Jakob’s Colors by Lindsay Hawdon

believed it. Not one of them lived fully the life that they had. They spent their waking hours dreaming of living an entirely different one, one not filled with the legacy of war and the quiet guilt that accompanied having survived it unscathed.
    When Lor returned with the glass of gin and lemon bitters, her mother’s eyes were full of tears.
    â€œThank you, my love,” she said as she tipped back her head and took a large loud gulp, a single ice cube clanking. Lor reached for her hand. “They liked the glasses. Remember, darling, you can sway anyone to believe anything if you speak with enough conviction.”
    A shadow fell across them. It was John, a man with a handlebar mustache, whom Lor had not seen amongst their crowd before. Her mother seemed to know him already. He was slightly older than Lor’s father, his hair tinged with gray, and immaculately dressed. Uncreased and polished. His navy suit was so dark it was almost black.
    â€œYou look well, Vivienne,” he said, standing tall above them.
    â€œI am well, John. The summer suits me. How is Maggie?”
    â€œMuch better, thank you.” He was softly spoken, a look in his eye that held a quiet weariness, an ambivalence almost about wanting to be present at all. “Been told to rest. Excitement best avoided,” he added.
    â€œOh, and our house is simply spilling with it.”
    They both fell silent. John cleared his throat self-consciously. Then momentarily he and Vivienne stared at each other, a moment that almost openly acknowledged the failure of their conversation.
    â€œNice to see you again, Vivienne,” he said quietly. It was only as he walked away, vanishing into the crowd, that Lor saw the twisted gait to his left leg, the slight drag to it as he moved.
    â€œHe was shot, two days before the war ended,” Vivienne said as though it was something vague and distant. Lor sucked at the honeysuckle. “Mommy’s pretty, isn’t she, darling?”
    â€œYes, very pretty.”
    â€œHe brought lilies. A huge white bouquet of them.” She sighed. “Tell me a story. I need a horse, a blue-black horse of a story.”
    â€œOthagos?”
    â€œFrom the hunting accident?”
    â€œYes, the stray arrow that came from a bow no one had fired.”
    â€œYes, I remember him. He’ll do just fine.” She lay back on the lawn, her ivory dress grass stained where her shoulder blades met the ground.
    â€œEveryone knew that Othagos had a glass eye,” Lor began. “But no one knew that he could see through it, that he could see into the heart and mind of anyone who rode him and could judge therefore whether to go fast or slow, to go left or right, be lost or found, before he was told to do so.”
    â€œNever bring lilies to a party, darling,” Vivienne said quietly. “That’s what the dead smell of—they are the flowers left to rot on the lid of some beloved’s coffin, for God’s sake. Stay close to Mommy, won’t you? Stay close.”
    People left in dribs and drabs. Bottles emptied. Discarded glasses, lipstick stained, glinting in the tender heat of the late sun.
    â€œTo the survivors,” Larry, one of their oldest friends, drawled, swaying in the center of the lawn. “To the ones who made it rich while all around them tumbled down. Are they all in this garden?” He laughed, lurching forward. “All’s fair in love and war,” he slurred.
    Gini, his wife, dressed in a cream trouser suit that looked as if she were naked in certain lights, started pulling on his arm.
    â€œLarry, shut up. No one wants to hear your lamenting. Vivienne, I’m taking the child home,” she said. “Can’t hold his damn drink.”
    Vivienne wasn’t listening. She was looking across at Andrew. Lor caught the light in her eyes, a glint of tears welling again at each corner. He was talking to John. Both of them stood in a cloud of cigar