“Steve! My goodness, let me look at you!” She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him around, half-weeping. “My goodness. Here he is, Bea. Just look at him.”
“He looks the same to me,” Beatrice said. She seemed unable to stop smiling, and she was still blushing from his kiss. It was practically the only thing he remembered about Beatrice, that she blushed easily.
“I was hoping someone would say that,” Steve said.
“Oh, but you are the same.”
They were both looking at him, very intensely.
“Well,” he said in confusion.
His aunt was a widow, and she and Beatrice, who was nearly thirty now, had lived alone together for so many years that it was impossible to think of them individually or even as females. Vi-and-Bea might have been broken down into Vi and Bea, but no one had ever tried very hard. Beatrice was a nice girl, she dressed well and had a good job, but she wasn’t the type who got married without some parental maneuvering.
“You’re both looking swell,” he said cheerfully.
“I’m miles too fat,” his aunt said. “Can’t be helped. Did you bring it, like I asked on the phone?”
“Bring what?”
“The medal — your D.F.C.”
“Sure.”
“Bea, run over and fetch Mrs. Henderson, will you? Steve won’t mind.”
He glanced at her suspiciously. “Mind what?”
“I want Mrs. Henderson to see your medal. She’s been so miserable about the whole thing, always kidding Beatrice because she wrote to you so often, and you never answered.”
Without a word Beatrice turned and went down the porch steps. She had on a light green wool dress that clung to her hips, and in the late afternoon sunlight her brown hair had glints of red. She looked a lot better from behind, Steve thought.
He frowned, angry at the unknown Mrs. Henderson, and at Beatrice for minding, and at himself for not answering her letters. All the time he was away, she wrote to him once a week and every month she and Vi sent him a box of food and cigarettes. He knew it must have been Beatrice who packed the box, his aunt wouldn’t have taken the trouble to select and wrap the articles so carefully. Instead of paper and twine, the box was sewed up in heavy white cloth, and inside there was always a box of his favorite chocolates, homemade cookies and two cartons of Luckies.
“I told Mrs. Henderson,” his aunt said, “I told her, Steve hasn’t got a mother and father like a lot of boys have. He’s just got us, and it’s the least we can do to write him letters. It’s a small enough sacrifice, I told her.”
He waited in some trepidation for the arrival of the formidable Mrs. Henderson. She turned out to be a small, weary woman whose shoulders had a permanent sag. She brought her children with her, two half-grown boys who had been obviously cleaned and shined for the occasion, and were consequently ill-at-ease and silent.
The medal was passed from hand to hand, while Beatrice dispensed tea and chocolate cake. She avoided his eyes, and when the medal was passed to her, she barely glanced at it.
He didn’t know at what point, or why, his nerves began to crack, whether it was the change in Beatrice, or his aunt’s incessant talking, or the two boys surreptitiously filling their pockets with cake, or Mrs. Henderson’s melancholy voice asking him to tell them all about his experiences.
“I haven’t had any experiences,” he told Mrs. Henderson irritably.
“Well, my goodness, Steve,” his aunt cried. “You must of. They don’t give medals away like that every day, I can tell you.” She turned dramatically and faced Mrs. Henderson. “He nearly died. He was wounded here.” She pressed her hand against her breasts, while Mrs. Henderson reminded her none too gently that she knew where Steve was wounded, having heard about it at least a dozen times. Undaunted his aunt went on, “It’s the very worst place, so near the heart. He’s filled with bullets even yet, aren’t you, Steve?”
“Flak,” he said. He felt himself shaking, and the tea balanced on his knees began to rattle against the saucer. “Listen, Aunt Vi. I don’t want to...”
“Real bullets?” one of the boys asked, and his brother answered, “What do you think, you dumb cluck.”
Mrs. Henderson slapped them both absently, and told them to shut up and let the hero talk. In passing through her mouth, the word had absorbed acid.
“There’s nothing heroic about stopping a few pieces of flak...”
“Now, Steve,” his aunt interrupted. “There’s such a thing as carrying modesty too far, if you ask me.”
“Modesty is a wonderful thing,” Mrs. Henderson said with a significant glance at Aunt Vi. “There’s too little of it in this world, not mentioning any names.”
Beatrice rose suddenly and stood at the door. Everyone appeared to recognize this signal and to be accustomed to obeying Beatrice. They all departed abruptly, though the older Henderson boy hung back and whispered to Steve, “Gosh, I’d love a real bullet.”
Beatrice said, “Hurry up, Bobby. Your mother’s waiting.”
The boy left, and Beatrice began to gather up the empty tea cups. She had narrow white hands and delicate wrists that moved bonelessly as snakes.
“Can I help?” Steve said.
She shook her head quite violently. When she had piled up the saucers she took them out to the kitchen. She stayed out there quite a while. He could hear the water running into the sink, but there was no clatter of dishes. After a time, he followed her.
She was standing at the sink. She hadn’t even put the pile of saucers down yet, she was holding them in front of her in a careless, relaxed way, as if she couldn’t decide whether they were worth washing or whether she should simply let them drop. She hadn’t heard him come in because the water was making so much noise. Feeling like an intruder, he turned and went back to the parlor and picked up a magazine. When she returned she found him slouched in a chair reading and smoking, with one leg dangling over the arm of the chair.
She smiled at him, and he noticed that she had put on fresh makeup.
“I thought I’d better wash up the dishes,” she said. “They’re easier to do if you do them right away.”
“Are they?” He closed the magazine and let it slide to the floor. It had hardly landed before she was across the room and kneeling to pick it up. Her hair looked very clean and shiny and smelled faintly of flowers. He reached out and touched it. It felt soft but not so soft as he remembered a woman’s hair should feel. (He hadn’t touched a girl since he’d gone into the hospital and seen some of the v.d. cases.)
But still, soft enough, so he patted it. Good, kind, clean, sweet Beatrice, he thought.
She seemed annoyed by his touch. She rose briskly and slammed the magazine back on the table.
“Well, Bea,” he said. “How’s business?”
“Oh, fine.” She sat down opposite him, smoothing her dress carefully over her knees. “Same as usual.”
“I thought the old bas — tyrant would have made you vice president by this time.”
“It’s all right. You can say bastard as long as mother’s not around.”
They both laughed, but he knew he had offended her by changing the word to “tyrant.” It was like moving her back a generation.
She said crisply, “Remember the cartoon in Esquire years ago? ‘I may be an old maid, but I’m not a fussy old maid.’ Well, that’s me.”
She apparently expected him to say something reassuring about her age, but he couldn’t think of anything except a flat, “You’re not old,” so he kept quiet. He wondered why women became sensitive about their age after twenty-five, especially unmarried women like Beatrice. There were no special virtues or privileges attached to being twenty-five. Everyone who was thirty had been twenty-five for exactly one year. Women had so many queer emotional attitudes about unimportant matters. Here was Beatrice, with a good job, a house, the best of clothes and nice legs...