Chapter Nine
As Things Will End
December 15, 1931-March 2, 1932

My sixteenth birthday was held at home, and it felt much more mature than any of my previous birthday parties. We were all dressed as if we were adults, and we didn't get rowdy and obnoxious. Though we did play games of Truth and Would You Rather?, there was something that just felt more grown up and reserved about it all- but in the most delicious and wonderful way- like we were little adults, acting out some of the fun of being grown up, and disregarding all the rest.

Vera stood beside me that night as I welcomed my guests into the house, being my maid of honor- as I had been hers so many times before.

"Rosalie," she whispered, leaning toward me discreetly. "Will and Patrick are here."

I was careful to restrain myself from whipping my head upward and searching out those familiar blue eyes. Instead, I made it seem accidental when I looked up and turned, catching sight of Patrick and Will- though they were handing their coats over to Cooky and weren't looking at me yet. My throat felt tight, and I swallowed harshly, hoping my face was hosting a sense of easiness and nonchalance I didn't feel. At all. The sight of Will alone- since the end of 'us'- made me quake with anger, and hurt, and a yearning I couldn't dismiss. I missed him so much- just knowing he was mine and that I had him if I needed him- but my pride was too wounded for me to admit that to myself at the time.

Vera whispered, "Do you want me to get rid of him? I can ask Patrick if-"

"Vera," I reprimanded her quietly, keeping my features light and happy. "I invited him."

And I had. Though I refused to be friends with him in any way, I had invited him to my party.

"I know," she shrugged. "You might feel differently right now though."

I did. At that moment I wished with every fiber of my being that I hadn't invited him, that it was just Patrick walking through the door, alone. I asked myself why I had done something so stupid and careless, but I didn't know the answer. And a slick dread crawled up my back, making me shiver. I realized that I would have to endure this awkward rift between us, the underlying want for his companionship that I couldn't admit, and the anger I felt for him not wanting me anymore, all night. I was sure that my party was ruined.

To Vera though, I said, "It's fine."

A fraction of a second later, they were upon us.

Patrick said hello to me first, giving me a half-hug and an amiable kiss on the cheek, before kissing Vera hello and handing her my gift from him, which she put on the table behind her. Will and I locked eyes, and I felt every edge of my body go rigid. It was the strangest feeling in the world- not pleasurable, but aware. He gave me a small smile and said happy birthday. Stiffly I said thank you. He handed Vera my gift, and then before I knew it, the two boys were walking away, into the crowd and out of sight. That was when I realized I had been holding my breath a little.

"Have I told you that you're being ridiculous?" Vera turned on me.

I narrowed my eyes at her, indicating that I didn't want to hear this.

She shrugged as if she didn't care, saying, "You guys did fight all the time. Why can't you just be friends?"

I deflected her question all together and said hello to Corinne and Bobby as they approached us smiling.

"Rosalie," Vera hissed, so no one else could really notice. "Rosalie!"

I whipped my head towards her, ripping my gaze away from Will, quietly snapping, "What?"

"You're staring again!"

I narrowed my eyes at her and turned back to the game of Truth that we had all been a part of.

Tommy hollered, "All right! My turn!"

The tinkling of laughter and chatter decreased in volume as we all turned and looked at Tommy, waiting with bated breath to see who he would choose to tell the truth. Trying to be discreet- not even admitting it to myself- I looked up again and stared at Will. Sitting there between Joyce Crawford and Christopher Bright, he seemed like a foreign entity to me, and it made my chest ache. I felt as if I was watching a stranger- one that was absolutely fascinating to me. I felt as if I needed to study him, to take in every mannerism and trait I had lost track of before. He scratched his chin, and I watched his sleeve ride up his arm like it was a matter of life or death. He laughed at something someone had said and I swallowed dryly, wondering how he could be happy when I felt like this. I wasn't consciously staring though, I just couldn't help it. Vera, however, had caught on and was trying to help me. Beside me, she pinched my arm and I pulled my eyes away from him once more.

"Rosalie."

"What?" I looked at Tommy, wondering why he was saying my name.

A collective laugh spread throughout the room, as Tommy said, "You have to tell the truth."

I wanted to groan loudly. Why did I agree that we could play this stupid game?

"All right," I said, maintaining my cool and my sangfroid as I spoke. I knew everyone's eyes were on me now. "What am I telling the truth about?"

Tommy thought about this for a moment.

"If you could live forever, or die tomorrow, which would you choose?" Corinne put in.

He turned to her and said, "Cor! That's not my question!"

"No, that's a good one," Will said, and everyone agreed.

I was so distracted at that moment, and so generally shallow in life that the answer seemed easy. When I thought back to Warren's death and the fear of dying, I knew the idea of no longer living made me sick. Would I like to live one more day and live it properly? or would I like to live forever and ever, without having to worry about death? It was a monumental question from a sixteen year old boy- no one knew the depth behind the question though, or the reality in what I was being asked, and it wasn't meant to lay out the framework of my existence, but, in retrospect, it did.

I didn't look at Will as I asked, "Do I look old if I live forever?"

There was a laugh around the room, as if I had been joking. I smiled, as if I was trying to be witty and poke fun at my own beauty.

"Yes," Tommy answered, laughing. "You get wrinkly and gross as you get older."

The laughter mounted further.

I sat up straighter and said, "I would rather die tomorrow."

"Oh Rose," Vera said, smiling and teasing me as everyone around me laughed and took my truth as a joke. I let them, because if they thought I was being witty, then good.

Though, as I reveled in the attention and laughter, my eyes met Will's, and I frowned a little. He looked so disappointed, as if my answer hadn't surprised him in the least, and for that he was upset. It was because my love for material things and appearances- the major difference between us and what we always fought over- is what had broken us up. But he was only looking so disappointed because he was preaching the word of transcendentalism all the time. So, I rose my chin and smiled sweetly at him, and he shook his head, disappointed.

I looked away from him then, and I never looked back.

Miniature disasters of social proportions (also known as, my relationship with Will ending) were followed by disasters of much greater sizes.

Charles Lindbergh, Jr. was kidnapped on March first, 1932, and by March second, the entire world knew.

The following day, as Vera and I walked to school in the early morning chill of March, she brought it up. It didn't surprise me- the news- because my father had opened the paper at breakfast that morning and had made a sound of surprise and pity. Mother had been busy sprinkling cinnamon onto Stanley's oatmeal (as if he couldn't do it himself) so I had asked Father what was in the paper that had gotten his attention.

"The Lindbergh baby was kidnapped," he had said, staring at the paper, reading the headlines and following articles.

This made my mother gasp and freeze, "What?" she had asked, horrified.

"Yeah," my father answered. "Right out of his room too."

"What baby?" Stanley asked, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth.

I gave him a disapproving look as Charles said, "The famous aviator's kid, you dope!"

"Charles," I said beratingly, because Mother was too busy shaking her head sorrowfully to scold him for calling our little brother names.

"Even Hoover knows about the kidnapping."

Mother broke in, "He's going to help them find the baby, isn't he?" She looked beside herself.

My father shook his head, "I suppose so."

"Ma," Stan said, "it's just a baby."

My mother shook her head, saying, "Poor Mrs. Lindbergh," as if she hadn't heard my brother. "I can't imagine what she must be suffering."

"Well, don't cry over it, Jane," my father said, folding the paper and putting it down beside his plate. He began to eat his eggs, before swallowing and saying, "Lindbergh's got the whole world in his wallet- I'm sure Hoover and he will pay for the kid to get back."

I sipped my orange juice.

Glancing at the paper, I asked, "Can I look at the front page?"

He didn't even look at the paper as he said, "Of course, Rose."

I picked up the paper from beside his plate, unfolded it, and took a good look at the front page. My breath caught in my throat. Staring back at me, in simple ink and grain, were the likes of a boy angel. Charles Lindbergh Jr. had the sweetest face I had ever seen. With soft, curly blonde hair and a round face, all of his features were soft and angelic. He had a prominent dimple in his little chin, and- in the picture- a subtle smile on his tiny lips. His big, round eyes pierced my chest and I felt my heart break for the Lindbergh family. I then understood why my mother was so distraught over this. Poor Mrs. Lindbergh, what could she have endured all those hours, not knowing where her little boy was? My heart couldn't break as deeply as my mother's could- because I didn't fully understand a mother's love- but it did break all the same.

And when I walked with Vera, only a dozen minutes or so after looking at his picture, she brought it up.

"It's so sad," she said.

I shook my head sorrowfully, "I know."

"You don't think they're actually going to pay the ransom, do you?" she asked.

This confused me, "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because," Vera reasoned, "the kidnappers aren't going to give him back."

"What?!" I squawked.

She looked at me, confused, saying, "Whether the Lindberghs give the people the money or not, whoever has the baby is just going to kill him."

"Vera!" I shouted.

"What?" she countered. "I wish it wasn't the case, but you know it's true."

I glared at her, "I know no such thing!"

"Rosalie," she said, as if this was so upsetting and tiring I should just understand.

"Where are you even getting this?" I asked her.

She shook her head, "My father's-"

"Just because your father is a raving pessimist doesn't mean you should be too, Vera," I said, feeling as if I wanted to defend the life of this baby. It was like her saying that they would kill him, would make it so. "It's people like your father that give up on causes just because they might fail."

"Rosalie-"

I cut her off, "The president of the United States is involved, Vera," I almost growled this. "They're going to find that baby and they're going to catch the criminals too."

She didn't say anything in reply.

"Maybe they won't even have to pay the ransom at all- Maybe the police will catch them first," I said with renewed passion.

Vera quietly said, "I hope you're right Rose."

"I am right," I said indignantly, hoping and praying that I was.

Upon discovering that the Lindbergh baby's body had been found, half-buried, in Mercer County, I felt the urge to cry.

After school, Vera, Patrick, Mrs. Goodchild, my mother, and I, all sat in the Goodchild's living room, listening to the radio prompts that followed the discovery.

He had been found the day before, by a truck driver who had needed to use a tree in place of a bathroom. The man, however, had discovered the badly decomposed body, no longer buried underground, and badly mangled. The body, which had been transported to a morgue in Trenton, New Jersey, had been identified by Mrs. Lindbergh as her son, and the mourning immediately began.

Vera squeezed my hand as we listened to the details, gasping and swallowing as the facts grew worse.

Very, very badly decomposed.

A lethally fractured skull.

The leg was missing.

No hands.

The baby had been dead for two months.

Perhaps that was worst of all. Just like Vera's father had predicted, they had killed the baby right away, and had sent the Lindberghs on a wild goose chase anyway. After all the reassurances via post- after all the lies that the baby was alive and well- none of it was true. He wasn't well, nor had he been alive. And the thieves had pressed on, sending articles of the boy's clothes- as if that proved he was unharmed- and assuring the parents that he was well cared for. They had insisted that they didn't want to hurt him, they just wanted the money. It disgusted me- all of it made me want to cry, hurt someone, and throw up, all at once. And all of the sympathy- all of the hope and support that the people of the country had offered- it was all for naught. The president had even said he would "move Heaven and Earth" to find the missing baby. After all of that hope- all of that shared worry and concern- had been expressed.... How could anyone do such a thing, I wondered. It just didn't make sense to me.

The face of the Lindbergh baby popped into my brain as they described the damage over the radio.

I didn't see a fractured skull or mangled limbs- I still pictured the little boy as I had seen him in the papers: angelic and sweet, with his curly hair and soft, dimpled chin. In my mind, he still smiled.

But, even with this image in mind, the crime still cut deep, and, with the rest of the country, we mourned.

Author's Note: Okay, I know it was a little gruesome, but I did change the rating to 'M' because things are going to get a little less happy-happy in this story. Also, I promise that there was a point to putting the Lindbergh baby kidnapping into the story- if it's not kind of obvious now, you'll see later on. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Next chapter will hopefully be up soon!