Those movie matinees. Our long talks walking home.” Reminiscence gentles her voice.
So we talk about those days and she confessesthat she really didn’t like those cowboy serials and their fake endings every week but pretended to for my sake and I tell her that I was embarrassed that my palm was always wet when we held hands and she says her palm was wet, too. She says that Marie LaCroix was thinking of becoming a nun, which should liven up any convent. She tells me about the routine at St. Anne’s. That she wants to be a teacher, English maybe. She asks me about the war and I keep it light, telling her the harmless things, about the crowded troopship going across and how the quality of sunlight in France is different somehow than in America.
We run out of words. Silence falls between us, magnifying the sounds of the tennis game outside, the plopping of the ball.
Finally, she reaches toward me.
“Your poor face,” she says, moving as if to touch the white scarf, but I step away.
“I don’t want you to see me this way,” I tell her. “When the doctor fixes up my face, I’ll send you a picture.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” I answer, although I know that I will never keep that promise and that she probably doesn’t expect me to.
She looks at me with affection. But affection isnot love. I’ve known all the time we’ve been talking that we’re filling up the empty spaces between us with words. I’ve known that I’ve lost her, lost her a long time ago.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. My gift to her.
She nods almost eagerly, glances at her watch. “The bell’s going to ring any minute now. We live by bells around here.”
She comes to me and doesn’t reach for my face this time but takes my hand.
“Still moist,” she says, tenderness in her voice. “My good Francis. My table tennis champion. My Silver Star hero …”
Hero. The word hangs in the air.
“I don’t know what a hero is anymore, Nicole.” I think of Larry LaSalle and his Silver Star. And my own Silver Star, for an act of cowardice.
“Write about it, Francis. Maybe you can find the answer that way.”
“Do you think I can?”
“Of course you can.” A trace of impatience in her voice. Like the Nicole Renard I knew at the Wreck Center just before the table tennis competition, urging me on. Telling me I could win.
She steps away. “Look, I’ve got to go.” Suddenly brisk and hurried.
“Can I come again sometime?” I ask, hating myselffor asking because I know the answer. It’s as inevitable as the answer to an arithmetic problem Sister Mathilde wrote on the blackboard.
“Oh, Francis,” she says, the words weighted with sadness. And I see the answer in her eyes.
She reaches up and presses her lips against the damp scarf that covers my own lips. I expect a flash of pain but there is only the pressure of her lips, and I close my eyes, clinging to the moment, wanting it to last forever.
“Have a good life, Francis. Be whatever will make you happy.”
The bell rings, freezing us together for a moment, and when I open my eyes she is gone, the room vacant, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, until there’s only silence left.
I n the railroad station, sitting on the hard bench, I watch the people coming and going in the late-afternoon rush, on their way somewhere, with suitcases and briefcases, a freckle-faced girl struggling under a knapsack on her back, two sailors sitting on the marble floor playing cards.
A master sergeant marches across the lobby as if leading an invisible platoon, uniform crisp, an arrayof ribbons on his chest. A young guy watches him, unshaven, wearing an old battle jacket, soiled and stained. He follows the sergeant with half-closed eyes, then sags against the wall, smiling dreamily. But the smile turns into a grimace and I wonder what he’s thinking of or remembering.
I remember what I said to Nicole about not knowing who the real heroes are and I think of my old platoon. Sonny
So we talk about those days and she confessesthat she really didn’t like those cowboy serials and their fake endings every week but pretended to for my sake and I tell her that I was embarrassed that my palm was always wet when we held hands and she says her palm was wet, too. She says that Marie LaCroix was thinking of becoming a nun, which should liven up any convent. She tells me about the routine at St. Anne’s. That she wants to be a teacher, English maybe. She asks me about the war and I keep it light, telling her the harmless things, about the crowded troopship going across and how the quality of sunlight in France is different somehow than in America.
We run out of words. Silence falls between us, magnifying the sounds of the tennis game outside, the plopping of the ball.
Finally, she reaches toward me.
“Your poor face,” she says, moving as if to touch the white scarf, but I step away.
“I don’t want you to see me this way,” I tell her. “When the doctor fixes up my face, I’ll send you a picture.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” I answer, although I know that I will never keep that promise and that she probably doesn’t expect me to.
She looks at me with affection. But affection isnot love. I’ve known all the time we’ve been talking that we’re filling up the empty spaces between us with words. I’ve known that I’ve lost her, lost her a long time ago.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. My gift to her.
She nods almost eagerly, glances at her watch. “The bell’s going to ring any minute now. We live by bells around here.”
She comes to me and doesn’t reach for my face this time but takes my hand.
“Still moist,” she says, tenderness in her voice. “My good Francis. My table tennis champion. My Silver Star hero …”
Hero. The word hangs in the air.
“I don’t know what a hero is anymore, Nicole.” I think of Larry LaSalle and his Silver Star. And my own Silver Star, for an act of cowardice.
“Write about it, Francis. Maybe you can find the answer that way.”
“Do you think I can?”
“Of course you can.” A trace of impatience in her voice. Like the Nicole Renard I knew at the Wreck Center just before the table tennis competition, urging me on. Telling me I could win.
She steps away. “Look, I’ve got to go.” Suddenly brisk and hurried.
“Can I come again sometime?” I ask, hating myselffor asking because I know the answer. It’s as inevitable as the answer to an arithmetic problem Sister Mathilde wrote on the blackboard.
“Oh, Francis,” she says, the words weighted with sadness. And I see the answer in her eyes.
She reaches up and presses her lips against the damp scarf that covers my own lips. I expect a flash of pain but there is only the pressure of her lips, and I close my eyes, clinging to the moment, wanting it to last forever.
“Have a good life, Francis. Be whatever will make you happy.”
The bell rings, freezing us together for a moment, and when I open my eyes she is gone, the room vacant, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, until there’s only silence left.
I n the railroad station, sitting on the hard bench, I watch the people coming and going in the late-afternoon rush, on their way somewhere, with suitcases and briefcases, a freckle-faced girl struggling under a knapsack on her back, two sailors sitting on the marble floor playing cards.
A master sergeant marches across the lobby as if leading an invisible platoon, uniform crisp, an arrayof ribbons on his chest. A young guy watches him, unshaven, wearing an old battle jacket, soiled and stained. He follows the sergeant with half-closed eyes, then sags against the wall, smiling dreamily. But the smile turns into a grimace and I wonder what he’s thinking of or remembering.
I remember what I said to Nicole about not knowing who the real heroes are and I think of my old platoon. Sonny
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