Revolution. But I started doing some calculations. What I was really trying to find out was whether McLeod had gotten burned as a pilot. The idea appealed to me. Anybody who was, say, nineteen in I94I would be—I did some figuring on the edge of my paper—about fifty now. Possible. I looked up at McLeod,
88
*»r>o was rearranging some books on a shelf. The good side : * his face was turned toward me so that I could see only i swatch of the bum coming around his chin. There was a ioc of gray in his hair. On the other hand, some people got gray at thirty.
What are you trying to figure out?” he asked, without turning.
Caught short I blurted out, ”I was wondering how old
You are.”
“The easiest method is to ask. Forty-seven.”
Some more figuring. But not even McLeod was fighting :he Battle of Britain at sixteen. But he could have been an American air force pilot at the very end of the war. My heart started to beat faster. “Were you in the Air Corps during World War II?”
“No.”
“You weren’t in the war?”
“Yes. Infantry. A foot-slogging private soldier.”
“Is that where you—” Asking about his age and asking about a bum that disfigured half his face was not exactly the same thing.
“Where I—?”
I wished I hadn’t started. But I was still stinging from his comment about my tendency to run. “Where—where you got burned.”
He was looking at me but his face didn’t flicker. For the first time I wondered what it could be like for him. “I shouldn’t have asked that,” I mumbled.
“Most people do, sooner or later.” He put another book on the shelf from a pile on the floor. “I got burned in a car accident.” He paused and then added deliberately, “I was too drunk to know what I was doing, slid on some ice, and went over the side of the road down a ravine.”
89
I was stunned. It sure knocked my picture of the wounded war hero to fragments. “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure whether I was sorry he had lost his face or I had lost the war hero.
He was watching me. “So am I. Not just because of this”—he gestured to the burned half of his face—“but because there was a boy with me, a boy about your age. He was burned to death.”
A bee had somehow got in the room and was buzzing around. In the silence that followed it sounded like a 747.
Then McLeod said, “It’s late, Charles. You’d better go.’’
The day after, I woke up before dawn, thinking about what McLeod had said. The queer part was that I expected to feel disgusted and disillusioned, and I didn’t. I felt sorry. I felt sorry for the boy who was killed, but I felt more sorry for McLeod. It didn’t make much sense because the boy was dead, but I was sure McLeod had been dragging around the guilt ever since, and that it had a lot to do with the way he lived and why he had never had his face fixed the way Mother and everyone in the summer community said he could—and should.
“What a lousy deal,” I said to Moxie, who was lying under the sheet next to me. My voice must have waked him, because I felt suddenly the deep vibration against my ribs that meant he was purring. In a few seconds the noise followed, sounding like a bad case of bronchitis.
A while later Meg came into my room. Since I had a lot to think about I wasn’t too pleased to see her.
“How is the Great Man?” she said, wiggling her backside against the footboard and crowding my feet.
“Okay.” I didn’t want to talk about McLeod.
“You’re getting very protective about him.”
90
What’s to talk about?”
All right. Keep your hair on. But people are beginning to ask what you’re doing all the time and where you are.”
“And what do you tell them?” I tell the kids you’re being forced to study with some caching type on the mainland. And whenever Mother says Where’s Chuck?’ which she does sometimes in the afternoons—she’s resigned to your studying in the mornings— I say wherever your gang is at the
88
*»r>o was rearranging some books on a shelf. The good side : * his face was turned toward me so that I could see only i swatch of the bum coming around his chin. There was a ioc of gray in his hair. On the other hand, some people got gray at thirty.
What are you trying to figure out?” he asked, without turning.
Caught short I blurted out, ”I was wondering how old
You are.”
“The easiest method is to ask. Forty-seven.”
Some more figuring. But not even McLeod was fighting :he Battle of Britain at sixteen. But he could have been an American air force pilot at the very end of the war. My heart started to beat faster. “Were you in the Air Corps during World War II?”
“No.”
“You weren’t in the war?”
“Yes. Infantry. A foot-slogging private soldier.”
“Is that where you—” Asking about his age and asking about a bum that disfigured half his face was not exactly the same thing.
“Where I—?”
I wished I hadn’t started. But I was still stinging from his comment about my tendency to run. “Where—where you got burned.”
He was looking at me but his face didn’t flicker. For the first time I wondered what it could be like for him. “I shouldn’t have asked that,” I mumbled.
“Most people do, sooner or later.” He put another book on the shelf from a pile on the floor. “I got burned in a car accident.” He paused and then added deliberately, “I was too drunk to know what I was doing, slid on some ice, and went over the side of the road down a ravine.”
89
I was stunned. It sure knocked my picture of the wounded war hero to fragments. “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure whether I was sorry he had lost his face or I had lost the war hero.
He was watching me. “So am I. Not just because of this”—he gestured to the burned half of his face—“but because there was a boy with me, a boy about your age. He was burned to death.”
A bee had somehow got in the room and was buzzing around. In the silence that followed it sounded like a 747.
Then McLeod said, “It’s late, Charles. You’d better go.’’
The day after, I woke up before dawn, thinking about what McLeod had said. The queer part was that I expected to feel disgusted and disillusioned, and I didn’t. I felt sorry. I felt sorry for the boy who was killed, but I felt more sorry for McLeod. It didn’t make much sense because the boy was dead, but I was sure McLeod had been dragging around the guilt ever since, and that it had a lot to do with the way he lived and why he had never had his face fixed the way Mother and everyone in the summer community said he could—and should.
“What a lousy deal,” I said to Moxie, who was lying under the sheet next to me. My voice must have waked him, because I felt suddenly the deep vibration against my ribs that meant he was purring. In a few seconds the noise followed, sounding like a bad case of bronchitis.
A while later Meg came into my room. Since I had a lot to think about I wasn’t too pleased to see her.
“How is the Great Man?” she said, wiggling her backside against the footboard and crowding my feet.
“Okay.” I didn’t want to talk about McLeod.
“You’re getting very protective about him.”
90
What’s to talk about?”
All right. Keep your hair on. But people are beginning to ask what you’re doing all the time and where you are.”
“And what do you tell them?” I tell the kids you’re being forced to study with some caching type on the mainland. And whenever Mother says Where’s Chuck?’ which she does sometimes in the afternoons—she’s resigned to your studying in the mornings— I say wherever your gang is at the
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