again."
"Not this bed," he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.
"No, not this bed," she said quickly. "Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know--" She waved her hand, her face white.
He was sure then that she _had_ known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.
She said, "Well then, rest up, dear," and went out.
He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.
Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.
Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged--because they thought _he_ had changed.
He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.
But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for--areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.
He slept.
* * * * *
Dinner was at seven P.M. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.
Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes--especially withcompany present--to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.
This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. "Stiff"was perhaps the word.
They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,"Younger than ever." It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, "Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean." This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.
He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit--she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door--then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.
So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.
The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. "The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see," he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice."Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before--" At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, "Soup's getting cold," and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.
Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother--his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone--and said, "I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel."
Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that--a pitiful twitching ofthe lips--and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, "Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile." She touched his shoulder in passing--his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses--she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.
So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served--thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, "Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard."Ralphie said, "Yeah, Dad." Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. "She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse," he said, his laugh sounding forced.
Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.
He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist--Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.
Edith said, "Hank!"
He said, voice hoarse, "Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you."
* * * * *
Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, "Henry dear--" He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and "drop out and see the new development"and he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.
He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day--a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,"Hey, I promised--"
"You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father."
Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, "Aw, no, Dad."
Edith said, "He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether--talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly."
Ralphie said, "Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to."
Hank stood up. "The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is wh
ether _you_ want to."
They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes--his wife's and son's eyes--could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.
He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.
But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. "Phil and Rhona are here." He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. "They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you