The Right Kind of Wrong Read online

  I raise my eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, your great-grandfather, James, wasn't a nice man. He was smart as a whip and his business skills made him successful, but he didn't accomplish things the way most people did. He was cunning and sneaky. Being James' son, Wesley got the backlash for carrying his name, though he was nothing like James."

  Vince pushes his plate forward—it has been wiped completely clean— and clears his throat. "Makes sense. I bet some of them were pissed off that he lived while other people died. Did Wesley have PTSD or survivor's guilt?"

  I cringe. Vince isn't aware of the no-airing-your-dirty-laundry rule.

  Grandma's face turns beet red. "Good Lord, no. Wesley was just fine. I never understood when people would talk about those diseases. I, for one, don't think they exist."

  Vince and I share unconvinced expressions. I'm pretty sure that my grandfather did come back with some form of PTSD. His freaking tank blew up for Christ's sake. That has to do something to a person.

  The silence between the three of us is awkward. My grandmother seems preoccupied with her thoughts. She makes a move to pick up Vince's plate but I stop her.

  "I got it. You shouldn't have been slaving over the oven for us anyway." I carry our plates to the sink and drop them in scalding water. I hear her shuffle toward the living room and turn on the T.V. extra loud. Apparently, you lose all hearing when you're old.

  When I was growing up, I stood in this exact spot, telling myself I'd never buy a house without a dishwasher. I'd never wash a damn dish again! But now that I'm back, the soap suds cling to my hands like silk and I look out the window at the setting sun. It's like I never left. Part of me wishes I hadn't, but then I remember what my life would have looked like if I'd stayed.

  I'd probably be in this exact spot by a sink, somewhere in a nice house with a dainty ring on my left hand. Barefoot and pregnant.

  I shudder, not because it's a terrible image, but because it's not who I am. It's not what I want.

  "Whatcha doing?" I jump at Vince’s whisper near my ear. He barely shifts away and when I turn, we're so close his lips almost touch mine.

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" I say, breathless.

  "Need some help?"

  "No, I got it. Can you take that box upstairs? I'll come up when I'm done." He's still uncomfortably close to my face. His smile widens.

  "Sure." He moves and the excess air in my lungs deflates. He picks the box up and turns around. "By the way, you may or may not look adorable all sudsy and shit."

  I don't realize what he says at first and then it clicks. My face is as hot as the dishwater. I can't tell if he's being facetious or honest. I zone in on his smirk and I'm tongue-tied.

  Except, I don't get tongue-tied.

  I muster a, "whatever," but the corners of my mouth lift against my will.

  I place the last dry plate in the cupboard with the rest of them. Faint snoring drifts into the kitchen. Guess Grandma didn't make it to the bedroom. I stand in the living room entrance. She cradles the remote in one hand and a picture of Grandpa in the other. My eyes well but I pull myself together and race up the stairs to Vince's room but I stop when I hear he's talking to someone. I lean against the door. His voice is animated and I catch a few words here and there.

  "I can't wait... It's going to be amazing. Talk to you soon... Bye."

  The curiosity tugs at me in the oh-so-familiar part of my brain. The part that usually get's me in the most trouble. The angel on my right shoulder flicks me in the head. Kara, it's none of your business. The devil on my left flicks me harder. You're an investigative journalist for Christ's sake, of course it's your business. Everything's your business. I don't have to listen to them duel because the door opens wide with my head still leaning against it.

  "Ah!" My body falls into Vince's. I scramble away and stand up. His surprise matches mine but he puts two and two together and his eyes darken.

  "What were you doing?"

  "I was coming to see if you wanted to go through the box. But you were on the phone and didn't want to interrupt." I say this with confidence though I waiver between embarrassed and curious. Not to mention that my entire body was just on top of Vince's.

  "So you decided to eavesdrop instead of knocking?"

  "Not eavesdropping. Artfully overhearing."

  "It's the same thing."

  "Whatever. Are you going to help me or not?"

  He nods and steps out the room. "You could ask who I was talking to."

  "But I don't care."

  Lies. I do care.

  He leans close. So close, I back into the door. His mouth is near my ear.

  "I'm not Kyle. I know a good thing when I see it."

  He tosses me his phone. He left the screen on the last call conversation.

  Chris Sanchez's name and number are loud and proud on the screen. I hang my head in shame.

  Way to fuck it up again, Kara. One of the downfalls of being a reporter is constantly crossing the line between curiosity and nosiness. You forget the meaning of privacy..

  "So, where do you want to start?" Vince startles me by asking.

  "The journal."

  I sift through the container until I find my grandfather's wooden box. I grab the journal. Vince lies down on the bed, the pictures in his hand. I plop next to him. We're so close, the heat of his skin shocks me. I cast him a furtive glance. He's looking at the pictures but I know he's aware of our proximity. His cheeks are several shades pinker than normal.

  I'd guess he's actually enjoying it—which puts a small smile on my face. It's not like I care how Vince feels about me. He certainly doesn't care how I feel about him.

  "Ready for this?"

  "Sure."

  The brittle edges of the journal crackle when I open it to the first page. The ink is light gray against the yellowing page. It's hard to read.

  "Just start at the beginning, and we'll see how far we get."

  I move the journal between us and read,

  "April 25th, 1943

  I've left my home behind. I couldn't bear to look back at Elaine after she began to cry. She begged me last night not to go and as much as I love that woman, I fear my country needs me more. I trust that Charlie will take good care of Elaine while I'm gone. He's promised to be the man of the house while I'm away. I told him not to get any ideas about passing himself off as me like we did when we were younger. I don't know what is ahead for me but I trust the lord will help me through it. First stop—Texas. They say it's hotter than hell there. I'm missing my Iowa summers already.

  I run my finger across the date and the image of a young Wesley Pierce comes to life. I imagine he wrote this on the way to Texas, his body pressed up against some other soldier desperate to help his country. I begin the next entry.

  May 5th, 1943

  It has only been 10 days and I already wish I was back home, wrapping my arms around Elaine. Everyone talks funny down here, all their words drawled out. I sure hope we get better food soon. The disgusting pork loaf makes me crave Elaine's roast with potatoes, carrots and onions grown in our garden. My mouth is watering now. They are calling us out of the bunks, I will try to update later.

  "I didn't know your grandfather went to Texas for training?" Vince digs in the container. "Look at this," Vince points to a picture of my grandfather after he returned from war. He's adorned in medals and ribbons. "See that arrowhead patch?"

  "Yeah."

  "I think your grandfather was in the 36th Infantry."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I just read about it in one of the books we got from the library. You know what that means?"

  I arch my eyebrows.

  "It means your grandfather was a fucking badass. He was one of the first to shoot up the Nazi's and shit."

  My heart swells with pride and I wish I had talked to my grandfather when I had the chance.

  "I'm going to keep reading. May 17th, 1943

  I know I haven't been as th
orough as I said I would be but we've been in training 12 hours a day. I hope to hell these things don't blow while I'm inside.

  July 21st 1943

  I hate it here. I shouldn't hate it—the sea is the color of Virginia bluebells and it reminds me of Elaine. Lord, everything reminds me of that woman. I wonder what she's doing right now? Doing the washing, maybe. Fixing to make a meal, probably. Thinking about her calms me after a night of standing guard in this barren landscape. Soon, we will move through to Germany."

  "Can you tell where he is by that description? And Virginia Bluebells? Could he be anymore vague?" I wonder aloud.

  "I'm not sure he could talk about where he was. They monitored the letters home, but I don't know about journals."

  It irritates me how much Vince knows about all of this. I want to be the one giving answers.

  Vince smiles as he takes his cell phone out of his pocket. He scrolls and starts laughing. "I love Google. You can find anything."

  "Um, okay?"

  "Sicily. Your grandfather was in Sicily in that last entry. All I did was cross-reference the date of his entry with his infantry. It popped right up."

  "Are there supporting data to back that up?"

  "Well no, but—"

  "Until you find empirical evidence to back up your claim it's not valid."

  Vince snorts and tugs the journal from my hands. "Jesus, no wonder you're going to get the best stories. You won't stop irritating people until you get what you want."

  "Just keep going," I growl.

  "September 12th 1943

  I've not written since I was in Sicily, but we have been busy. We saw our first action with the Germans the other day. We prevailed. I am sure now that America is the best country in the world, and I will fight to my death for it. Elaine says things back home are fine, but quiet. Most of the good men have enlisted."

  After Vince reads the last sentence, his lips curl into a smug smile. "See, I told you he was in Sicily," he says before he reads the next entry.

  "February 24th 1944

  We've been in a brutal fight for our lives as we assisted the 34th Division along the Rapido River. General says we are withdrawing to rest. After all the blood I have on my hands, I sure hope we are nearing the end. I miss my home and my wife. I miss sweet corn and fresh fruit. My father has sent word that Charlie left Iowa, and no one knows where he went. My father is still angry with him. I hate being so far away while my twin is God knows where. Charlie has to come back. He just has to."

  Vince reads the last line again. "I told you he was a twin. I knew it."

  "Okay, fine. You were right," I say bitterly.

  Vince softens. "Sorry."

  I snatch the journal from his hands. "Whatever, it doesn't matter." I find where we left off but the last entry has only one line of text and I shiver when I read it aloud.

  "April 17th 1944

  I want to come home."

  That one line speaks to me more than anything else he's written. I can't imagine what it must have felt like to be away from your family for so long, never knowing if you'd ever make it home alive to see them again.

  After the April 17th entry, the pages are blank. "I wonder why he stopped writing?"

  Vince shrugs. "Maybe he was shipped home."

  "Maybe. Look at his February entry. He says his brother left Iowa. Where did he go?"

  "I don't know." He thumbs through the pages of the journal.

  Is he thinking the same thing I am? That my grandmother knows something about this? But why? Why would Grandpa pretend all my life that he doesn't have a twin brother?

  I flip on my back and close my eyes. This day has been eventful and I'm exhausted. I tell myself to open my eyes and go to my bedroom. Call it a night. But between the comfort of the bed and my skin warm against Vince's, I keep them closed.

  His hand lies next to mine and my heartbeat throbs all the way down to the space between my fingers. I just mean to move them a little bit but my hand slides into his.

  It feels perfect. Right. Beautiful. Any adjective I can think of to describe how his hand fits with mine. I'm blissfully content right now.

  But it scares me. I open my eyes as Vince's face is two inches from mine. His lips, pink and full, are ready to plant one on me.

  In a moment of conflict, my body is saying, do it. Do it now. Instead, I surprise us both when I yelp, "What the hell are you doing?"

  Vince seems as stunned as I am. His cheeks take on the color of a tomato. "I... um... I'm sorry." He scampers off the bed.

  "You—"

  Vince cuts me off. "Forget this happened. It was stupid. I don't know what I was thinking." He leaves the room without another word.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My phone vibrates for the fourth time and I'm getting pissed. I check the incoming message.

  It's Kyle. Again.

  Why are you ignoring me?

  I roll my eyes. Really? Is he that clueless? I delete the message and throw off the covers. I'm wide awake, so I might as well get up and face the day. I search through my suitcase for a nicer pair of sweatpants and a more flattering t-shirt.

  But why?

  Oh, yeah. Vince tried to kiss me.

  I nix the sweatshirt and head downstairs, the nutty aroma of freshly brewed coffee hits me. I expect to see my grandmother at the table in her usual spot, with today's paper and her favorite coffee mug, but she isn't there.

  The house is eerily quiet. I pour myself some coffee and then I see the note. My grandmother's chicken-scratch handwriting covers the slip of paper on the table.

  Kara and Vince,

  Went to town with Louise for groceries. Be home later. Don't burn the house down.

  Love, Grandma.

  I smile and head out to the swing on the front porch. There's a chill in the air that exists only in those few moments before the sun breaks over the horizon. If I could live in this moment, this one, tiny moment of complete stillness forever, I would.

  I bring my knees to my chest and cradle my mug of coffee as it rests atop my kneecaps. I let the steam roll up my face and I inhale. I want this moment to bring me clarity. How did I go from hating Vince to suddenly wanting his lips to touch mine? I'd like for this moment to clarify why my grandfather had a twin no one talked about. I wait for the clarification but nothing comes. I settle for the rustle of the leaves on the tree.

  The screen door squeaks open and Vince sits down on the swing, a steaming mug in his hands. He's dressed for the day in a pair of fitted jeans and a faded Nirvana shirt. Why does he look so delicious all of the sudden?

  "Hey, I'm sorry about last night."

  "I tried telling you it was fine, but you weren't really listening."

  He raises his eyebrows. "So you're not mad—"

  "No."

  He sighs deeply. "Okay."

  "Okay." And then it's over. The moment is gone as quickly as it came.

  "So what's on the agenda for today?"

  "I was thinking we'd hit up the historical society."

  "Cool."

  I put a foot on the ground and push us so the swing picks up speed. I let the slight breeze do the rest.

  "You really like this swing don't you?"

  I gesture to the wide open around us. "Don't you see why?"

  "It looks like a still from a nature video. Breathtaking." He's looking at me when he says it.

  There's a beat of silence between us. I sip the last of my coffee and stand up. "All right, let's get going then. Who knows how long we'll be at this place."

  "Okay," he says.

  "And for the record, if I could redo last night, I wouldn't have stopped you." I walk toward the car before he has a chance to see the embarrassment written all over my face.

  We pull up to the Historical Society, a renovated Victorian house I barely recognize. It used to belong to the McHenrys, one of the first families to settle in Everson. Last time I saw the house, the blue paint was peeling, the porch sagged and the place looked like a
dump. Someone has clearly taken the time to restore it to its original glory.

  "Nice house," Vince says.

  "It never looked like this when I lived here. It was worse than my grandparents' house. Someone did a nice job restoring it."

  Vince wrestles his camera bag from the floor. "Ready to go in?"

  I nod. We make it to the porch before an older, lanky man meets us. His black and grey hair is slicked back with so much product it looks wet. He smiles and his snaggle-tooth catches my attention. I try not to stare.

  "You must be Kara Pierce." He extends a hand.

  "That's me. And you must be Dr. Adams?"

  He smiles wider, his snaggle-tooth becomes even more prominent. "That's correct." He looks at Vince. "And you are?"

  Vince shakes Dr. Adams's hand. "Vince."

  Dr. Adams nods. "Pleasure to meet you both. Janice told me you might come. What can I help you with today?"

  "We're looking for information on my grandfather, Wesley Pierce. Anything about his time in the war or if you know any family history?" I say the last part carefully.

  "Ah, Wesley Pierce. Quite a man, your grandfather was." He gestures for us to follow him. The house is as exquisite inside as outside. The mahogany floors shine and a grand staircase intersects in the middle of the entry, which has been transformed into the museum lobby.

  Dr. Adams brings us into the first room to the right of the stairs. It's filled with bookcases built into the walls. I walk to the nearest and finger the spines of books that look older than the house.

  "This is incredible. Did the McHenrys always have this?"

  Dr. Adams tisks. "Oh heavens no. I mean, the bookshelves, yes. The books, no. When Mrs. McHenry passed, she left the house and her entire inheritance to the Everson County Historical Society."

  He walks to the bookshelf in the furthest right corner and gets a maroon ledger. He sets it on the table. The book displays rows and rows of inked names. One after another. Dr. Adams flips through each page until he turns the book toward Vince and me. He points to a name. "Ah, here it is. Pierce. Wesley. These numbers coincide with where information is stored about him."