When the War Is Over by Stephen Becker

now.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Catto said. “There’s still hope, but not much.”
    Routledge fell back on his bunk, coughed harshly, and seemed to settle like a bad pudding. He was pale and unclean, a prisoner in a cold season; his presence rose to Catto’s nostrils.
    When it was certain that Routledge had nothing to say and could not be comforted, Catto left him. “You better humor me, Ned. I’m about to declare war on the army. My God, man, what a prehistoric organization!”
    â€œThat’s a disgraceful thing to say. You take their money.”
    Catto had an excuse to curse, but refrained. “Silliman, you’re a nice boy,” was all he said.
    The ladies sipped wine, the gentlemen gulped whiskey, a waiter called Curly hovered. Bloodless Stanley in another part of the house greeted and smiled. Phelan’s Nell was colored like Catto: a healthy reddish tone to her, nothing scarlet or even pink, but a summery, fleshy rubescence like a cherry just turned. Dark yellow hair like silky autumn grasses. A bit older than Charlotte, who was twenty-seven, and a bit skinnier. Catto preferred his Cleopatra with the unpronounceable last name. Greek, he had thought. “French,” she said.
    Now Phelan was saying lazily, “Something of interest in the doorway.”
    Catto was replete: venison, potatoes, much beer, pie, coffee. He swigged once more at the tumbler and only then asked, “What?” Nell and Charlotte had seen, and oohed, but Catto would not turn.
    â€œA gentleman of importance.”
    â€œYou don’t mean it,” Catto murmured, tightening. “Alone?”
    â€œA captain with him.”
    â€œTall, blond, no lips?”
    â€œThat’s the fellow.” Phelan feigned respect. “You seem to know just everybody, Lieutenant.”
    â€œDunglas. An aide, or a pimp, or something like that.”
    Silence settled upon the table. Nell and Charlotte turned pale and furious; Phelan shot Catto a glance of pain, anger and contempt. Oh God damn me for that word, Catto thought, near to tears. Oh Jesus cut out my tongue. He closed his eyes. Rats gnawed his heart. Grow up, grow up, grow up! You have killed!
    â€œPerhaps he will stop by and favor us with conversation,” Phelan said lightly.
    Catto turned to Charlotte, who sat regarding her wineglass. He looked at Nell, who would not meet his eye. Phelan emanated courteous despair.
    As his heart broke, because we are all such sad creatures, Catto reached for Charlotte’s hand; she let him take it; he carried it to his lips and gently, gravely, kissed it. She squeezed his fingers and smiled sadly.
    â€œWe shall have to order you some knee-breeches,” Phelan said softly, and Nell laughed a warm pardon.
    â€œAnd what is the general doing now?” He did not release Charlotte’s hand.
    â€œWell, he’s moving this way,” Phelan said with brisk interest. The saloon seemed to dim briefly as talk and laughter thinned. “Shall we notice him?”
    Charlotte reclaimed her hand and touched her hair.
    â€œOnly if he notices us,” Catto said. “Common decency. Don’t want to spoil the man’s evening.”
    Then he saw Phelan rise, and he glanced up with interest but no haste. “General Hooker, sir,” he said affably, and reared up slowly, blinking, a half-smile on his face, altogether the well-born client greeting a rich grocer.
    Hooker shouted laughter; heads turned. “By God, boy,” he crowed, “you’ll do. You’ll do. And you, Surgeon: keep an eye on this young fellow. Damned if he doesn’t run the whole show someday. And you, Catto: be careful. With another general you’d have been over the line long ago.”
    â€œYes sir,” Catto said quickly. “May I present Miss Charlotte and Miss Nell. General Hooker and Captain Douglas.”
    â€œDunglas,” said Dunglas, and smiled, bowing slightly. Hooker was