and numb - ice cream fingers. He looked across the room at the
photograph. At the blonde boy. Smiling, squinting into the camera.
Silence from the other end.
'You know it isn't a joke, so what happened?'
'My son killed himself yesterday evening,' Bortman said evenly.
'If you didn't know It.'
'I didn't. I swear.'
Bortman signed. 'And you really are calling from long distance,
aren't you?'
'From Binghamton, New York.'
'Yes. You can tell the difference--local from long distance, I mean.
Long distance has a sound...a...a hum...'
Dale realized, belatedly, that expression had finally crept into that
voice. Bortman was crying.
'He was depressed off and on, ever since he got back from Nam, in
late 1974,' Bortman said. 'it always got worse in the spring, it
always peaked around the 8th of April when the other boys ... and
your son...'
'Yes,' Dale said.
'This year, it just didn't ... didn't peak.'
There was a muffled honk-Bortman using his handkerchief.
'He hung himself in the garage, Mr. Clewson.'
'Christ Jesus,' Dale muttered. He shut his eyes very tightly, trying
to ward off the image. He got one which was arguably even worse
- that smiling face, the open fatigue shirt, the twisted dog-tags. 'I'm
sorry.'
'He didn't want people to know why he wasn't with the others that
day, but of course the story got out.' A long, meditative pause
from Bortman's end. 'Stories like that always do.'
'Yes. I suppose they do.'
'Joshua didn't have many friends when he was growing up, Mr.
Clewson. I don't think he had any real friends until he got to Nam.
He loved your son, and the others.'
Now it's him. comforting me.
'I'm sorry for your loss;' Dale said. 'And sorry to have bothered
you at a time like this. But you'll understand ... I had to.'
'Yes. Is he smiling, Mr. Clewson? The others ... they said he was
smiling.'
Dale looked toward the picture beside the ticking clock. 'He's
smiling.'
'Of course he is. Josh finally caught up with them.'
Dale looked out the window toward the sidewalk where Billy had
once ridden a bike with training wheels. He supposed he should
say something, but he couldn't seem to think of a thing. His
stomach hurt. His bones were cold.
'I ought to go, Mr. Clewson. In case my wife wakes up.' He
paused. 'I think I'll take the phone off the hook.'
'That might not be a bad idea.'
'Goodbye, Mr. Clewson.'
