thing. You’d think they were pictures of Verdun, or something.”
“I’ll be damned,” Michael said. “And can you do this indoors, too?”
“Oh, we’d do that sometimes on rainy days, but it’s nowhere near as good; you can’t have hills or trenches or anything.”
“Well, look, Nelson,” Michael said in mock belligerence, and took another drink. “I fully intend to engage you in military combat at our earliest convenience – my backyard, your backyard, or wherever else we can find the best terrain” – he felt he was getting drunk but couldn’t tell if it was on whiskey or friendship, and it pleased him to see that Tom Nelson was smiling agreeably – “but I’ll be at a severe disadvantage unless I can get some experience on maneuvers first: I won’t even knowhow to use my field artillery piece. So whaddya say we set up a few companies right here. Now. In this room.”
“Naw, the carpet’s no good, Mike,” Nelson said. “You need a wood floor to get ’em to stand right.”
“Well, hell, can’t we roll the carpet back? Just until I get a little artillery practice?”
He was dimly aware of Nelson saying “Naw, look, it’s—” but he had already lunged off to where the carpet bordered the kitchen doorway. He backed beyond it, crouched, and got a grip on the edge of it with both hands – noticing for the first time that it was green, cheap, and badly worn – and he’d just heaved it up from the floor when he heard Nelson call “Naw, I mean wait – it’s tacked down.”
Too late. A hundred carpet tacks flew and danced in shuddering clouds of house dust along three borders of the torn-up rug – all the way across the room to where it remained feebly secure, within a few inches of the coffee table and the girls – and Pat Nelson was instantly on her feet. “What’re you
doing?”
she cried, and Michael would never forget her face at that moment. She wasn’t angry, at least not yet: she was only shocked beyond belief.
“Well, I—” Michael said, still wretchedly holding his end of the rug at his chin, “I didn’t realize it was fastened, is the thing. I’m terribly sorry if I—”
And Tom Nelson quickly tried to help him out: “We were gonna set up some of the soldiers, dear,” he explained. “It’s okay; we’ll put it all back.”
Pat set both small fists on her hips and she was angry as hell now, red in the face, but she addressed her husband instead of their guest, as if that were more in keeping with the rules of sociability. “It took me
four days
to drive all those tacks into the floor. Four days.”
“Ma’am,” Michael began, because he had found in the past that calling a girl “ma’am” could sometimes help to ease him out of difficult situations, “I think if you’ll let me borrow a small hammer and some new carpet tacks, I can have this whole disaster repaired in practically no time.”
“Oh, that’s
dumb,
” she said, and this time she wasn’t speaking to Tom. “If it took me four days, it’d probably take you five. What you
can
do, though – both of you – is get down and start picking up the damn tacks. Every one of them. I won’t have the boys coming out here in the morning and cutting their feet.”
Only then did Michael risk a look at his own wife – he couldn’t have borne it until now – and her face was partly turned away, but he was fairly sure he had never seen her so embarrassed.
For what seemed more than an hour, on their hands and knees, the two men slowly patrolled all sectors of the floor and the wrinkled rug in search of rusty or bent or broken tacks. They were able to exchange small, shy jokes as they worked, and once or twice the girls joined hesitantly in the laughter, until Michael began to entertain a wistful hope that the evening might still be saved. And with the pouring of what Pat Nelson called “one last drink,” after the job was done, it seemed that her graciousness was mostly restored – though he
“I’ll be damned,” Michael said. “And can you do this indoors, too?”
“Oh, we’d do that sometimes on rainy days, but it’s nowhere near as good; you can’t have hills or trenches or anything.”
“Well, look, Nelson,” Michael said in mock belligerence, and took another drink. “I fully intend to engage you in military combat at our earliest convenience – my backyard, your backyard, or wherever else we can find the best terrain” – he felt he was getting drunk but couldn’t tell if it was on whiskey or friendship, and it pleased him to see that Tom Nelson was smiling agreeably – “but I’ll be at a severe disadvantage unless I can get some experience on maneuvers first: I won’t even knowhow to use my field artillery piece. So whaddya say we set up a few companies right here. Now. In this room.”
“Naw, the carpet’s no good, Mike,” Nelson said. “You need a wood floor to get ’em to stand right.”
“Well, hell, can’t we roll the carpet back? Just until I get a little artillery practice?”
He was dimly aware of Nelson saying “Naw, look, it’s—” but he had already lunged off to where the carpet bordered the kitchen doorway. He backed beyond it, crouched, and got a grip on the edge of it with both hands – noticing for the first time that it was green, cheap, and badly worn – and he’d just heaved it up from the floor when he heard Nelson call “Naw, I mean wait – it’s tacked down.”
Too late. A hundred carpet tacks flew and danced in shuddering clouds of house dust along three borders of the torn-up rug – all the way across the room to where it remained feebly secure, within a few inches of the coffee table and the girls – and Pat Nelson was instantly on her feet. “What’re you
doing?”
she cried, and Michael would never forget her face at that moment. She wasn’t angry, at least not yet: she was only shocked beyond belief.
“Well, I—” Michael said, still wretchedly holding his end of the rug at his chin, “I didn’t realize it was fastened, is the thing. I’m terribly sorry if I—”
And Tom Nelson quickly tried to help him out: “We were gonna set up some of the soldiers, dear,” he explained. “It’s okay; we’ll put it all back.”
Pat set both small fists on her hips and she was angry as hell now, red in the face, but she addressed her husband instead of their guest, as if that were more in keeping with the rules of sociability. “It took me
four days
to drive all those tacks into the floor. Four days.”
“Ma’am,” Michael began, because he had found in the past that calling a girl “ma’am” could sometimes help to ease him out of difficult situations, “I think if you’ll let me borrow a small hammer and some new carpet tacks, I can have this whole disaster repaired in practically no time.”
“Oh, that’s
dumb,
” she said, and this time she wasn’t speaking to Tom. “If it took me four days, it’d probably take you five. What you
can
do, though – both of you – is get down and start picking up the damn tacks. Every one of them. I won’t have the boys coming out here in the morning and cutting their feet.”
Only then did Michael risk a look at his own wife – he couldn’t have borne it until now – and her face was partly turned away, but he was fairly sure he had never seen her so embarrassed.
For what seemed more than an hour, on their hands and knees, the two men slowly patrolled all sectors of the floor and the wrinkled rug in search of rusty or bent or broken tacks. They were able to exchange small, shy jokes as they worked, and once or twice the girls joined hesitantly in the laughter, until Michael began to entertain a wistful hope that the evening might still be saved. And with the pouring of what Pat Nelson called “one last drink,” after the job was done, it seemed that her graciousness was mostly restored – though he
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