Spencerville by Nelson DeMille

first, then less frequently, of course, and
the letters were not good. She found her monogamy hard
to defend or justify and let him know she was seeing other
men. He understood. He didn’t understand. He spent his
pre-embarkation leave in Spencerville, not Columbus.
They spoke on the phone. She was very busy with difficult
classes. He was very anxious about going into a combat
zone and really didn’t care about her classes. He asked
her if she was seeing anyone at the moment. She was, but
it was not serious. After about ten minutes of this, he
looked forward to combat. He said to her, “You’ve
changed.” She replied, “We’ve all changed, Keith. Look
around you.”
    He said, “Well, I’ve got to go. Good luck in school.”
    “Thanks. Take care, Keith. Home safe.”
    “Yup.”
    “Bye.”
    “Bye.”
    But they couldn’t hang up, and she said, “You under
stand, I’m making this easy for both of us.”
    “I understand. Thanks.” He hung up.
    They continued to write, neither of them able to com
prehend that it was over.
    Keith pushed the Scotch aside. The alcohol wasn’t working, his hands were trembling, and his mind was not getting pleasantly numb. He read, “Well, welcome home, Keith, and good luck.”
    “Thank you, Annie.”
    He’d served as an infantry platoon leader, saw too
many dead people lying on the ground, fresh blood run
ning, or bloating in the hot sun. He had no frame of ref
erence for this, except the stockyards in Maumee. Very
nice villages and farms were blown to hell, and sandbags
and barbed wire were all over the place, and he’d wept
for the farmers and their families. He’d completed his
tour and returned to Spencerville on leave
.
    Keith wiped the sweat off his lip and focused on the letter, read it from the beginning, then read, “I’m leaving tomorrow to drive Wendy to school. She’s starting as a freshman at our old alma mater. Can’t wait to see it again. Be gone a week or so
.”
    He nodded and took a deep breath.
    He’d spent his thirty-day post-combat leave in
Spencerville, and did mostly nothing but eat, drink, and
take long rides. His mother suggested he drive to Colum
bus. Instead, he’d called. She was working on her doc
torate by then. It was a very strained conversation, he
recalled. He hadn’t asked her about other men, because
he’d come to accept that. He’d had other women. It didn’t
matter. But she’d changed in a more profound way in the
last year. She’d become more politically active, and she
had ambivalent feelings about a man in uniform and had
given him a lecture on the war.
    He was angry, she was cool; he barely controlled his
anger, and she kept her tone frigid. He was about to hang
up on her when she said, “I have to go,” and he realized
she was crying, or close to it. He offered to come see her,
she said that would be all right. But he did not go to
Columbus, and she did not come to Spencerville, nor did
they meet halfway.
    Keith read the final lines of her letter. “My Aunt Louise still lives out by you, and next time I’m that way, I’ll stop and say hello. Take care. Annie.”
    He put the letter in his pocket, stood, and went out the back door. The hot wind had died down, and it was cooler now. There was some sun left on the western horizon, but in the east he could see stars.
    Keith went out to where the corn began and walked between the tall rows, a few hundred yards to a small hill that was thought to be an Indian burial mound. The rise was gentle and tillable, but no one in his family had ever planted there, and the Mullers were asked to do the same. Rye grass grew tall on the hill, and a single birch had been planted or had taken root on its own near the top of the hill.
    Keith stood beside the birch and looked out over the corn. He’d played here as a boy and come here to think as a young man.
    Nor did they meet halfway. It was his pride, his ego, or
whatever. He simply could not accept the fact that she’d
been sexually