The city celebrates. The war is over, they tell each other. The war is over, they tell themselves, again and again. They look in the mirror and say, “The war is over,” out loud. They make eye contact on the street; they almost smile; they do not go back to work on time after lunch; they forget where they live and walk, swinging briefcases and knocking into one another, saying, excuse me, excuse me, in a daze. It is as though all of New York has had one drink too many; the full-hearted wide-gestured openmouthed buzz of a party at its zenith. All over the city, strangers find their hearts beating in time with one another. They look at other passengers on buses, at other diners in restaurants, at other commuters in elevators, and they think, I know you.

—

Paolo’s brother was killed in France, when a chunk of shrapnel bounced off a building next to him and lodged itself in his chest. This is an open wound in his family. That the war is over, that the war is won, does nothing but illuminate the place Paolo’s brother should have at the table. The hook where he should hang his coat. So Paolo is with his mamma; his two other brothers are there too; nothing can console her, nor will anything ever console her again. Her son’s absence will be an aching, nauseating vertigo. The whole world is slanted now. There will be no body; she will not visit his grave. She says, they were boys, they were just boys, and Paolo puts a hand between her shoulder blades, soft, and as he does it he can feel himself clutching his mother at five years old, and nine, and twelve, and he knows she is right: he is a boy; his brother was just a boy.

—

Joey has kept a very expensive bottle of whiskey on hand for exactly this moment. He uncaps it and pours a generous drink and swallows, letting it heat him up and smooth him out. He feels a low tug of fear; his finances have been dependent on the war since it began. His family is comfortable now. They live in a better neighborhood, and there are children to think of. Joey Colicchio has never met a problem he could not solve. This, he knows, as he drinks again, from the bottle, will be no different.

—