Page 96 of When We Were Enemies
“What was that?” I ask, on my feet and by his side in a flash.
“I ... I don’t know,” he says, kicking something under the desk to my right. I fall to my knees and reach under the lower edge of the frame and pull out a compact camera. I’ve seen it on pretty much every interview we’ve shot so far. It’s Mac’s camera—and it’s recording.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, holding up the device. I’d turn it off, but I don’t know how.
“I have no idea. I was just putting on my jacket.” He holds up his hands like he’s showing me he’s not a criminal. I don’t believe him. “Mom! Mac! Come out here,” I shout as loud as I can, holding the camera while scanning the rest of the room for equipment.
My mom bursts out from the bedroom like she was listening through the wall, which she likely was. Or through headphones or a screen, because just as she notices I’m holding a camera in her direction, I find another one, this one a bigger model, also running. A mic sticksout from behind the picture above where I was sitting with my mom, and I spot another one clipped to the lamp shade. How’d I miss any of this?
“You were filming me?” I ask my mom and Hunter at the same time. A dozen other moments I’d assumed were private flash through my mind. Were those recorded too? I don’t address Mac because the idea of him invading my privacy isn’t shocking, but the other two—I thought they loved me.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. They already had it set up when I got here.” Hunter’s being honest, finally. But it’s too late for me to be moved by honesty. I’m wounded, maybe mortally so. What else has he hidden from me?
“What the hell? Why are you so invested in this?” As soon as I say the word, I know.Invested.Is Hunter the anonymous investor who’s been funding this whole project?
“I thought you’d like it. I thought it’d be fun or something. I didn’t know it’d end up like this.”
“Are you, like, Mac’s partner?”
He stares at me in silence and then mutters, “You weren’t supposed to find out ...”
“What the hell ...”
“It’s not his fault, baby,” my mom jumps in. “Don’t be mad at Hunter and Mac. They meant well ...”
“Oh my God, Mom,” I gasp, feeling like a lamb cornered in a den of lions. “Don’t you see—your boyfriend leaked the story and called the paparazzi. He’s willfully ruining my reputation for what? A little free publicity?”
“I did no such thing,” Mac says defensively, his accent giving him an air of dignity I don’t think he deserves. “I knew more than I let on, and Hunter has been instrumental in getting this project off the ground, but I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of. It can take some finagling to get a project like this out of development and into production. But Inever leaked a story or pictures to anyone. I do havesomejournalistic integrity.”
“That’s doubtful,” I say, glaring.
“No, dear, it’s true,” my mom says, coming to her man’s defense, as always. She never sides with her children, her family, not even herself—always her man.
“Mom, stop standing up for this guy. He’s clearly lying.”
“He’s not lying, hun. I was the one who called ZTM and gave them the pictures. I’m the source.”
I drop the camera. My mother. Not Hunter or Mac but my very own mother. I can’t be in this room, this building, anymore. My surroundings spin, and I pivot on one foot, glad that I’m wearing gym shoes.
I run.
I run into the hall and down the stairs. I run through the side door and past the antiques mall and Cracker Barrel and follow the wide asphalt road that goes past industrial parks and smells of freshly tilled earth now that it’s planting season.
I should’ve known better. I’ve lived and worked long enough in entertainment to know that everything around me is a mirage. They’ll be close behind me, I’m sure, trying to reason with me or change my mind or pay me off. But for now, I’ll run to the only place I’ve known without a doubt is real—the church on the hill and the man inside it.
CHAPTER 32
Vivian
Saturday, June 19, 1943
Edinburgh Middle School Gymnasium
I exit the stage with a bow, and the men whistle and cheer in their native tongue. I’ve never performed in front of a crowd where English wasn’t the primary language, and during the performance, I found myself talking to the gathered prisoners in Italian.
The dance was officially organized by the Italian American Organization (IAO), Father Theodore, and the parishioners at Holy Trinity, but Lieutenant Colonel Gammell asked me to act as a liaison between the groups and the camp. The leaders from each of the divisions were awarded passes along with a few hand-picked men seen as deserving of a special reward. Those in the chapel construction crew were a part of that limited list.
The dance is held in the middle school gym at the rear of the long rectangular building behind Holy Trinity, with Father Theodore presiding as the host and chaperone. The women attending are of a slightly different sort than those at the USO dances. These girls have been bussed in from other Catholic parishes in the area by the IAO. Theirskirts are longer and hair darker, and many have accents that blend in with the men they dance with.
