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