They spoke bitterly about guys who had found release by shooting off their own toes or fingers. Pussies, they’d say. Candy-asses. It was fierce, mocking talk, with only a trace of envy or awe, but even so the image played itself out behind their eyes

On the morning after Ted Lavender died, First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned Martha’s letters. Then he burned the two photographs. There was a steady rain falling, which made it difficult, but he used heat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire, screening it with his body, holding the photographs over the tight blue flame with the tips of his fingers.He realized it was only a gesture. Stupid, he thought. Sentimental, too, but mostly just stupid.Lavender was dead. You couldn’t burn the blame

They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing—these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice barely re-strained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and in many respects this was the heaviest burden

They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it.

virgin

He felt shame. He hated himself. He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a conse-quence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.

It was this separate-but-to-gether quality, she wrote, that had inspired her to pick up the pebble and to carry it in her breast pocket for several days, where it seemed weightless, and then to send it through the mail, by air, as a token of her truest feelings for him. Lieutenant Cross found this romantic

He remembered kissing her good night at the dorm door. Right then, he thought, he should’ve done something brave. He should’ve carried her up the stairs to her room and tied her to the bed and touched that left knee all night long. He should’ve risked it. Whenever he looked at the photographs, he thought of new things he should’ve done.

enry Dobbins, who was a big man, carried extra rations; he was especially fond of canned peaches in heavy syrup over pound cake. Dave Jensen, who practiced field hygiene, carried a toothbrush, dental floss, and several hotel-sized bars of soap he’d stolen on R&R in Sydney, Australia. Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried tranquilizers

He would sometimes taste the envelope flaps, knowing her tongue had been there. More than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter of love.

I'm finishing up a letrer lo. my Parents chat tells whatI'- "bo,rt to do and why I'm doing it and how sorry I am thar I d neverfound the courage to talk to thern about it. I ask them not to be angry'I rry to explain some of my feelings, but there aren't enough words, andso I just r"y th"r its a thing thar has to be done.

. My conscience told rne ro run, bursome irrational and powerful force was resistine like a weighr pr-rshingme toward the war. What it came down to, srupidly, was a sense ofsharne. Hot, scupicl sharne. I did nor wanr people ro rhink badly of me.Not rny parents, not my brother and sister, not even rhe folks .lown arthe Gobbler Cafe.I was ashamed to be rhere at ttre Tip Top Lodge. Iwas asharned of my conscience, as[amed ro be doing the righr thing

The man who opened the door rhar day is che hero of my life. Howdo I say rhis withour sounding sappyi Blurr ir our - rhe man saved,me. He ollered exactly what I needed, wirhour questions, withour anywords at all. He took me in. He was there ar rhe crirical cime - a silent,watchful Presence. Six days larer, when ir ended, I was r-rnable ro find aproper way ro rhank hirn, and I never have, and so, if norhing else, tfiisstory represents a small gesrure of gracicude twenty years overdue

O'Brien kid, how rhe damnedsissy had taken off for Canada. At night, when I couldn't sleep, Idsometime s carry on 6erce arguments with those people. I d be scream-ing at them, telling them how much I detested their blind, thoughtless,automatic acquiescence to it aIl, their simple minded patriotism, theirprideful ignorance, their love-it-or-Ieave-it pladrudes, how they weresending me offto 6ght awar they didn't undersrand and didn't wanr rounderstand

aimlessly around rown, feeling sorry fo, *y.eli rhinking about the warand the pig factory and how rny life seemed ro be collapring towardslaughter. I felr paralyzed. All around me the oprions seemed ro benarrowing, as if I were hurrling down a huse black funnel

. I was no soldier. I haced Boy Scouts. I hatedcamping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquiroes. The sight of bloodmade me queasy, and I couldn'r tolerare authority, and I didn't knowa rifle from a slingshot. I was a liber,tl, for Christ sake

: Was ir a civil war?A war of national liberarior-r or simple aggressioni Who started it, andwhen, and whyi What realLy happened ro rhe llSS Maddox onthat darknight in the Gulf of Tonkini Was Ho Chi Minh a Communisr stooge,or a nationalist savior, or both, or neitheri What abour the GenevaAccordsi What about SEATO and rhe Cold Wari

his is one story I've never rold before. Not to anyone. Not to myI parents, not to my brother or sister, not even to my wife

. Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in6nite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and stashing itaway and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capitalin p''rsp2l"xtion for that day when the account must be drawn down

She saw him on his hands and knees as soon as she reached the door. He crept an inch or two toward her--all that he was able, and she saw his horribly swollen neck and his one open eye shining with hope. A surge of pity too strong to support bore her away from that eye that must, could not, fail to see the tubs. He would see the lamp. Orlando with its doctors was too far. She could scarcely reach the Chinaberry tree, where she waited in the growing heat while inside she knew the cold river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by now that she knew

Delia pushed back her plate and got up from the table. "Ah hates you, Sykes," she said calmly. "Ah hates you tuh de same degree dat Ah useter love yuh. Ah done took an' took till mah belly is full up tuh mah neck. Dat's de reason Ah got mah letter fum de church an' moved mah membership tuh Woodbridge--so Ah don't haf tuh take no sacrament wid yuh. Ah don't wantuh see yuh 'roun' me atall. Lay 'roun' wid dat 'oman all yuh wants tuh, but gwan 'way fum me an' mah house. Ah hates yuh lak uh suck-egg dog."

She stood for a long time in the doorway in a red fury that grew bloodier for every second that she regarded the creature that was her torment.

As she was stooping to pass under his outstretched arm, he suddenly pushed her backward, laughingly.

"Taint no law on earth dat kin make a man be decent if it aint in 'im. There's plenty men dat takes a wife lak dey do a joint uh sugar-cane. It's round, juicy an' sweet when dey gits it. But dey squeeze an' grind, squeeze an' grind an' wring tell dey wring every drop uh pleasure dat's in 'em out. When dey's satisfied dat dey is wrung dry, dey treats 'em jes lak dey do a cane-chew. Dey throws em away. Dey knows whut dey is doin' while dey is at it, an' hates theirselves fuh it but they keeps on hangin' after huh tell she's empty. Den dey hates huh fuh bein' a cane-chew an' in de way."

Too much knockin' will ruin any 'oman. He done beat huh 'nough tuh kill three women, let 'lonechange they looks," said Elijah Moseley. "How Syke kin stommuck dat big black greasy Mogulhe's layin' roun wid, gits me. Ah swear dat eight-rock couldn't kiss a sardine can Ah donethrowed out de back do' 'way las' yeah."

week was as full of work for Delia as all other weeks, and Saturday found her behind her little pony, collecting and delivering clothes.

"Looka heah, Sykes, you done gone too fur. Ah been married to you fur fifteen years, and Ah been takin' in washin' for fifteen years. Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!"

Don't gimme no lip neither, else Ah'll throw 'em outand put mah fist up side yo' head to boot.

"Course Ah knowed it! That's how come Ah done it." He slapped his leg with his hand and almost rolled on the ground in his mirth. "If you such a big fool dat you got to have a fit over a earth worm or a string, Ah don't keer how bad Ah skeer you."

She lifted her eyes to the door and saw him standing there bent over with laughter at her fright. She screamed at him.

a wash-woman

okay, Boet Sam. You see. Is . . . [He can't find any better words.] . . . is going to be okay tomorrow. [Changing his tone.] Hey, Boet Sam! [He is trying hard.] You right. I think about it and you right. Tonight I find Hilda and say sorry. And make promise I won't beat her no more. You hear me, Boet Sam? SAM: I hear you, Willie. SAM: And when we practice I relax and romance with her from beginning to end. You watch! Two weeks' time! "First prize for promising newcomers: Mr. Willie Malopo and Miss Hilda Samuels." [Sudden impulse.] to hell with it! I walk home. [He goes to the jukebox, puts in a coin and selects a record. The machine comes to life in the gray twilight, blushing its way through a spectrum of soft, romantic colors.] How do you say it, Boet Sam? Let's dream. [Willie sways with the music and gestures for Sam to dance.]

don't give a [crap] about my homework, so, for Christ's sake, just shut up about it. [Slamming books viciously into his school case.] Hurry up now and finish your work. I want to lock up and get out of here. [Pause. And then go where? Home-sweet [ . . . ] home. [Geez], I hate that word. [Hally goes to the counter to put the brandy bottle and comics in his school case. After a moment's hesitation, he smashes the bottle of brandy. He abandons all further attempts to hide his feelings. Sam and Willie work away as unobtrusively as possible.] Do you want to know what is really wrong with your lovely little dream, Sam/ It's not just that we are all bad dancers. That does happen to be perfectly true, but there's more to it than just that. You left out the cripples.

Normal voice.] He can't hear us from there. But for [goodness] sake, Mom, what happened? I told you to be firm with him . . . then you and the nurses should have held him down, taken his crutches away . . . I know only too well he's my father! . . . I'm not being disrespectful, but I'm sick and tired of emptying stinking chamberpots full of phlegm and [urine] . . . Yes, I do! When you're not there, he asks me to do it . . . If you really want to know the truth, that's why I've got no appetite for my food . . . Yes! There's a lot of things you don't know about. For your information, I still haven't got that science textbook I need. And you know why? He borrowed the money you gave me for it. . . . Because I didn't want to start another fight between you two . . . He says that every time . . . all right, Mom! [Viciously.] Then just remember to start hiding your bag away again, because he'll be at your purse before long for money for booze. And when he's well enough to come down here, you better keep an eye on the till as well, because that is also going to develop a leak . . . then don't complain to me when he starts his old tricks . . . Yes, you do. I get it from you on one side and from him on the other, and it makes life hell for me. I'm not going to be the peacemaker anymore. I'm warning you now; when the two of you start fighting again, I'm leaving home . . . Mom, if you start crying, I'm going to put down the receiver . . . Okay . . . [Lowering his voice to a vicious whisper.] Okay, Mom. I heard you. [Desperate.] No . . . Because I don't want to. I'll see him when I get home! Mom! . . . [Pause. When he speaks again, his tone changes completely. It is not simply pretense. We sense a genuine emotional conflict.] Welcome home, chum! . . . What's that? . . . Don't be silly, Dad.

Of course it is. That's what I've been trying to say to you all afternoon. And it's beautiful because that is what we want life to be like. But instead, like you said, Hally, we're bumping into each other all the time. Look at the three of us this afternoon: I've bumped into Willie, the two of us have bumped into you, you've bumped into your mother, she bumping into your Dad . . . None of us knows the steps and there's no music playing. And it doesn't stop with us. The whole world is doing it all the time. Open a newspaper and what do you read? America has bumped into Russia. England is bumping into India, rich man bumps into poor man. Those are big collisions, Hally. They make for a lot of bruises. People get hurt in all that bumping, and we're sick and tired of it now. It's been going on for too long. Are we never going to get it right? . . . learn to dance life like champions instead of always being just a bunch of beginners at it?

I've got my reasons.

No, it isn't your imagination hasn't helped you at all. There's a lot more to it than that. We're getting ready for the championships, Hally, not just another dance. There's going to be a lot of people, all right, and they're going to have a good time, but they'll only be spectators, sitting around and watching. It's just the competitors our there on the dance floor. Party decorations and fancy lights all around the hall! The ladies in beautiful evening dresses! HALLY: My mother's got one of those, Sam, and quite frankly, it's an embarrassment every time she wears it. SAM: [Undeterred.] Your imagination left out the excitement.

So do American cream soda and ice cream. For [goodness] sake, Sam, you're not asking me to take ballroom dancing serious, are you?

on't confuse historical significance with greatness. But maybe I'm being a bit prejudiced. Have a look in there and you'll see he's two chapters long. And hell! . . . has he only got dates, Sam, all of which you've got to remember! This campaign and that campaign, and then, because of all the fighting, the next thing is we get peace Treaties all over the place. And what's the end of the story? Battle of Waterloo, which he loses. Wasn't worth it. No, I don't know about him as a man of magnitude.

Well, I'll put my money on you in the English exam. HALLY: Piece of cake. Eighty percent without even trying. SAM: [Another textbook from Hally's case.] And history? HALLY: So-so. I'll scrape through. In the fifties if I'm lucky. SAM: You didn't do too badly last year.

ailing a maths exam isn't the end of the world, Sam. How many times have I told you that examination results don't measure intelligence?

I know, I know! I oscillate between hope and despair for this world as well, Sam. But things will change, you wait and see. One day somebody is going to get up and give history a kick up the backside and get it going again.

No! It can't be. They said he needed at least another three weeks of treatment. Sam's definitely made a mistake. [Rummages through his school case, finds a book and settles down at the table to read.] So, Willie!

ALLY: So what makes you say he's going home? SAM: It sounded as if they were telling her to come and fetch him.

Beating her up every time she makes a mistake in the waltz? [Shaking his head.] No, Willie! That takes the pleasure out of ballroom dancing.

You hit her too much. One day she going to leave you for good. WILLIE: So? She make me the hell-in too much.

But don't let me see it. The secret is to make it look easy. Ballroom must look happy, Willie, not like hard work. It must . . . Ja! . . . it must look like romance.

-n-d one two three four . . . and one two three four . . . [Ad libbing as Willie dances.] Your shoulders, Willie . . . your shoulders! Don't look down! Look happy, Willie! Relax, Willie!

Aaron, unnerved by the car behind him, flooring the accelerator; Seraphin’s boyfriend tailgating, flashing his brights, then the car full of boys pulling alongside them, his friends throwing a soda bottle and yelling at Aaron to stop. Aaron only goes faster, losing them for a moment, then, less than a mile from their houses, turning onto Cleveland Street at such speed that he spins out and the car flips into the trees. Claire wakes up, vaguely, to sirens, and then for real, in the hospital, where she has a concussion and a hangover and a starring role in someone else’s rescue story.Aaron is dead. By the time Claire is awake enough to be aware of this, it has already been determined that he was not a stranger,

So now Claire doesn’t know two things, where her shoes are or who this Aaron is who has a life she knows nothing about.

one drink for every month her mother has been dead so far. She still thinks of it that way, as in: so far, her mother is still dead, but that could change any day now, any moment her mother could walk in and demand to know what she is doing, and what she has been doing, tonight, is drinking.

Not a trace of the cancer left. Her hair grows back, soft and downy. She takes up running to drop the steroid weight. She is working up to marathons. Angela trains with her.Claire’s mother dies in July. They bury her on a damp Tuesday when the ground is slimy from an afternoon thunderstorm. She does not hear a word the priest says, thinking of her mother down there, rotting. For weeks before the funeral she has nightmares in which she is the one being buried, alive, the sickening smell of earth always waking her. At the funeral, Angela holds her hand and Aaron puts an arm around her shoulder. He is a perfect gentleman, but one with a mother, and Angela is a friend with a mother, and already they are galaxies away from Claire, alone in her grief.

He is still skinny, his hips slimmer than hers, so she slides underneath him; the weight of her, it seems, might smother him, but the weight of him tethers her to something. He is too gentle with her even after she tells him not to be; after he is finished she has to fake an orgasm to get him to stop

Claire turns to Angela. It is a love that requires touch, and so Claire snuggles against her, nuzzles into her neck to say it out loud against her. Love love love. Angela is her best friend, her other self.

She prints out a copy of the flag and tapes it to her dorm window. She calls the reporter from the student paper back and tells him she is simply celebrating her heritage, like any number of groups on campus encourage students to do. She affects a lilt to say so, but as soon as the words are out of her mouth she realizes that the affect is a mistake. She doesn’t sound like herself. She sounds like Angela.

Sean has left an angry voicemail asking her what she was think-ing. Claire does not call him back. Jackson texts again to tell her he knows she’s busy but he thinks she’s awesome

girls are dandy just like candy, boys are rotten just like cotton, girls go to college to get more knowledge, boys go to Jupi-ter to get more stupider.In most aspects Aaron is indifferent to their teasing, but the Jupiter taunt seems to bother him for its failures of logic. Boys, he insists, would have to be smart to go to Jupiter, and would probably go to college first.

“You look like white trash,” Puppy says to her the first time she sees the bikini.“You would know,” Claire says back. The bathing suit becomes a habit, even after the temperature dips.

she complains that her father’s move to Florida caught her off guard—she is used to winters that at least make an effort to be winter, but her father’s new life in St. Pete is relentless sunshine, sunburn weather in December.

Puppy, having no job and, from what Claire gathers, limited ambitions beyond strolling the house in expensive loungewear, is always home to miserably watch her eat it.

We thought, ‘This is the way it is. We going to do it till we die, and they ain’t never going to accept us. That’s just the way it is.’“The only way you were going to buy a home was to do it the way they wanted,” she continued. “And I was determined to get me a house. If everybody else can have one, I want one too. I had worked for white people in the South. And I saw how these white people were living in the North and I thought, ‘One day I’m going to live just like them.’ I wanted cabinets and all these things these other people have.”

white men demanded his only childhood possession—the horse with the red coat. “You can’t have this horse. We want it,” one of the white men said. They gave Ross’s father $17.

Between 1882 and 1968, more black people were lynched in Mississippi than in any other state. “You and I know what’s the best way to keep the nigger from voting,”

there is commonly injury done to some person or other, and some other man receives damage by his transgression