Part 10
X suddenly felt sick, and he swung around in his chair and grabbed the wastebasket-
-just in time. When he had straightened up and turned toward his guest again, he
found him standing, embarrassed, halfway between the bed and the door. X started to
apologize, but changed his mind and reached for his cigarettes.
"C'mon down and listen to Hope on the radio, hey," Clay said, keeping his distance
but trying to be friendly over it. "It'll do ya good. I mean it."
"You go ahead, Clay. . . . I'll look at my stamp collection."
"Yeah? You got a stamp collection? I didn't know you--"
"I'm only kidding."
Clay took a couple of slow steps toward the door. "I may drive over to Ehstadt later,"
he said. "They got a dance. It'll probably last till around two. Wanna go?"
"No, thanks. . . . I may practice a few steps in the room."
"O.K. G'night! Take it easy, now, for Chrissake." The door slammed shut, then
instantly opened again. "Hey. O.K. if I leave a letter to Loretta under your door? I got
some German stuff in it. Willya fix it up for me?"
"Yes. Leave me alone now, God damn it."
"Sure," said Clay. "You know what my mother wrote me? She wrote me she's glad you
and I were together and all the whole war. In the same jeep and all. She says my letters
are a helluva lot more intelligent since we been goin' around together."
X looked up and over at him, and said, with great effort, "Thanks. Tell her thanks for
me."
"I will. G'night!" The door slammed shut, this time for good.
X sat looking at the door for a long while, then turned his chair around toward the
writing table and picked up his portable typewriter from the floor. He made space for it
on the messy table surface, pushing aside the collapsed pile of unopened letters and
packages. He thought if he wrote a letter to an old friend of his in New York there might
be some quick, however slight, therapy in it for him. But he couldn't insert his
notepaper into the roller properly, his fingers were shaking so violently now. He put his
hands down at his sides for a minute, then tried again, but finally crumpled the
notepaper in his hand.
He was aware that he ought to get the wastebasket out of the room, but instead of
doing anything about it, he put his arms on the typewriter and rested his head again,
closing his eyes.
A few throbbing minutes later, when he opened his eyes, he found himself squinting
at a small, unopened package wrapped in green paper. It had probably slipped off the
pile when he had made space for the typewriter. He saw that it had been readdressed
several times. He could make out, on just one side of the package, at least three of his
old A.P.O. numbers.
He opened the package without any interest, without even looking at the return
address. He opened it by burning the string with a lighted match. He was more
interested in watching a string burn all the way down than in opening the package, but
he opened it, finally.
Inside the box, a note, written in ink, lay on top of a small object wrapped in tissue
paper. He picked out the note and read it.
17, ----ROAD,
-----DEVON
JUNE 7, 1944
DEAR SERGEANT X,
I hope you will forgive me for having taken 38 days to begin our correspondence but, I
have been extremely busy as my aunt has undergone streptococcus of the throat and
nearly perished and I have been justifiably saddled with one responsibility after
another. However I have thought of you frequently and of the extremely pleasant
afternoon we spent in each other's company on April 30, 1944 between 3:45 and 4:15
P.M. in case it slipped your mind.
X suddenly felt sick, and he swung around in his chair and grabbed the wastebasket-
-just in time. When he had straightened up and turned toward his guest again, he
found him standing, embarrassed, halfway between the bed and the door. X started to
apologize, but changed his mind and reached for his cigarettes.
"C'mon down and listen to Hope on the radio, hey," Clay said, keeping his distance
but trying to be friendly over it. "It'll do ya good. I mean it."
"You go ahead, Clay. . . . I'll look at my stamp collection."
"Yeah? You got a stamp collection? I didn't know you--"
"I'm only kidding."
Clay took a couple of slow steps toward the door. "I may drive over to Ehstadt later,"
he said. "They got a dance. It'll probably last till around two. Wanna go?"
"No, thanks. . . . I may practice a few steps in the room."
"O.K. G'night! Take it easy, now, for Chrissake." The door slammed shut, then
instantly opened again. "Hey. O.K. if I leave a letter to Loretta under your door? I got
some German stuff in it. Willya fix it up for me?"
"Yes. Leave me alone now, God damn it."
"Sure," said Clay. "You know what my mother wrote me? She wrote me she's glad you
and I were together and all the whole war. In the same jeep and all. She says my letters
are a helluva lot more intelligent since we been goin' around together."
X looked up and over at him, and said, with great effort, "Thanks. Tell her thanks for
me."
"I will. G'night!" The door slammed shut, this time for good.
X sat looking at the door for a long while, then turned his chair around toward the
writing table and picked up his portable typewriter from the floor. He made space for it
on the messy table surface, pushing aside the collapsed pile of unopened letters and
packages. He thought if he wrote a letter to an old friend of his in New York there might
be some quick, however slight, therapy in it for him. But he couldn't insert his
notepaper into the roller properly, his fingers were shaking so violently now. He put his
hands down at his sides for a minute, then tried again, but finally crumpled the
notepaper in his hand.
He was aware that he ought to get the wastebasket out of the room, but instead of
doing anything about it, he put his arms on the typewriter and rested his head again,
closing his eyes.
A few throbbing minutes later, when he opened his eyes, he found himself squinting
at a small, unopened package wrapped in green paper. It had probably slipped off the
pile when he had made space for the typewriter. He saw that it had been readdressed
several times. He could make out, on just one side of the package, at least three of his
old A.P.O. numbers.
He opened the package without any interest, without even looking at the return
address. He opened it by burning the string with a lighted match. He was more
interested in watching a string burn all the way down than in opening the package, but
he opened it, finally.
Inside the box, a note, written in ink, lay on top of a small object wrapped in tissue
paper. He picked out the note and read it.
17, ----ROAD,
-----DEVON
JUNE 7, 1944
DEAR SERGEANT X,
I hope you will forgive me for having taken 38 days to begin our correspondence but, I
have been extremely busy as my aunt has undergone streptococcus of the throat and
nearly perished and I have been justifiably saddled with one responsibility after
another. However I have thought of you frequently and of the extremely pleasant
afternoon we spent in each other's company on April 30, 1944 between 3:45 and 4:15
P.M. in case it slipped your mind.
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