The Season of Open Water by Dawn Tripp

should.
    He serves himself a small plate of food.
    â€œTake more than that,” Alpha says, prodding him gently. “You’ve next to no flesh on you.”
    He lets her lay another slab of ham down on his plate.
    They are talking about streetlights down at Horseneck, the bearded man on his right and a younger red-haired man who sits across from him. They are talking about the expense of keeping them lit through the winter. Is it really necessary? They are talking about the money needed for a gasoline shovel, and other money needed to finish laying macadam on the new Cornell Road from where they left off the year before, down to Artingstall’s Corner. But he is only half listening. He is only half there. His mind is at war. He is at war. And men are dying around him. They might not know it yet. But they are dying. So many have already died, and his body was wood then too. His hands were quick, but their insides spilled out. He could not save them. Alpha is touching his arm, asking him something. She is asking him if he knows much about farming. They’ll have to burn the asparagus beds, she says, when the snow melts. There are thorns in them this year. They have a vegetable stand in the summer, and they are going to try to grow strawberries this spring. Fresh strawberries seem to be a favorite among the summer people. Sally Ivanheld grew them last year and sold out every weekend. Does he have a taste for strawberries? she asks and he nods. He mumbles something. Alpha turns to the dark-haired woman on her left. Henry looks up, and across the room he sees Bridge.
    She has just come up the stairs, carrying a fresh plate of ham. The steam rises off the meat around her face. She looks directly at him, her eyes hook into his for a moment before she turns away and walks toward another table close to the stage at the opposite end of the room. He watches as she lays down the plate of food, and his mind is suddenly straightened, suddenly clear, his anxiety gone. He does not take his eyes off her. She crosses to a side table and picks up a china pitcher and refills the water glasses. Then with the empty pitcher she retraces her route along the edge of the room. She does not look at him again. She goes back down the stairs.
    â€œAre you alright then?” Alpha is asking him.
    Henry turns and looks at her. “I am in heaven,” he says slowly.
    She stares at him, concerned for a moment. The wrinkles deepen at the edges of her eyes. Then she giggles and points with the end of her knife to his plate and the food still untouched. “Eat up then. Ham’s good to bring a young man back to earth.”
    Cora sits with the rest of the help at the table near the top of the stairs. They are the last to be served. The men and boys sit down at one end, some with coal still on their hands and on the cuffs of their sleeves. Cora sits at the other end with the women. Bridge walks around the table filling the water glasses. Annie Deacon and Lucy McIleer are talking about someone.
    â€œHe was in France, I heard,” Lucy says. “A doctor in the big war.”
    â€œPass those pickles, please, will you, Annie?” Norma Jakes says.
    â€œNot much use after it,” Lucy goes on. “So the talk is.”
    â€œWas he in Paris?”
    â€œNo, not those pickles. The sweet ones there by the butter.”
    â€œI don’t think it was Paris.”
    â€œI heard it was.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m quite sure.”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask him yourself then.”
    â€œI heard it was Paris.”
    Bridge sits down next to her mother. Her work is done, and she fills her plate. She picks up her knife and fork, and without a word begins to cut into a piece of ham. She seems nervous, Cora notices with some surprise, agitated, which is unlike her. Cora busies herself with her own food, then a sip of water. She finds a stain on the tablecloth. She studies its shape. Bridge eats quickly. She swabs