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The Following story is by Francis W. Porretto
Horse Feathers BBS
"The Homecoming"
She had settled somewhat creakily into the good chair only a
few minutes earlier, with a book, half a glass of brandy, and a
few dark thoughts about the kind of God who'd not be satisfied
with having invented war, but just had to go on to produce
arthritis. She made a particular point of enjoying the brandy
slowly and thoroughly; she had been laid off just that afternoon,
and her next brandy purchase could be a considerable time hence.
Lose the greater comforts, she thought, and the lesser ones come
to mean all the more. Lose the lesser comforts and where will you
be?
There was a knock at the door.
This was not an area where people casually dropped in on
their friends without calling or late at night, let alone without
calling and late at night. She took a long moment to make up her
mind; the knock was repeated. Reluctantly, she laid the book
aside and answered the door.
David was there.
The shock of seeing him without forewarning left her
momentarily paralyzed. She had sent him off to the war four years
ago, not at all ungrudgingly. After eight months, his letters had
stopped, and she had moved several times, not always leaving a
forwarding address. She discovered at that moment that she had
assumed he was dead.
He looked weatherbeaten, weary beyond mere fatigue of the
body. His uniform was heavily blotched by sweat stains. He was
wearing sergeant's stripes; the set on his right sleeve seemed
about to part from the fabric. From his right hand hung the large
canvas grip he had taken with him four years ago. It too was
weatherbeaten, and it appeared to contain much less than it had
at his departure.
"When did you get back?"
"Four days ago."
"Are you on leave?"
"I'm out." His eyes dropped. "They're just discharging
anyone who wants to go. I got mine four days ago."
"How did you find me so fast?"
"I looked up Carrie Hardwicke; she told me. Linda, may I
come in?"
She stepped aside silently and gestured him inside. When she
had closed the door behind them and turned toward him again, he
had positioned himself in the geometrical center of her tiny
studio apartment, obviously uncomfortable, the canvas grip still
dragging at his arm. He had the anxious, submissive look of a man
who expects to be told to be on his way in a loud, authoritative
voice, at any moment.
"Did you want me not to be able to find you?"
"No... I didn't expect to see you again. It's been more than
three years since you wrote last."
"They stopped accepting letters from us more than three
years ago. I can't remember the last time anyone in my unit got a
letter. They kept having mail call into the second year, but
after a couple of months of none of the guys getting anything
from anyone he knew, we all knew it was only for show. They
didn't want us to know how bad it was getting, I guess."
There were tears forming in his eyes, and he was struggling
for control of his voice.
"You lost, didn't you?"
He nodded.
"They haven't gotten around to admitting that here yet. I
don't know why, it's so obvious. Come on, buck up, you didn't
lose it all by yourself."
His tears had started to fall, and he couldn't look at her,
or wouldn't.
"David, why?"
When he finally answered, his voice was a whisper, almost
inaudible.
"Because it was such a waste."
She held out her arms.
--------------
"I wonder where we go from here."
"Are you sure you mean 'we?'"
She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him.
"Yes, I'm sure. Do you have some objection?"
"I wasn't even sure you'd be willing to talk to me. You
don't know how long I stood at the door before I knocked."
Her brow furrowed. "Why on earth?"
"I remembered how much against it you were. I remembered you
saying, 'Why can't they defend themselves? Why do we have to go
over there and bail them out time and again?' I took four years
we could have had together and I poured them into something you
didn't even approve of, and I left you here to fend for
yourself!"
"Shhh, I have neighbors. Yes, I was against it. But I sent
you, didn't I? Once you'd decided, did I punish you for it? Did I
deny you anything?"
"No."
"I think you're ashamed that you lost." He started to
speak, and she laid a hand gently over his mouth. "I told you
that I loved you, and that I'd stand behind you so long as you
did what you thought was right. I didn't have to agree with you
about the war to keep loving you, and I thought you understood
that. Or didn't you believe me?"
He was silent for a long moment. "I wasn't sure. I had no
idea how you'd react when I turned up again. But --"
She hushed him again. "I don't need to ask whether you did
anything over there that you're ashamed of now; I know you better
than that. So tell me: has losing changed your mind about whether
it was right to go in the first place?"
He didn't answer.
"I've found two new scars on you; you've obviously been
wounded at least twice. Both well-healed, too. When did you get
them?"
"One's about three years old, the other's about ten months."
"So twice at least you had enough conviction to climb back
into the tank after almost getting killed."
.pa
He scowled absently. "It isn't like I could have just caught
a plane home, you know. There were men in my company that took a
dozen hits and went back into the line. You might say we were
short on alternatives."
"David, along with being unwilling to admit it when they're
standing for a principle, most men are lousy losers. I've known
that for a long time. But I'll let you in on a little secret:
most women are a lot worse, and thank God for that."
That puzzled him. "Why?"
"The reasons we fight. Almost all men will fight for their
ideals, whether they admit it or not. Most women will only fight
to protect the people they love, and we'd rather die than admit
defeat. But losing that kind of fight usually involves dying
anyway."
He grinned up at her crookedly and not entirely without
humor. She warmed inside to see it; his grin was prominent in a
wealth of her memories.
"We could have used you."
"I think not, but it's a moot point. As for what we are
going to do, I'll withdraw the question until we've both had
eight hours' sleep." She lay down and pulled his head to her
breast. "Or more. Neither of us has any reason to get up early
tomorrow."
"Linda, I love you."
"I know. Now sleep."
Francis W. Porretto
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