paper?”
Tom nodded. “That’s the idea. What’s your name?”
“Atkins. Gil Atkins.”
“Where you from, Gil?” If Tom held both the notebook and the umbrella in his left hand, he could take notes…after a fashion.
“Sioux City, Iowa.”
“How about that?” Tom said: one of the rare phrases you could use with almost anything. He’d been to Sioux City. It was a place where nobody died of excess excitement. “What did you do there?”
“Short-order cook.”
“Were you a cook in the Army, too?”
“Not fuckin’ likely. I lugged a BAR.”
“Did you get to Germany before V-E Day or after?”
“After, not that it made much difference. Krauts may have said they gave up, but that didn’t mean shit, and everybody knew it. I’m just glad I made it home in one piece.” The kid’s face clouded over. “Bunch of my buddies didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. Gil Atkins only shrugged; maybe he recognized purely polite sympathy when he heard it. Tom tried again: “So you’re glad to come home from Germany, then?”
“Oh, hell, yes!” Nothing wrong with Atkins’ sincerity.
“What’s the best thing about being back in the States?”
“Lord! Where do I start?” Quite seriously, the returning PFC ticked off points on his fingers: “Let’s see. When I get on the train, I won’t have to worry that the fanatics have planted a block of TNT on the tracks. When I get into a jeep-sorry, I mean a car-I won’t have to watch the bushes by the side of the road to make sure no cocksucker with a rocket or a machine gun can blow it up. When I walk down the street, I won’t have to worry somebody’ll chuck a grenade under my feet and run away. I won’t have to wonder if the guy coming past me has dynamite and nails on under his coat. I won’t have to think the pretty gal pushing the baby carriage has maybe got a big old mine in there instead of a baby. I won’t have to be scared somebody’s gonna bomb the place where I’m sleeping. If I buy myself a shot, I won’t have to wonder whether some asshole poisoned it. I won’t…Shit, buddy, I could go on a lot longer, but you’ve got the message, doncha?”
“I just might, yeah.” Tom mimed writer’s cramp, which made Atkins chuckle. “What do you think about the people who don’t think we ought to be pulling out of Germany?”
“Well, that depends. There were some of those guys over there, and you gotta respect them. I mean, hell, they were laying it on the line like everybody else, y’know? So that was okay. But the people back here, the safe, fat, happy people who wouldn’t be in any danger regardless of what goes on in Germany-fuck them and the horse they rode in on. Those clowns are ready to fight to the last drop of my blood. That’s how it looks to me, anyways.” Gil Atkins chuckled again, this time in mild embarrassment. “You’re gonna have to take out some words before you can put this in your paper, huh?”
“That’s part of the business,” Tom said. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me. You helped a lot.”
“Only time I ever got in the paper before was on account of a car crash,” Atkins said. “And that one wasn’t even my fault-other guy was drunk, and he sideswiped me.” He bobbed his head and tramped off. Before long, no doubt, he’d find the station. He’d ride back to Sioux City and start scrambling eggs and frying bacon and flipping hamburgers. He’d have a regular job again. Hell, he’d have his life back again. Try as Tom might, he couldn’t see what was so bad about that.
Tom had his own job, too. “Hi. I’m Tom Schmidt, from the
“Auld Lang Syne” came out of the radio. Guy Lombardo’s orchestra was playing in the New Year, the same as usual. Over the music, the announcer said, “In less than a minute now, the lighted ball in Times Square will drop. It will usher out 1947 and bring in 1948. Another year to look forward to…”
Ed McGraw looked down at his wristwatch. “Boy, I’m a whole year fast,” he said.
Buster Neft laughed. So did Betsy. Stan looked around, wide-eyed. He’d stayed up way past his bedtime, but New Year’s Eve was special. He would be three pretty soon, which seemed impossible to his grandmother.
Diana McGraw only smiled at Ed’s joke. He made it about every other New Year. And when he wasn’t a year fast, he was a year slow. Yeah, Diana had heard it before, too many times. She’d heard just about everything from him too many times.
“The ball is dropping!” the announcer said. “Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year!” Ed lifted his beer. All the grownups had drinks of one kind or another. Even Stan had a glass of grape juice. If he wanted to pretend it was wine-well, why not?
Betsy raised her highball in Diana’s direction. “Here’s to you, Mom! If anybody made 1947 what it was, you’re the one.”
“Thanks,” Diana said. Along with the rest of her family, she drank the toast. It was true enough. American soldiers were coming home from Germany. Most of them were already back, and the ones who weren’t would be before long. Diana had had a lot to do with that.
And now it was-literally was, this past minute or so-last year’s news. The second phone line here didn’t ring as often as it had even a couple of months earlier. The withdrawal wasn’t controversial any more; it was an accomplished fact. By the nature of things, accomplished facts weren’t news. The world was starting to forget about Diana McGraw and Mothers Against the War in Germany. Why not? They’d won.
Pretty soon, she’d go back to being just another housewife from Anderson, Indiana. Up till Pat got killed, she hadn’t thought about being anything else. She still wished she’d never had any reason-well, never had
But she’d got used to going all over the country for the cause. She’d got used to fielding phone calls from reporters and Congressmen and other important people. She’d got used to being an important person herself. And she could watch that fade like a cheap blouse the first time it met bleach. Once you’d been famous-even a little bit famous-how did you get used to ordinary life?
Baseball players had to deal with it. So did actors who had one or two hit movies and then saw their careers fizzle out. Some managed gracefully. Others grabbed the limelight a little while longer by doing something disgraceful.
Diana might have managed that if news of her tryst with Marvin (she still couldn’t remember his last name) had made the papers. Everybody on the other side would have been delighted to see her exposed as a woman without any morals to call her own.
But nobody knew about that little encounter except the parties involved. She had no idea whether Marvin’s conscience bothered him. She would have bet against it. He was a man, after all. Men took what they could get, and tried to get it even when they couldn’t.
Women weren’t supposed to do things like that. Which didn’t mean they didn’t, only that they weren’t supposed to. What bothered Diana most about ending up in bed with Marvin Whoozis was how much fun she’d had while it was going on. Marvin had casually shown her more varieties of delight in half an hour than Ed had since the end of World War I. Darn it, when Ed went Over There, couldn’t a Mademoiselle from Amentieres have taught him a little something? Evidently not.
And having a better idea of what she was missing only left Diana more frustrated when Ed wanted to lay her down. He still hadn’t figured out exactly what was wrong, even if he knew something was. She had no idea how to tell him, either. If she suddenly wanted him to start doing this and that when he’d never done-probably never even imagined doing-this and that before, what would he think? Most likely, that some other guy had done this and that with her while she was on one of her junkets.
He’d be right, too.
If only this and that-especially that-didn’t feel so good! If only she hadn’t got smashed with Marvin! If only… fame weren’t rolling away like the afternoon train bound for Indianapolis.
Which brought her back to where she’d started, full circle.
She realized Betsy’d just said something. She also realized she had no idea what. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said.
