“We were up until three last night, and here I am bright-eyed and chipper at eight. I used to be so tired—and not a little sad, too. What’s happened to me?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I can vouch for the bright eyes.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “We’re talking about a
major
transformation.”
“Don’t you believe in change?”
“I do. But sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. It’s like those stories where the elves come and take one body away and leave another—a changeling.”
“For what it’s worth, I like you this way, Hash.”
“Thanks. I like me this way, too.”
----
The next evening was my last and I was determined to enjoy every minute of it. I wasn’t sure when or if Ernest and I would see each other again. He hadn’t mentioned Jim Gamble or Italy after that first day, but he also wasn’t spinning any
other
story about the future. When I asked if he might visit me sometime in St. Louis, he said, “Sure I will, kid,” light as air, with no promise attached, no hint of intention. I didn’t bring it up again. Clutching and clawing wasn’t the way to hold a man like Ernest—if there was a way. I would simply have to wait it out, and see my hand through.
The night went characteristically, with buckets of drink and plenty of song, all of us smoking like paper mills. Ernest asked me to play Rachmaninoff and I was happy to oblige. He came and sat on the bench, like the night of our first meeting, and I felt more than a twinge of nostalgia as my fingers flew over the keys. But in the middle of the piece, he got up and circled the room, rocking back and forth on his heels, jumpy as a thoroughbred at the gate. By the time I finished the piece he’d left the room. When I finally found him, he was out on the stoop smoking a cigarette.
“Was I that bad?” I said.
“I’m sorry. It’s not you.” He cleared his throat and looked up into the cold night sky, which was dizzy with stars. “I’ve been wanting to tell you about a girl.”
“Uh-oh.” I sat down on one of the chilly stone steps, trying to control my sudden dread. If Kate was right about Ernest, I didn’t know if I could bear it.
“Not that kind of girl. Ancient history. I told you about being wounded at Fossalta?”
I nodded.
“When they sent me to Milan to recover, I fell in love with my night nurse there. Isn’t that a gas? Me and ten thousand other poor saps.”
It wasn’t a new story, but I could tell by watching his face that it was the only story for him.
“Her name was Agnes. We were all set to marry when they shipped me back to the States. If I’d had money then, I would have stayed and made her marry me. She wanted to wait. Women are always so damned sensible. Why is that?”
I didn’t half know what to say. “You were just eighteen then?”
“Eighteen or a hundred,” he said. “My legs were full of metal. They took twenty-eight pieces of shrapnel out of me. Hundreds more were too deep to reach, and none of that was as bad as the letter that finally came from Ag. She fell in love with someone else, a dashing Italian lieutenant.” He sneered, his face contorting. “She said she hoped I’d forgive her someday.”
“You haven’t.”
“No. Not really.”
After we’d passed several minutes in silence, I said, “You shouldn’t get married for a long while. That kind of blow is like a long illness. You need time to recuperate or you’ll never be one hundred percent.”
“Is that your prescription, then, doctor? A rest cure?” He had gradually moved toward me as he spoke, and now he reached for one of my gloved hands. Rubbing the wool pile first one way, then the other, he seemed calmer. “I like your directness,” he said after a while. “You listen to me and tell me just what you’re thinking.”
“I suppose I do,” I said, but in truth I was thrown. He had obviously been hopelessly in love with this woman, and likely still was. How could I ever compete with a
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I can vouch for the bright eyes.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “We’re talking about a
major
transformation.”
“Don’t you believe in change?”
“I do. But sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. It’s like those stories where the elves come and take one body away and leave another—a changeling.”
“For what it’s worth, I like you this way, Hash.”
“Thanks. I like me this way, too.”
----
The next evening was my last and I was determined to enjoy every minute of it. I wasn’t sure when or if Ernest and I would see each other again. He hadn’t mentioned Jim Gamble or Italy after that first day, but he also wasn’t spinning any
other
story about the future. When I asked if he might visit me sometime in St. Louis, he said, “Sure I will, kid,” light as air, with no promise attached, no hint of intention. I didn’t bring it up again. Clutching and clawing wasn’t the way to hold a man like Ernest—if there was a way. I would simply have to wait it out, and see my hand through.
The night went characteristically, with buckets of drink and plenty of song, all of us smoking like paper mills. Ernest asked me to play Rachmaninoff and I was happy to oblige. He came and sat on the bench, like the night of our first meeting, and I felt more than a twinge of nostalgia as my fingers flew over the keys. But in the middle of the piece, he got up and circled the room, rocking back and forth on his heels, jumpy as a thoroughbred at the gate. By the time I finished the piece he’d left the room. When I finally found him, he was out on the stoop smoking a cigarette.
“Was I that bad?” I said.
“I’m sorry. It’s not you.” He cleared his throat and looked up into the cold night sky, which was dizzy with stars. “I’ve been wanting to tell you about a girl.”
“Uh-oh.” I sat down on one of the chilly stone steps, trying to control my sudden dread. If Kate was right about Ernest, I didn’t know if I could bear it.
“Not that kind of girl. Ancient history. I told you about being wounded at Fossalta?”
I nodded.
“When they sent me to Milan to recover, I fell in love with my night nurse there. Isn’t that a gas? Me and ten thousand other poor saps.”
It wasn’t a new story, but I could tell by watching his face that it was the only story for him.
“Her name was Agnes. We were all set to marry when they shipped me back to the States. If I’d had money then, I would have stayed and made her marry me. She wanted to wait. Women are always so damned sensible. Why is that?”
I didn’t half know what to say. “You were just eighteen then?”
“Eighteen or a hundred,” he said. “My legs were full of metal. They took twenty-eight pieces of shrapnel out of me. Hundreds more were too deep to reach, and none of that was as bad as the letter that finally came from Ag. She fell in love with someone else, a dashing Italian lieutenant.” He sneered, his face contorting. “She said she hoped I’d forgive her someday.”
“You haven’t.”
“No. Not really.”
After we’d passed several minutes in silence, I said, “You shouldn’t get married for a long while. That kind of blow is like a long illness. You need time to recuperate or you’ll never be one hundred percent.”
“Is that your prescription, then, doctor? A rest cure?” He had gradually moved toward me as he spoke, and now he reached for one of my gloved hands. Rubbing the wool pile first one way, then the other, he seemed calmer. “I like your directness,” he said after a while. “You listen to me and tell me just what you’re thinking.”
“I suppose I do,” I said, but in truth I was thrown. He had obviously been hopelessly in love with this woman, and likely still was. How could I ever compete with a
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