their spare room and come to him as he lay in it and comb his hair back with their fingers and say, "It's going to be all right, son. You lost a friend but you still have us. We love you."
He'd never heard the words from them. Never. He'd never said them to a living soul, not even to Jeannie before she left or to Greg before he died. It was true what he'd told Mrs. Reston: He'd never been taught how.
They still lived in town, Ed and Mavis, in a trashy subsidized housing project where he was called regularly to handle domestics and disturbances of the peace. Last time he'd seen them was maybe three years ago. The old man had a grizzled beard and smelled as bad as ever, sitting in a rocker and sipping cheap whiskey straight from a pint bottle. The old lady had been drinking beer and watching soap operas, the place so filthy only a torching could improve it. He'd been called there to break up a fight in another apartment, and who knows what had prompted him :, ' . .
j," i to knock on their door. He wished he hadn't. Nothing had changed.
Nothing was going to change.
Behind him, Lee Reston said, "Christopher? What are you doing out there alone in the dark?"
He sighed and rose from the hard wooden step, flexing his back, looking up at the stars.
"Remembering."
She slid open the screen and stepped out, crossing her arms and facing the sky just as he did.
"Yes," she said, then both of them held silent awhile, thinking about the night ahead, the days and months ahead. The crickets went on scraping away and the stocks in the garden gave off a pungent perfume.
The moon had risen and dew was forming on the grass, which was growing at this very moment.
Life went on.
They must, too.
"It's time I go," he said.
"Where?"
"Back to the apartment."
"Oh, Christopher . . . shall I . . . would you like someone to .
.."
"It's okay, Mrs. Reston. I'll have to face it sometime. Your children are here now and you need some time alone with them. The captain has cleared me till after the funeral, for as long as I need, actually, so I'll be there at the apartment tomorrow.
You'll need some of his clothes, his mail, his car keys . . .
whatever. If you want me there when you come to get them just say the word. If you'd rather have me gone, that's okay, too. Now you'd better get some rest. You've had a rough day."
She crossed the deck, her feet clad in nylons, shoes left behind somewhere, and stood above him with her arms crossed and her hair backlit by the kitchen light. "You don't have to go back there yet.
You can sleep on the sofa in the living room and we'll go together tomorrow."
For a moment he was tempted. The scene he envisioned earlier flashed through his imagination, of her combing his hair back as he lay on a pillow, of her calm voice saying, "It's okay, Christopher, I'm here and I love you. You're going to be just fine." But she had her family now, and her own grief to work through, she didn't need him hanging around tonight--someone else to worry about and soothe.
"Thanks, Mrs. Reston, but I'll be just fine. You go on back inside and be with your kids. I'll see you tomorrow."
She watched him head around the side of the house toward his car.
Just as he reached the corner she called, "Christopher?"
He stopped and looked back at her. The moon had risen and by its light she made out the rim of his short regulation haircut, the busy Hawaiian print on his shoulders, his bare legs and feet, still in the rubber thongs he'd been wearing this morning when he'd been heading for the beach for a day of fun.
"Thank you for all you did today. I couldn't have made it without you."
"Thank you, too," he said, "for letting me stay. I'd have gone crazy if I couldn't have been here with all of you."
He began to move again but she called "Just a minute!" and disappeared inside the kitchen. Momentarily she returned carrying a tinfoilwrapped square in her hand. She thumped softly down the steps in her stocking feet, the light following her
He'd never heard the words from them. Never. He'd never said them to a living soul, not even to Jeannie before she left or to Greg before he died. It was true what he'd told Mrs. Reston: He'd never been taught how.
They still lived in town, Ed and Mavis, in a trashy subsidized housing project where he was called regularly to handle domestics and disturbances of the peace. Last time he'd seen them was maybe three years ago. The old man had a grizzled beard and smelled as bad as ever, sitting in a rocker and sipping cheap whiskey straight from a pint bottle. The old lady had been drinking beer and watching soap operas, the place so filthy only a torching could improve it. He'd been called there to break up a fight in another apartment, and who knows what had prompted him :, ' . .
j," i to knock on their door. He wished he hadn't. Nothing had changed.
Nothing was going to change.
Behind him, Lee Reston said, "Christopher? What are you doing out there alone in the dark?"
He sighed and rose from the hard wooden step, flexing his back, looking up at the stars.
"Remembering."
She slid open the screen and stepped out, crossing her arms and facing the sky just as he did.
"Yes," she said, then both of them held silent awhile, thinking about the night ahead, the days and months ahead. The crickets went on scraping away and the stocks in the garden gave off a pungent perfume.
The moon had risen and dew was forming on the grass, which was growing at this very moment.
Life went on.
They must, too.
"It's time I go," he said.
"Where?"
"Back to the apartment."
"Oh, Christopher . . . shall I . . . would you like someone to .
.."
"It's okay, Mrs. Reston. I'll have to face it sometime. Your children are here now and you need some time alone with them. The captain has cleared me till after the funeral, for as long as I need, actually, so I'll be there at the apartment tomorrow.
You'll need some of his clothes, his mail, his car keys . . .
whatever. If you want me there when you come to get them just say the word. If you'd rather have me gone, that's okay, too. Now you'd better get some rest. You've had a rough day."
She crossed the deck, her feet clad in nylons, shoes left behind somewhere, and stood above him with her arms crossed and her hair backlit by the kitchen light. "You don't have to go back there yet.
You can sleep on the sofa in the living room and we'll go together tomorrow."
For a moment he was tempted. The scene he envisioned earlier flashed through his imagination, of her combing his hair back as he lay on a pillow, of her calm voice saying, "It's okay, Christopher, I'm here and I love you. You're going to be just fine." But she had her family now, and her own grief to work through, she didn't need him hanging around tonight--someone else to worry about and soothe.
"Thanks, Mrs. Reston, but I'll be just fine. You go on back inside and be with your kids. I'll see you tomorrow."
She watched him head around the side of the house toward his car.
Just as he reached the corner she called, "Christopher?"
He stopped and looked back at her. The moon had risen and by its light she made out the rim of his short regulation haircut, the busy Hawaiian print on his shoulders, his bare legs and feet, still in the rubber thongs he'd been wearing this morning when he'd been heading for the beach for a day of fun.
"Thank you for all you did today. I couldn't have made it without you."
"Thank you, too," he said, "for letting me stay. I'd have gone crazy if I couldn't have been here with all of you."
He began to move again but she called "Just a minute!" and disappeared inside the kitchen. Momentarily she returned carrying a tinfoilwrapped square in her hand. She thumped softly down the steps in her stocking feet, the light following her
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