Stella Bain by Anita Shreve Page B

description.”
    “The war has caused all of us to be people we didn’t used to be.”
    “Isn’t that the truth.” Jerome picks up a bottle of wine and offers to pour some into her glass. She shakes her head no.
    “What were you before the war?” she asks.
    “Librarian.”
    “You must miss your books,” she says.
    “I’ve got a copy of Paradise Lost on onionskin in tiny print. My mother gave it to me before I left. I’ve read it nine times.”
    “You should have a new book.”
    “Most of the men in the corps don’t care much for reading.”
    “Surely Phillip—”
    “No, that’s odd, he being an academic and all. He seems to have no interest in books.”
    “I’m very surprised,” Etna says.
    Phillip appears with Marjorie, who clings to him. Etna has forgotten to watch the pair dancing.
    “I’d best be getting you back,” Phillip says to Etna.
    “Must you?” A whine from Marjorie.
    “I have to get up early,” Etna says.
    “Lovely to meet you,” Marjorie offers in a bored voice, not even bothering to look at Etna. A languid dismissal.
     
    “Was that so terrible?” Phillip asks when they have found his vehicle.
    “Oh, not at all. I quite enjoyed the dancing and even talking to Jerome.”
    “He’s lost two brothers already. He’s the only son left. They ought to send him home.”
    “But they won’t?”
    “Don’t think so.”
    Etna can see the mother: benumbed, quiet, getting on with life for the sake of Jerome. Not for her husband, whom she barely notices. He with his own grief. Two sons, two extreme sacrifices, too much for anyone to bear.
    “The attrition is beyond anything the generals can have imagined,” Phillip points out. “Certainly they couldn’t have anticipated such large numbers of British dead.”
    “Jerome and I got into the subject of books,” Etna says. “He mentioned that you no longer read.”
    “No. Not at the moment.”
     
    When they reach the stone barn, Phillip turns in his seat to face her. “You’ll never guess what I’ve found.”
    He smiles, and she can’t help but smile with him. “What?”
    “A tennis court.”
    “Never.”
    “I did. A clay court belonging to an abandoned château.”
    “It’s February.”
    “Almost March. We’ll get a dry spell.”
    “Where will you find a tennis ball and rackets?”
    “I don’t know, but I will,” he says. “I have to restore my reputation.”
    He hops down from the truck and comes around to Etna’s side.
    “I had a lovely evening,” she says as he opens the door.
    “So did I.” He takes her hand.
    For a moment, she thinks he will pull her into a dance move. He bends and kisses her hand instead, a courtly gesture. Impulsively, she embraces him.
    She stands back. “Was that all right?”
    “I adore you, Etna. I always have.”
    She slips her hand from his and walks away from the truck.
     
    The quest for beautiful moments challenges Etna as February moves closer to March. The relentless rain turns everything unpaved into a pool of mud. During the months Etna has been driving an ambulance, she has learned basic maintenance. She can change a tire, check the oil, fill a radiator, and adjust a clutch. Despite this additional knowledge, the actual managing of the truck has become more difficult. The mud sucks in anything with weight. She uses thin metal wedges to dig into the muck under the front of the rear tires. With the wedges, an orderly pushing, and a gentle rocking motion, Etna learns how to gun her ambulance out of the bog. She invents grassy routes and even routes that traverse tufts in fields. With careful steering, she can maneuver the truck onto drier land, a process not unlike stepping across stones to reach the other side of a rushing stream.
     
    Etna finds a lost brooch near the Regimental Aid Post. It puzzles her, even after she turns it in. What is a ruby-and-gold pin doing in a world peopled entirely by men? Can another female driver have had it pinned to her underthings? Can a