that.
When Harry left, telling Gloria that he could walk himself to the car (she didnât protest very much), his âSee you laterâ sounded like a curse.
He knows he may as well get up. There is no sense in lying here in his own sweat, sleep moving farther and farther away.
He takes his pain pills and waves off his sisterâs halfhearted offer to accompany him. She goes back to her and Artieâs bedroom while Harry, in his bathrobe and slippers, walks down the hall, stopping to give his aching bladder some relief. He continues into the living room, stubbing his toe on a chair and almost relishing some new, cleaner kind of pain.
Itâs chilly in the living room, the only illumination a streetlight shining through the bay window, but Harry has always had great night vision. He feels it kept him alive in France and Germany; his men tried to stay close by him when they were on the move after dark and before light, even after Stevens was lost. Some of his superior officers mistook this for devotion, but the men knew that, if anyone was going to see something move that wasnât supposed to move in those cold, murderous woods, it would be Lieutenant Harry Stein.
Thereâs a recliner over in the corner, and thereâs a wool blanket lying on the couch beside it. Harry manages to ease himself into Artieâs favorite chair, covers himself to the chin and lies there looking out into the darkness. After five minutes, he can see every detail of the room.
This new position, half sitting and half lying, somehow suits him. He gives the blanket a yank and reclines there, unable to sleep just yet (although the pain has lessened some) but glad to just lie still and see things.
Being still is something that has come late to Harry. One of the great, abiding forces of his adult life has been the fidgety sense that he was missing something, somewhere. Sometimes it worked for him, sometimes it didnât. Law school, he soon knew, would be too boring, but his energy level was a large part of the making of a young stockbroker. Going full tilt all day, always looking for the edge, never satisfied, then sometimes partying half the night with clients and other brokersâthe restlessness defined his life and was the blame and credit for much that happened to it.
Gloria was a good sport for a long time, Harry sees clearly now, willing to forget a lot for a man she loved, a man who swore he loved her, a man with a future.
Part of it, he knew, was that nothing ever seemed as glamorous as a bar in the money district of a city, with everybody full of energy, everybody late in the afternoon just as they once were after a big game in high school, all full of themselvesâlook at me: I just made some schmuck $10,000 because I am the smartest, quickest guy who ever read the Wall Street Journal .
It wasnât a drinking problem, not in the sense of being unable to stop, not in the sense of drunk-driving citations or scenes in public places. Harry could stop. Harry could hold it. What Harry knew he hadâand how could he tell Gloria this?âwas an excitement problem.
He came to understand, slowly and painfully, that something was missing, that the past would be with him, would not recede.
Sometime before sunrise, Harry does drift off to sleep. At times like this, he is seldom granted unconsciousness until he abandons hope of achieving it. Then, it sandbags him. Later, he wakes up flat on his back, snoring.
This time, though, his slumber is interrupted by the voices of Freda and Artie. They are in the kitchen, down the hall, trying to quietly get Sunday breakfast going. Harry hears Artie curse softly, as if heâs just spilled orange juice or dropped the toast.
Harry is undiscovered. They havenât gone into the living room yet, and he left his bedroom door closed. From where he sits, he can hear them well enough.
â⦠Thatâs all I know.â Fredaâs voice. âHeâs pretty
When Harry left, telling Gloria that he could walk himself to the car (she didnât protest very much), his âSee you laterâ sounded like a curse.
He knows he may as well get up. There is no sense in lying here in his own sweat, sleep moving farther and farther away.
He takes his pain pills and waves off his sisterâs halfhearted offer to accompany him. She goes back to her and Artieâs bedroom while Harry, in his bathrobe and slippers, walks down the hall, stopping to give his aching bladder some relief. He continues into the living room, stubbing his toe on a chair and almost relishing some new, cleaner kind of pain.
Itâs chilly in the living room, the only illumination a streetlight shining through the bay window, but Harry has always had great night vision. He feels it kept him alive in France and Germany; his men tried to stay close by him when they were on the move after dark and before light, even after Stevens was lost. Some of his superior officers mistook this for devotion, but the men knew that, if anyone was going to see something move that wasnât supposed to move in those cold, murderous woods, it would be Lieutenant Harry Stein.
Thereâs a recliner over in the corner, and thereâs a wool blanket lying on the couch beside it. Harry manages to ease himself into Artieâs favorite chair, covers himself to the chin and lies there looking out into the darkness. After five minutes, he can see every detail of the room.
This new position, half sitting and half lying, somehow suits him. He gives the blanket a yank and reclines there, unable to sleep just yet (although the pain has lessened some) but glad to just lie still and see things.
Being still is something that has come late to Harry. One of the great, abiding forces of his adult life has been the fidgety sense that he was missing something, somewhere. Sometimes it worked for him, sometimes it didnât. Law school, he soon knew, would be too boring, but his energy level was a large part of the making of a young stockbroker. Going full tilt all day, always looking for the edge, never satisfied, then sometimes partying half the night with clients and other brokersâthe restlessness defined his life and was the blame and credit for much that happened to it.
Gloria was a good sport for a long time, Harry sees clearly now, willing to forget a lot for a man she loved, a man who swore he loved her, a man with a future.
Part of it, he knew, was that nothing ever seemed as glamorous as a bar in the money district of a city, with everybody full of energy, everybody late in the afternoon just as they once were after a big game in high school, all full of themselvesâlook at me: I just made some schmuck $10,000 because I am the smartest, quickest guy who ever read the Wall Street Journal .
It wasnât a drinking problem, not in the sense of being unable to stop, not in the sense of drunk-driving citations or scenes in public places. Harry could stop. Harry could hold it. What Harry knew he hadâand how could he tell Gloria this?âwas an excitement problem.
He came to understand, slowly and painfully, that something was missing, that the past would be with him, would not recede.
Sometime before sunrise, Harry does drift off to sleep. At times like this, he is seldom granted unconsciousness until he abandons hope of achieving it. Then, it sandbags him. Later, he wakes up flat on his back, snoring.
This time, though, his slumber is interrupted by the voices of Freda and Artie. They are in the kitchen, down the hall, trying to quietly get Sunday breakfast going. Harry hears Artie curse softly, as if heâs just spilled orange juice or dropped the toast.
Harry is undiscovered. They havenât gone into the living room yet, and he left his bedroom door closed. From where he sits, he can hear them well enough.
â⦠Thatâs all I know.â Fredaâs voice. âHeâs pretty
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