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Authors: David Adams Richards
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woods, and every tree ever cut on an axman’s pay.”
“But—I don’t know if—”
“So you tell him that—” he said, interrupting her, feeling suddenly that he was trying to sound like Will. But at any rate, he was himself again.
She jumped and started down the hall, turned, ran back, and in front of the old woman, kissed him. It was a strange kiss—for what would be forever between them alone—he tasted the inside of her lips. At that moment, without Reggie, she would love him and he her. Yet it was Reggie brought them together.
“My, my—haven’t we expressed ourselves,” the old lady said.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Camellia said, laughing. “I always do—I mean I have before—” and here she ran downstairs laughing aloud again. “I’m phoning Reggie tonight!” she yelled.
At this moment he knew that if he was ever to be in love, it would be with her. Strangely it was the war that had taught him this. And he cursed again for not having recognized this before, and looked up guiltily at the maid.
TEN
At the same time, on the west side of Saint John, in an old house built before the middle of the nineteenth century that teetered on pillars overlooking the harbor, Reggie Glidden pondered his future. It was now to him a prospectless place of self-recrimination where an act he had no control over was a cedar he could not dislodge in a stream. He had become indebted to a man he once pitied. That was something he could not overcome. He had lied about that man’s deed in order to save face with a cynical town. He could lie because he had once thought so little of Owen, and too much of himself.
Reggie tried to fathom where his downfall had started. It had not started in the war or in the trench or with the jammed rifle, or even in Owen’s rushing with an extra clip of ammunition to the hole Reggie had dug. It had started when he had once tried to determine whether Owen was manly, and took him across the river to meet the drinking boys. This was a flaw not in Owen’s character, but in Reggie’s. Everything seemed to come from that.
Reggie’s hope had rested on the well-known fact that Owen was off to dentistry if he lived through the war. The rather strange desire not to have Owen live through the warthat had come to Reggie Glidden the closer the end of the war came was a silent problem Reggie could never speak about, for he was deathly guilty of this feeling, and thought of it as remarkably unnatural and unmanly. Yet if Owen had not lived through the war, Reggie could honor his memory and in some way control what was remembered. He could make the saving of his life more fantastic, and still seem a hero himself. But now Owen had come home. His thoughts were torn between feeling desperately grateful and terribly angry about the same circumstance.
He went to Saint John so he would not have to talk about it, and worked this past week loading ships on the dock. In his pocket he had an offer from Estabrook.
He told his cousin, whose house he was staying at, of his fears. He told him about Camellia one night when he was drinking. He thought he might find sympathy with a man he had known, and protected, as a child.
“She is working at the house Owen lives,” he said. “Owen is a hero to everyone and, well, you know how impressionable young girls are! I married her perhaps in haste, but I do love her with all my heart—she is so like a child—and that I suppose is a bad thing—when you consider it—”
The cousin listened to him, felt privy to knowledge that was a silent cancer in Reggie’s heart.
“Well,” he said, as he held a cigarette in front of his face and smiled corruptly through the smoke, “any man who saves your life might have a go banging your wife and take it as good payment. Hell, she probably thinks that too. For sometimes women act innocent just to get men between the sheets. Just once or twice.”
He was no longer that shy child Reggie had cared about but just another man
“But—I don’t know if—”
“So you tell him that—” he said, interrupting her, feeling suddenly that he was trying to sound like Will. But at any rate, he was himself again.
She jumped and started down the hall, turned, ran back, and in front of the old woman, kissed him. It was a strange kiss—for what would be forever between them alone—he tasted the inside of her lips. At that moment, without Reggie, she would love him and he her. Yet it was Reggie brought them together.
“My, my—haven’t we expressed ourselves,” the old lady said.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Camellia said, laughing. “I always do—I mean I have before—” and here she ran downstairs laughing aloud again. “I’m phoning Reggie tonight!” she yelled.
At this moment he knew that if he was ever to be in love, it would be with her. Strangely it was the war that had taught him this. And he cursed again for not having recognized this before, and looked up guiltily at the maid.
TEN
At the same time, on the west side of Saint John, in an old house built before the middle of the nineteenth century that teetered on pillars overlooking the harbor, Reggie Glidden pondered his future. It was now to him a prospectless place of self-recrimination where an act he had no control over was a cedar he could not dislodge in a stream. He had become indebted to a man he once pitied. That was something he could not overcome. He had lied about that man’s deed in order to save face with a cynical town. He could lie because he had once thought so little of Owen, and too much of himself.
Reggie tried to fathom where his downfall had started. It had not started in the war or in the trench or with the jammed rifle, or even in Owen’s rushing with an extra clip of ammunition to the hole Reggie had dug. It had started when he had once tried to determine whether Owen was manly, and took him across the river to meet the drinking boys. This was a flaw not in Owen’s character, but in Reggie’s. Everything seemed to come from that.
Reggie’s hope had rested on the well-known fact that Owen was off to dentistry if he lived through the war. The rather strange desire not to have Owen live through the warthat had come to Reggie Glidden the closer the end of the war came was a silent problem Reggie could never speak about, for he was deathly guilty of this feeling, and thought of it as remarkably unnatural and unmanly. Yet if Owen had not lived through the war, Reggie could honor his memory and in some way control what was remembered. He could make the saving of his life more fantastic, and still seem a hero himself. But now Owen had come home. His thoughts were torn between feeling desperately grateful and terribly angry about the same circumstance.
He went to Saint John so he would not have to talk about it, and worked this past week loading ships on the dock. In his pocket he had an offer from Estabrook.
He told his cousin, whose house he was staying at, of his fears. He told him about Camellia one night when he was drinking. He thought he might find sympathy with a man he had known, and protected, as a child.
“She is working at the house Owen lives,” he said. “Owen is a hero to everyone and, well, you know how impressionable young girls are! I married her perhaps in haste, but I do love her with all my heart—she is so like a child—and that I suppose is a bad thing—when you consider it—”
The cousin listened to him, felt privy to knowledge that was a silent cancer in Reggie’s heart.
“Well,” he said, as he held a cigarette in front of his face and smiled corruptly through the smoke, “any man who saves your life might have a go banging your wife and take it as good payment. Hell, she probably thinks that too. For sometimes women act innocent just to get men between the sheets. Just once or twice.”
He was no longer that shy child Reggie had cared about but just another man
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