Erect, he waited beside Ethel amid the suddenly quiet crowd of strangers—which now, for some reason, included the Howards and Billie. The strains of The Star-­Spangled Banner floated down from the raised platform and provided a curious suspension of time, a break in the normal sequence of events, a time out, in which John Grandin felt as alone as if he had been in a vast empty room. In all that strange crowd he knew only his wife, cared only for her, belonged to no one else; side by side with her during the playing of the anthem he felt acutely the poverty, loneliness, and brevity of life, its ineffable transience. He heard her voice, a confident but quiet alto, and he was deeply touched. Out of all the confused people in the whole confused world she was the one he knew; it was urgent (but now!) that they should look at one another, see who they were, and hang onto what they had: life moved so fast! Each single moment was alive, if one was only aware of it, and none more charged with meaning than this. He had lost track of themselves for so long, but it now seemed clear, plain, and immediate that a man’s sole purpose was to look about, to see whom it was he loved, and to love her. . . . He felt for the hand beside his own, found her fingers and clasped them in his, while the voices soared around him. He turned his head to catch her glance. She was looking straight ahead at the platform where the band played, her chin slightly raised. His eye was caught by something just beyond. In the doorway was Cliff Hauman, standing alone at attention. From his visored cap to his shoes, his uniform was a resplendent, a breath-­taking white.

The shoes were so white that the stuff would surely rub off at a touch; the stiff twill trousers had been pressed to razorlike creases. The blouse was emblazoned with gold buttons straight down to his middle, with area or campaign ribbons studded with stars; and the silver bars of his rank adorned his shoulders. The dazzling garment fitted him tight, so that the many gold buttons were somewhat strained; the high collar looked uncomfortably close beneath his chin. Above the shining patent-­leather visor, just below the wide starched crown of the cap—and on either side of the high collar of the blouse as well—was the emblem of the Marine Corps in silver and gold: a replica of the Western Hemisphere, showing the Americas, superposed upon a fouled anchor surmounted by an eagle with spread wings.