again. Then he put a stop to it by stepping back out of reach.
"Now go right back home. Don't hang around."
"I will. I won't."
The last thing she said to him, already walking backward along the sidewalk, and spreading her hands out at her sides in a gesture of virtuous self-esteem, was, "Look, Bucky. I'm not even crying. Didn't I say I wouldn't? And look. I'm not."
"I bet you will later though," he said grudgingly.
"No I won't. You'll see--"
And then suddenly the meaning of her own words struck her, and her face twisted ungovernably for a moment. She turned and went away, so he wouldn't see it. She went faster and faster. First she was trotting. Then she was running. Then she was fleeing up the street. There was a drugstore on the corner, and it was already open, luckily. She plunged inside. She made for the telephone booths, all the way at the back. They were all empty. She sealed herself up in one. She dropped down to her knees inside it, all the way down out of sight.
She cried like she'd never cried before. She cried for all the years ahead. She cried a whole war's worth, at one time.
Once a man tried to get in, pulled the door open before he saw her huddled there. Then he said matter of factly, "Oh, excuse me!" and closed it again. But she didn't care, she went right ahead crying.
She was standing in the drugstore entry, waiting and watching for him, fifteen minutes later when he and his mates went by. She'd known they were bound to pass there sooner or later; the bus stop was right around the corner.
The drugstore had a double set of glass doors, and she lurked between the two, and didn't let him see her. It was a good vantage point. But she saw him.
They were in a double column, walking along with their packs and bags, and he was on the inside line, third from the very last man.
He was talking to the man next to him. He'd already made a friend. He was turned, saying something to him.
She only saw the side of his face. But oh, it was a lovely side of a face!
She put her hand up against the glass, trying to hold him still, where he was, but he slipped right by because he wasn't really there. Only the glass was.
"Good-bye, Bucky," she breathed. "Good-bye, my heart."
The side of his face went away, and only the glass stayed behind. And she didn't want the glass; it wasn't Bucky.
He carried it off by himself, like something precious, to be guarded against the whole world, to be kept for himself and to himself alone. He went into the barracks. where there was no one at this hour. He curled up in his bunk with it. And that was the right word, curled; he lay on his side and brought his knees up until they almost touched his chin, made a protective half circle around it. Something of his own. A little luminous square in a dark dreary world. A letter from her.
My beloved, my own husband:
I've written you eleven letters before this one But you won't get them. I never sent them. They keep telling us on all sides, 'Lift up their morale, write only cheerful things, keep them smiling.' I know. I know all that. I tried. But it wouldn't work. Why should I lie to you now? I never lied before.
And this is the twelfth. The true one. Let some censor frown and shake his head and scissor it all out, I don't care.
I can't go on. I see you everywhere, you're every way I turn, you're everywhere I go. God didn't mean this to happen to anyone, so much of it all at one time. God didn't mean eyes to cry so much. He didn't mean insides to ache so much. He couldn't have, or He would have built them stronger.
If I sit down to eat, you're there across the way from me, but you won't talk, you won't say anything. I beg you and I plead but you won't say anything. If I walk down the street, it feels so empty and so lonely there by my left arm. The cold wind comes nipping around the corner and I feel all open on that side. If I go shopping to the A. & P., I turn around and hand you the parcels to carry for me, and suddenly you're not
"Now go right back home. Don't hang around."
"I will. I won't."
The last thing she said to him, already walking backward along the sidewalk, and spreading her hands out at her sides in a gesture of virtuous self-esteem, was, "Look, Bucky. I'm not even crying. Didn't I say I wouldn't? And look. I'm not."
"I bet you will later though," he said grudgingly.
"No I won't. You'll see--"
And then suddenly the meaning of her own words struck her, and her face twisted ungovernably for a moment. She turned and went away, so he wouldn't see it. She went faster and faster. First she was trotting. Then she was running. Then she was fleeing up the street. There was a drugstore on the corner, and it was already open, luckily. She plunged inside. She made for the telephone booths, all the way at the back. They were all empty. She sealed herself up in one. She dropped down to her knees inside it, all the way down out of sight.
She cried like she'd never cried before. She cried for all the years ahead. She cried a whole war's worth, at one time.
Once a man tried to get in, pulled the door open before he saw her huddled there. Then he said matter of factly, "Oh, excuse me!" and closed it again. But she didn't care, she went right ahead crying.
She was standing in the drugstore entry, waiting and watching for him, fifteen minutes later when he and his mates went by. She'd known they were bound to pass there sooner or later; the bus stop was right around the corner.
The drugstore had a double set of glass doors, and she lurked between the two, and didn't let him see her. It was a good vantage point. But she saw him.
They were in a double column, walking along with their packs and bags, and he was on the inside line, third from the very last man.
He was talking to the man next to him. He'd already made a friend. He was turned, saying something to him.
She only saw the side of his face. But oh, it was a lovely side of a face!
She put her hand up against the glass, trying to hold him still, where he was, but he slipped right by because he wasn't really there. Only the glass was.
"Good-bye, Bucky," she breathed. "Good-bye, my heart."
The side of his face went away, and only the glass stayed behind. And she didn't want the glass; it wasn't Bucky.
He carried it off by himself, like something precious, to be guarded against the whole world, to be kept for himself and to himself alone. He went into the barracks. where there was no one at this hour. He curled up in his bunk with it. And that was the right word, curled; he lay on his side and brought his knees up until they almost touched his chin, made a protective half circle around it. Something of his own. A little luminous square in a dark dreary world. A letter from her.
My beloved, my own husband:
I've written you eleven letters before this one But you won't get them. I never sent them. They keep telling us on all sides, 'Lift up their morale, write only cheerful things, keep them smiling.' I know. I know all that. I tried. But it wouldn't work. Why should I lie to you now? I never lied before.
And this is the twelfth. The true one. Let some censor frown and shake his head and scissor it all out, I don't care.
I can't go on. I see you everywhere, you're every way I turn, you're everywhere I go. God didn't mean this to happen to anyone, so much of it all at one time. God didn't mean eyes to cry so much. He didn't mean insides to ache so much. He couldn't have, or He would have built them stronger.
If I sit down to eat, you're there across the way from me, but you won't talk, you won't say anything. I beg you and I plead but you won't say anything. If I walk down the street, it feels so empty and so lonely there by my left arm. The cold wind comes nipping around the corner and I feel all open on that side. If I go shopping to the A. & P., I turn around and hand you the parcels to carry for me, and suddenly you're not
Similar Books
