there, and expected a fine crop of grandchildren. It had already started coming in. Now…
Diana had just started to cry when Ed took the wire from her, saying gently, “Your mother?”
Her mother was seventy-seven, frail and starting to be forgetful. If, God forbid, something were to happen to her, it would be sad, but it would be part of the natural order of things. But when a parent had to put a child in the ground…
Ed held the yellow sheet out at arm’s length. He wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, not to mow the lawn. Diana wondered if he’d be able to see what it said. If he couldn’t, she’d have to read it to him or tell him, and she thought she would rather die herself.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said hoarsely. He could read it, all right. When he raised his face to her, it bore the same blind, helpless look she had to be wearing herself. “Pat…” He was stumbling over things, too. “Germany…Those crazy fucking assholes…”
Even now, she stared at him. He didn’t say things like that. Oh, maybe at the factory, but never around the house. Never. Except he just did. And why not? What else were the Germans who’d murdered Pat?
“It’s wrong.” If Diana didn’t say what was wrong, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about that. So much. Quite so much. Maybe. “It’s
wrong.
The war is
over.
They’ve got no business doing
that.
” Close call there.
“Pat…” Ed said again. He was a minute or two behind her. Right now, a minute or two bulked big as a mountain. “What are we going to do without Pat?”
He’d come closer to actually talking about death than Diana had. “We have to make it stop,” she said. “The war’s
over.
How many people are still getting wires like—” She broke off, her mouth falling open. No wonder the Western Union boy pedaled away so fast! She’d heard they didn’t take tips when they brought news like that. It seemed to be true.
“Hello!”
Diana almost jumped out of her skin. There stood Betsy, holding Stan. And there beside them was her husband, Buster Neft. He had a limp worse than Ed’s: he’d come back from the South Pacific a year and a half before with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. He’d been an outstanding high-school tackle before the war. He’d talked about playing college ball, but a shellburst made damn sure he wouldn’t. Now he worked at Delco-Remy, too. Close to half of Anderson did.
Betsy went on, “We knocked at the front door, but nobody came. Bus heard you guys talking back here, so we came around and….” She ran down when she noticed her folks weren’t responding the way she’d expected them to.
Her husband saw the telegram still in Ed’s hand. “What happened?” he asked sharply. When Ed didn’t answer, Buster came up and took the wire. He didn’t need to hold it away from himself to read it. “Oh, no!” he said, and threw his free hand in the air in anguish. “God damn those motherfucking sons of bitches to hell!”
Part of Diana thought those were the words she’d been looking for herself but couldn’t find. Part thought they didn’t go nearly far enough.
“What is it?” Betsy snatched the telegram away from Buster. “Pat!” she wailed, and let out a shriek that set the baby howling. Buster took him. Betsy ran to her mother and father. They clung together.
That shriek brought neighbors out to see who was murdering whom, and why. They converged on the McGraws’ house. Several of them had lost somebody in their family, or at least had somebody hurt. They knew what the McGraws were going through because they’d done it. And the ones who hadn’t—the lucky ones—all knew people who had. How could you not?
Somebody—Diana forgot who—pressed a cold tumbler into her hands and said, “Drink this up.” She did, thinking it was 7-Up. It turned out to be gin and tonic, and almost went down the wrong pipe. But she felt a little better with it inside her. It built a thin wall between her and
Diana had just started to cry when Ed took the wire from her, saying gently, “Your mother?”
Her mother was seventy-seven, frail and starting to be forgetful. If, God forbid, something were to happen to her, it would be sad, but it would be part of the natural order of things. But when a parent had to put a child in the ground…
Ed held the yellow sheet out at arm’s length. He wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, not to mow the lawn. Diana wondered if he’d be able to see what it said. If he couldn’t, she’d have to read it to him or tell him, and she thought she would rather die herself.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said hoarsely. He could read it, all right. When he raised his face to her, it bore the same blind, helpless look she had to be wearing herself. “Pat…” He was stumbling over things, too. “Germany…Those crazy fucking assholes…”
Even now, she stared at him. He didn’t say things like that. Oh, maybe at the factory, but never around the house. Never. Except he just did. And why not? What else were the Germans who’d murdered Pat?
“It’s wrong.” If Diana didn’t say what was wrong, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about that. So much. Quite so much. Maybe. “It’s
wrong.
The war is
over.
They’ve got no business doing
that.
” Close call there.
“Pat…” Ed said again. He was a minute or two behind her. Right now, a minute or two bulked big as a mountain. “What are we going to do without Pat?”
He’d come closer to actually talking about death than Diana had. “We have to make it stop,” she said. “The war’s
over.
How many people are still getting wires like—” She broke off, her mouth falling open. No wonder the Western Union boy pedaled away so fast! She’d heard they didn’t take tips when they brought news like that. It seemed to be true.
“Hello!”
Diana almost jumped out of her skin. There stood Betsy, holding Stan. And there beside them was her husband, Buster Neft. He had a limp worse than Ed’s: he’d come back from the South Pacific a year and a half before with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. He’d been an outstanding high-school tackle before the war. He’d talked about playing college ball, but a shellburst made damn sure he wouldn’t. Now he worked at Delco-Remy, too. Close to half of Anderson did.
Betsy went on, “We knocked at the front door, but nobody came. Bus heard you guys talking back here, so we came around and….” She ran down when she noticed her folks weren’t responding the way she’d expected them to.
Her husband saw the telegram still in Ed’s hand. “What happened?” he asked sharply. When Ed didn’t answer, Buster came up and took the wire. He didn’t need to hold it away from himself to read it. “Oh, no!” he said, and threw his free hand in the air in anguish. “God damn those motherfucking sons of bitches to hell!”
Part of Diana thought those were the words she’d been looking for herself but couldn’t find. Part thought they didn’t go nearly far enough.
“What is it?” Betsy snatched the telegram away from Buster. “Pat!” she wailed, and let out a shriek that set the baby howling. Buster took him. Betsy ran to her mother and father. They clung together.
That shriek brought neighbors out to see who was murdering whom, and why. They converged on the McGraws’ house. Several of them had lost somebody in their family, or at least had somebody hurt. They knew what the McGraws were going through because they’d done it. And the ones who hadn’t—the lucky ones—all knew people who had. How could you not?
Somebody—Diana forgot who—pressed a cold tumbler into her hands and said, “Drink this up.” She did, thinking it was 7-Up. It turned out to be gin and tonic, and almost went down the wrong pipe. But she felt a little better with it inside her. It built a thin wall between her and
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