked at Gerhard.

“Oh, I'm just passing through. It's a nice town,” Gerhard attempted to flatter the man.

“It's a crap town,” the man gurgled, taking out a small flask from his jacket pocket and taking a swig before offering Gerhard some.

“No, that's okay,” Gerhard held up his hand in refusal. “But if you have any sausages left that you'd like to throw away . . . ”

“Sure, friend!” The man smiled, gesturing for Gerhard to help himself.

Gerhard eagerly stood at the cart and fished out a long sausage from the steaming water, dropping it into a roll. He didn't ask for mustard; he was happy just to have something to eat. After finishing, Gerhard produced his small tobacco tin and began rolling his final two cigarettes. He was sad to see the last of his tobacco go, but was pleased to share it with the generous man. The two sat smoking for a while, watching the sun linger in the sky.

At last, the man spoke. “You hear the damned Nazis caught the Magnusson boy?”

“Oh?” Gerhard's ears perked up. He feigned as little interest as possible, not wanting to attract attention to himself.

“The papers released a German report that they had found him dead in SkÃ¥ne. Apparent suicide, if you believe that.” The man took another sip from his flask. “It's a shame. Those boys were the closest thing this country had to heroes.”

Gerhard sat a moment, digesting the fabricated Nazi ruse.

“Do you have a paper and pencil, friend?” Gerhard leaned toward the fat man, putting out his cigarette on the bench.