Instantly a volley tore through the cockpit window, shattering it entirely and ripping into Russell’s abdomen.
“Oh, Christ, Russ,” Johnson cried.
Russell felt the steamy warmth of his blood as it poured out from the ripped flesh of his gut. “Copilot, take the plane,” he said.
Johnson grabbed the controls. “Hang on, Russ.”
Russell leaned back and drew in a quick desperate breath, his eyes now fixed on the empty sky beyond the shattered cockpit window, where, in the distance, the blue lights hung again, calm, soothing, a promise of peace. “Beautiful,” he said. He knew that the dogfight still raged around him, MEs firing and being fired upon. He could see them diving helplessly toward the ground and hear the noise of the battle and the screams of his men, but it was as if all of this were happening in some distant, tortured world from which the blue lights had summoned him and now held him in their silent grasp.
“We’ve got to bail out now,” Johnson cried.
Russell heard, but did not respond. He was not in the plane anymore. He was not crashing to earth. There was no fire and smoke, no fear or desperation. There were only the blue lights and they were coming toward him, their glow ever more intense as they drew in upon each other and finally melded into a single radiant light.
“Beautiful,” Russell said again. The blue light expanded, filling the sky and engulfing him, embracing him. He smiled. “Trust me, Johnson. We won’t die.”
The light was now so intense Russell could see nothing else, feel nothing else. Time stopped. Movement ceased. Russell felt nothing but the warm, soothing light until, second by second, the light faded, and he felt the earth beneath him, heard the sound of wind rippling through a field of wheat.
He opened his eyes, and realized that he was lying in that very field. In the distance, four American soldiers warily approached him. He glanced about, trying to regain his ground. The wheat lay flattened all around him, and he could see the members of his crew slowly rising from the ground, staring at themselves and each other, astonished by the nakedness that greeted them. Russell glanced down and saw that he was naked too, and that the soft flesh of his abdomen was utterly unharmed.
Nothing has changed much, Russell thought as the cab cruised down the streets of his hometown. The stores were the same, as well as the people, kids running along the sidewalks, old people in the park, the postman making his rounds. So why, he wondered, did he not feel at home here in Bement anymore? Why did he not feel a part of this small American town, one of its simple, ordinary citizens?
“The Bulldogs are last in their division,” the cabby said. He laughed. “Some things never change.”
But some things do, Russell said to himself, though he didn’t know how he’d changed. He knew only that Bement, Illinois, was no longer the whole world to him. Once, he could not have imagined leaving it. Now he could not imagine returning to it. Once it had comprised his universe. Now it seemed so small he had to squint to see it.
The cab pulled over to the curb, and Russell reached for his wallet.
“This one’s on me, Russell,” the cabby said. He smiled admiringly. “We’re all real proud of you.”
The cab pulled away and Russell stared at the house he’d lived in all his life. It was a plain, wood-frame house with a broad porch and a well-tended lawn. A 1931 Model A Ford rested in the driveway, recently washed and polished, made ready for his return.
He walked over to the car and touched it softly, as if its metal frame were flesh.
A dog rushed toward him, wagging its long, bushy tail. He knelt down and drew it roughly into his arms. “Hello, Champ.”
Then she was suddenly there, his mother, her gray hair shining in the bright sunlight. He saw that worry had done more than time to age her.
“Mom,” he said, taking her into his arms.
“Russell,” she said in a tone of wonder, as if still unable to convince herself that what she saw was true, that her son had actually returned to Bement safe and sound.
He glanced toward the porch where his father stood, peering down at him, still a big man, though he seemed smaller than before.
“You’re still in one piece, I see,” Mr. Keys said.
Russell stiffened slightly, like a boy called to attention. “Yes, sir, I am.”
They stared at each other briefly. Russell could see a surge of feeling in his father’s eyes, along with how very hard it was for him to control it.
“How do you like her?” his father said, nodding to the car as he came down the steps.
“She looks beautiful.”
“Had to hide her from a couple of scrap drives,” Mr. Keys added. “Kind of unpatriotic, I guess, but we did our bit in… other ways.”
The “other way” was himself, Russell knew, and in that instant he grasped the terrible toll the war had taken on his parents, their long nights of worry, of not knowing where their son was, or even if he were still alive.
“Your father spent the last four days washing that old heap,” his mother said.
Russell wanted to draw his father into his arms, wanted to hold him tight and sob like a little boy, release all the fear and dread that had accumulated within him during the war, simply let it flow out of him and pool at his feet and finally seep into the ground like a wash of black bile.
Instead he said, “Thanks, Pop.”
“We did it like you asked, Russ,” his mother told him. “We didn’t say a word to Kate.”
Russell imagined her as he’d last seen her, a young woman with a bright, happy face, proof positive of love at first sight.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“At the bank,” his mother answered. She seemed to see the longing in his eyes. “Go,” she said, with a gentle push. “She can’t wait to see you.”
Kate was busy at her desk when Russell entered the bank, her back to him as she spoke into the phone.
“Miss,” Russell began, making only a slight attempt to disguise his voice.
She wagged her finger for him to wait a moment.
“Miss,” Russell repeated insistently. “Who do I see about getting one of those GI loans?”
She froze, and he knew that she’d recognized his voice. She whirled around and pulled him into her arms.
“Oh, Russell,” she said. Her eyes glistened and her voice broke, and she squeezed him with such force that for a moment he thought he might lose his breath.
That night, as they sat together on the front porch, he gave her the ring he’d bought on the Champs- Elysees.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He knew that this was true, that the ring really was the most beautiful thing Kate had ever seen. He could still see the shine in her eyes later that night as he unpacked his duffel bag and made ready for bed. He peered around his old room, trying to reacquaint himself with the model cars he’d built as a boy, the Bulldogs pennant, all the things that had meant so much to him before he’d left for war, but which now, despite all his effort to reclaim them, seemed little more than artifacts of a vanished life.
He went to bed a few minutes later, still trying to snuggle into his old life, but the war returned to him in all its dreadful fury. He heard the roar of the planes, exploding bombs, the screams of the wounded, saw the earth torn and gashed, bleeding like a man. Each time he closed his eyes, some new vision returned to him, so that after a time he walked out of the house, down the porch steps and out into the yard. The night was clear and crisp, but it did not soothe him. He could feel nothing but the fever of war. He was like a piece of tangled steel, he thought, like a gutted plane-something torn away that could never be replaced.
The model A beckoned to him, reminding him of his days before the war, how proud he’d been of his small achievements, his victories on the ball field, feats that now seemed small, himself curiously incomplete, like a man
