Another room yet familiar, with no boundaries and little dimension. Just things, to mark well, to remember. A lamp on a small table. A clock. A vase with fresh flowers. A comb, a book, a letter. The sprightly patterned bedspread lifting and turning down. Little framed paintings on the walls, flowers, always flowers. The fluffy pink robe floating then settling gracefully across the back of the chair. The new blue shirt likewise on the bedpost, followed and covered by the white duck trousers. Pink scuffs on the floor, saddle shoes beside them turned pigeon-toed, an argyle sock tucked neatly into each one. Now an embroidered pillow buoying up the dear face, the lovely hair in a spreading compass rose. Dorothy looking up and smiling, speaking private words, reminding him of things and times that were not his. Dorothy eyes open, Dorothy eyes closed. Dorothy with urgings and promises. Dorothy beneath him, tender arms turned steel, warm legs drawing him down, beyond the velvet tangle, beyond thought, beyond stopping, beyond his own voice saying, “No right, no right”…for it was summer and first time and he loved her so. Dorothy. I love you, Dorothy.
All he could really hear easily was the clock. But if he strained hard enough, he could hear the phonograph needle scratching in the next room. He lay still beside her, afraid to move. Both of them were on their backs, with their own thoughts. Even in the poor light he could make out the panel in the ceiling. For fully ten minutes he half expected it to slide open so that Oscy could appear and scream down at him, “Hubba-hubba, did you use a rubber?” He of course had not used the rubber. The rubber was down the road, buried without ceremony but now possessing one frightened mourner. He hoped she wouldn’t become pregnant because that would be just too cruel. The worst of it was he couldn’t think of anything to say to her. Like a coward, he had allowed it to happen. He could have stopped it. He could have brought her to her senses. He could have slapped her or thrown cold water on her face. Instead, he had done nothing. And in addition to that, he was now doing nothing. He was just waiting for the ceiling panel to slide open so that Pete could drop down on him and slit his throat with a bayonet. But Pete was dead, so there’d be no leaping out of the attic for Pete, no more of anything. Hermie glanced over at her, trying not to let her see any movement on his part, hoping that maybe she’d think he was dead, wishing that he was.
It was puzzling the way she lay there, under the sheet, just as though she were on the beach, her face to the sky, her fine nose at just the right angle. Whatever was in her mind he didn’t even try to guess at. He just hoped that she wouldn’t feel terrible. He wouldn’t have cared if she had turned on him and called him everything in the book, just as long as she wouldn’t feel awful and guilty and rotten.
He thought about saying a few comforting words, telling her that he had been in situations like that before because men were dying pretty regularly and—He let the thought drop right there.
He then thought of offering her marriage. At least, if he told her how much he loved her, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad or soiled or taken advantage of. But no words were forthcoming from his giant brain and so he continued just to lie there, praying for an unseasonable monsoon or some other kind of instant but relatively painless death because he, too, wasn’t feeling all that deserving of much more anguish.
He thought of telling her that maybe it was a mistake, that maybe Pete wasn’t dead, that maybe it was somebody else. The Army often got things fucked up like that. But he knew that the odds were against that being the case. Besides, what had that to do with the fact that he had just finished making love to a war widow who had helplessly allowed it to happen because she was in no emotional condition to stop it? No matter how he juggled the situation around in his mind, no matter how he twisted it or interpreted it or lied about it, he knew that in the long run, he was going to be worse off than she. She’d make it in life because she’d one day realize what and how it had happened. He’d be in trouble because it was his first time, which meant he’d remember it forever because that’s the way the legend goes. Plus he’d always remember that in a situation of crisis, his true character had come to the fore, revealing him to be more interested in sex than in compassion. He knew that for all time, he would be indelibly stamped as a shit, and a fuck, and a prick, and a…bounder.
She got up. Perhaps he had been thinking too loud. That worried him. He watched her put on the robe as though he weren’t even in the room with her. His heart jumped. So many incredible things had happened that it was just possible—maybe he’d turned into the Shadow. And maybe she didn’t see him at all and figured that she’d just had this terrific hot dream. While her back was still turned, he lifted the sheet and quickly looked to see if he was still there. He was. Most of him.
She left the bedroom and walked into the living room, disdaining the little pink scuffs that remained embarrassedly beneath the bed. He wished that she’d have put them on because August nights could get chilly, and this night, though special in so many ways, was no exception when it came to cold floors. He realized that he was feeling responsible, but how else could he live with himself?
He could see the back of her in the living room. She was just standing there. Her hair was a little mussed, but that was to be expected since she’d just gone a few rounds with the Fiend of East Nineteenth Street. Then she disappeared from his view, moving to the side of the room he couldn’t see. Shortly after that, the sound of the scratchy phonograph needle ceased, probably for all time. Then she reappeared, only farther up in the room where she found her cigarettes and lit one up. She was maybe thirty feet away, but her voice traveled well, and even though she wasn’t facing him, he could hear her clearly say, “Hermie, I think you’d better go home.”
At least she wasn’t mad. He eased himself out of bed and began to dress. He didn’t want to move too fast because that would make him look like a guy who couldn’t wait to get out of there. Nor did he want to move too slowly because that would be disrespectful of her wishes. So he moved kind of medium. He was surprised to find the front of his blue shirt damp. Then he remembered the tears that had happened there, and he grew weak because of his inability to really do something to help her feel not so awful. He slipped easily into the loud argyle socks because they glowed in the dark and were the first things he saw. The laces of his saddle shoes were still tied. He probably had just kicked the shoes off without untying the laces. Sure must’ve been in some kind of hurry. To get into his white ducks, he had to remove his shoes and put them on again afterward. He was not being smooth. He walked into the living room, stopping only to take a deep breath because, surely, the matter bore discussion and he wanted his throat to be in shape. But when he got there, she was gone. Through the doorway he could see her, out on the porch, the orange dot of her cigarette moving gently in the darkness. It was the side of the porch that overlooked the ocean, and he wondered if she wasn’t scanning the sea, looking for the boat that Pete might be sailing home.
Hermie took another deep breath and went out onto the porch, wondering if when he got there, she might be somewhere else, like halfway down the beach. But she was there, proud and straight and thoughtful and calm and looking a shade taller than he. He wanted to say something, anything, but she saved him the trouble by speaking first, her voice almost a whisper. “Good night, Hermie.”
He wanted to go, and fast. Yet to leave her like that—Then he realized that it was the way she wanted it. And more important than that, he knew at the very core of him, it was the way it had to be. He heard himself say “Good night” and felt better because it strongly implied that he understood everything, which he did and he didn’t.
So he left the house via the beach side, descending the magical fourteen steps without falling on his ass, for which he was grateful because he was striving so hard for poise and carriage. When he reached the sand, he removed his stupid shoes and socks, and while he did that, he looked back. He saw the orange dot, nothing more. He walked, carrying his shoes and juggling a few other feelings that might take him a while to figure out. One thin
g was for sure. He had gotten laid. He had gotten laid with the woman he loved. He had gotten laid, first time, and it had been with the one woman on earth he most wanted. Was that not a delightful and wondrous thing? Then how come he felt so lousy?
20
The mist was so thick the next morning that maybe it wasn’t even dawn. How long he had been sitting on that beach would never be known. For sure it had been hours. And for sure he had never gone home, because nobody hung around on a beach in white ducks and saddle shoes unless he had lost his yacht. His mother, by then, had probably called out the Coast Guard, and the dredging for his body would be well under way. The funeral if he were truly dead, would be Tuesday. And it would be a big day for his aunts Clara and Dora because they were the greatest criers ever to come over from the Bronx. A few gulls called to one another on winds that rode eight o’clock in the morning. That’s what Hermie figured the time to be. Eight o’clock. It also could’ve been nine. There was no way of knowing, nor did he give much of a shit about it. He watched the waves creep out of the ocean and grope along the sand. He watched them wriggle up as far as they could and then retire grudgingly back into the sea. He found it all very remarkable and worthy of an entire copy of National Geographic, provided you were a fish.
A figure was walking out of the mist, and Hermie watched it draw closer. It could have been anyone, but it happened to be Oscy because it was playing the harmonica as though it were an enemy. Oscy sat down next to him for the longest time, smacking the harmonica against his palm so often that not only spit came out, but rust and a couple sand fleas as well. Eventually Oscy spoke. He made it sound very unimportant. “Miriam pulled through.”
Hermie said nothing, and Oscy was respectful of his mood. He played the harmonica again, bleating out some frightening sounds that better belonged in a jungle. He played and spoke intermittently, like a comedian accompanying himself. “I saw her mother this morning. They froze her appendix. I’m very relieved about it, but she’s through for the summer. Won’t be back on the island again. My first lay—gone with the wind.” He played a version of “Taps” that would have offended Benedict Arnold. Then he spoke again, never looking at Hermie, who could easily have been a sand castle. “Seen Benjie anywhere? The rat still has my glasses.” When no answer was forthcoming, Oscy played a few bars of “Farmer in the Dell” and then resumed his monologue, with about as much sensitivity as he’d ever manifested in his entire life. “Hermie, you shouldn’t feel so bad no matter what happened. And you don’t have to tell me. But—if you want to tell me, you can. But you don’t have to—unless you want to.”
Hermie said nothing, and so Oscy just looked up at the sky, unto which he delivered another of his searing bits of philosophy. “Sometimes life is a big pain in the ass.” He remained silent, not even resorting to his harmonica. Then, in an effort to resurrect Hermie, he said, “I thought maybe we’d attack the Coast Guard station today. Give ’em a scare.” So ended Oscy’s speechifying, and he turned again to his nauseating mouth organ. London Bridge was shortly falling down. And it would have if it had been able to hear Oscy.
Meaning no disrespect but not much caring how Oscy took it, Hermie got up and walked away. Oscy made no move to follow. He knew it was a very private time for Hermie. Besides, after London Bridge there was “Red River Valley,” followed by “Oh, Susannah,” followed by “Camptown Races,” the last few sickening notes of which Hermie never heard because he was mercifully out of earshot. First chance he’d get, Hermie would send Oscy an anonymous note suggesting that he abandon the harmonica, or else he’d wake up one morning to find it shoved up his ass where it could rust in peace.
Dorothy’s house stood lonely and fog-shrouded where Hermie had left it. Maybe Dorothy was up by then, making her famous coffee. The one conclusion that Hermie had come to as a result of his all-night meditations was that he couldn’t let it all end like that. He had to talk to her, to mend their fences, to discuss their relationship, and perhaps to figure out her next move. Because she had seemed so self-possessed when he left her, Hermie had pretty much convinced himself that she was all right. But somewhere during Oscy’s speech, it occurred to Hermie that perhaps the opposite was the case. Perhaps she had gone back to drinking. Perhaps she had spent the whole night crying, missing Pete, despising herself for going to bed with that dumb kid. Perhaps she had committed suicide. They did that thing in India a lot, even though it was illegal. The wife throws herself on her husband’s funeral fire. Anyway, by the time Hermie was halfway up the fourteen steps, he had convinced himself that he’d find Dorothy lying dead on the floor, her wrists slashed, and nothing but a note to remind the world that she had passed by.
The first thing that struck him was the lack of life about the house, as if all life had been turned off, the plug pulled out on everything. For instance, the few pieces of porch furniture had been pulled out of weather’s way and pressed against the shingled walls of the house. The little wagon was there, too, turned upside down so as not to catch any rain or snow that the months ahead would bring. It was all very ninth inning, very final. The screen door leading onto the porch was unlatched, and Hermie stepped through and beyond it. The front door, the one to the house, was closed. Also, the two windows that faced out on the porch had the shades drawn. There was an envelope tacked to the front door, one word on it: “Hermie.” That was him. He read his name for ten seconds while also knocking on the door. No answer. He tried the door. Locked. He removed the tack from the envelope and peeked through one of the windows because there was still a half inch of visibility between the bottom of the shade and the window ledge. He couldn’t see much, except for the fact that the house was pretty empty and that Pete’s photograph no longer sat smilingly on the mantel because those days were over. The other window had a similar half inch to look through and a similar view beyond. Nobody was home.
Hermie looked at the envelope in his hand and was in no particular hurry to open it. He leaned back against the door and allowed himself to slide slowly to the porch floor, where he arrived in a sitting position. As he opened the envelope, he looked out to the ocean. It was very large. A very large ocean indeed. One of the largest in the world. He had never quite looked at it that way before.
He removed the piece of writing paper from the envelope. He stalled around, even sniffing the paper to see if there was any perfume there. But he couldn’t really tell because of the sudden overpowering salty sea air that seemed to be wiping over everything, wiping everything away. Eventually, because it had been so ordained, he read the words set down in so fine a style and with so sweet a hand:
DEAR HERMIE,
I must go home now. I’m sure you’ll understand. There’s much that I have to do. I will not try to explain what happened last night because I know that, in time, you will find a proper way in which to remember it…
The man was standing on the beach, and it all rushed back at him, swift and clear, as he looked up at the house on the high dune. It hadn’t changed that much over the years. A new roof, a couple of paint jobs along the way. Not much more. There were a few razor-sharp memories in there, too, but the years had planed them down to an acceptable smoothness so that the once rough edges no longer cut as they used to. He never saw Dorothy again. Nor did he ever learn what became of her. Nor did he ever ask anyone. Nor did even the loosest-mouthed island gossips volunteer a word. Dorothy was gone. New people bought the house.
As for the letter, he still had it, in a drawer somewhere. And from time to time, whenever the world had punched him around too much, he’d stop whatever it was he was doing and he’d reread the brave words and replay the lovely voice.
What I will do is remember you, and I will pray that you be spared all senseless tragedies. I wish you good things, Hermie, only good things.
Always,
DOROTHY
The man turned away from the house and moved back in the direction from which he had come, the sand of all those years ago coming over his toes, morning cool
and early damp. And he pondered the one small truth that Hermie had taken so many years to get straight in his head. Life is made up of small comings and goings, and for everything a man takes with him, there is something he must leave behind. Not an altogether brilliant concept, but a comforting one, very comforting. For so many of the people who had touched his life were no longer alive, except in his mind, where he could be with them again whenever they chose to occur to him. His mother, so protective and loving. His father, so hardworking and unfortunately anonymous. And Oscy. Crazy heroic Oscy, killed in Korea on Hermie’s twenty-fourth birthday, and they hung his Silver Star on his brother, the dentist. The fog was hunching in again, but the voices cut through clearly, giving new credence to the old theory that sound was always alive and always moving in perpetual concentric circles and that, depending upon where you stood and how receptive you were, you might just hear words of another time spoken again.
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