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Chapters (51)
  1. Introduction by Michael Bronski
  2. BEGINNING
  3. II
  4. III
  5. IV
  6. V
  7. VI
  8. VII
  9. VIII
  10. IX
  11. X
  12. XI
  13. XII
  14. XIII
  15. MIDDLE
  16. II
  17. III
  18. IV
  19. V
  20. VI
  21. VII
  22. VIII
  23. IX
  24. X
  25. XI
  26. XII
  27. XIII
  28. XIV
  29. XV
  30. XVI
  31. XVII
  32. XVIII
  33. XIX
  34. XX
  35. END
  36. II
  37. III
  38. IV
  39. V
  40. VI
  41. VII
  42. VIII
  43. IX
  44. X
  45. XI
  46. XII
  47. XIII
  48. XIV
  49. XV
  50. XVI
  51. About the Author

“. . . You haven’t told me a thing about the boys.” She hadn’t said anything about his book, either, but for some reason he couldn’t speak of it now.

“I suppose they’re having a good time.”

“I miss them. Don’t you?”

“No, not really . . .”

“Oh, by the way! I had the damnedest experience the other day. I was on top of a bus, alone, there was no one else upstairs at all, when four young fliers came up and sat down several seats behind me. Their uniforms were a lightish blue, I think they were Canadians; anyhow they weren’t Americans. You can’t imagine how young they were—just kids—hardly looked as if they shaved. You could tell they were in a fine mood and were out to have a good time—really do the town. I sat there thinking about them, wondering where they’d be six months from now, or even three, or even if they’d still be alive, and I was hoping like anything that they’d have the best time in New York they’d ever had anywhere. Suddenly I heard one of them say, ‘How do you like that civilian uniform up there?’ I turned around, thinking someone else must have come up on top of the bus, and discovered they meant me. I was being baited. Me, forty-­four years old! But that’s not the point, of course. The point is—well, I felt awfully sorry about the whole thing; I kept wishing it hadn’t happened, or that I hadn’t heard them say it . . .”

“I know . . .”

XIII

XIII

Whatever it was, the thing had gone on for so long, now, that apparently it could be postponed indefinitely or even eventually dropped. It had often happened that way before. He felt no urge to inquire any further and Ethel herself seemed disposed to forget it. But as they were unpacking in the bedroom later, she began to clear her throat again in little nervous rasps and he saw that she was tense. Suddenly she said, “John, I want to talk to you,” and her eyes filled with tears.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. Unconsciously—by some instinctive reversion to an old habit, perhaps—he folded his hands meekly in his lap, as if expecting a scolding from his mother or teacher. Ethel was in a wicker chair by the bureau. They faced one another in the harsh glare of the unshaded light bulb in the ceiling. She breathed hard, thinking it out first; and though she looked directly at him, he knew she was afraid.