As his time overseas came to a close, her letters arrived less frequently. It was, a friend in his platoon assured him, something every man experienced as the war dragged on — the foothold they had at home had weakened. He’d been at war longer than he and Lorraine had known each other, five times as long as they’d been married. “Just divorce her,” his friend said. “Don’t look back.”
“Or kill her,” another man said, laughing.
“No. Kill him. Whoever took your place. Kill him.” And that man was not laughing.
As he continued up the street, he spotted his house and saw the lawn was trimmed and neat. When he got closer, he saw the porch floor was swept, its varnish fresh enough to catch his reflection. The windows sparkled from a recent cleaning.
He half expected to see someone else’s name on the mailbox as proof that the place was no longer his. But Boyer was still there, painted in his sure hand within days of moving in. And when he lifted the box’s lid, the mail inside bore his name, some bills addressed to him, a postcard from him. The one that told her which train he’d be arriving home on.
He pulled his postcard from the box. For a moment, his heart lightened. She hadn’t even seen it. Could she be out of town? Had she taken the mill shift after all?
He reached above the doorframe and found the spare key he had always kept there. He slid it into the lock and was surprised to find the once stubborn latch open with ease.
“Hello?” he called out as he stepped inside. “Lorraine?” He dropped his duffle to the floor, then dragged it behind the sofa. A reconnoiter. He walked around, looking. He felt like an intruder. The previous day’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette sat folded on the coffee table, the page with the radio schedule face-up. A coffee mug was there beside it, still half full of the weak chicory mix she drank to start her day. Bright red lip crème smeared the rim of the cup.
In the kitchen he felt the coffee pot. No, cold.
Through the window above the sink he glimpsed the backyard where the lawn lay freshly mown. The garden was going strong.
On the table lay the letter he’d sent announcing that he’d be stateside soon. He’d guessed at his date of return in that note and Lorraine had underlined this three times in dark pencil.
He left the kitchen and crept up the stairs, not sure what he was expecting to find. The second floor was, like the rest of the house, immaculate. The guest room bed was clad in a quilt he’d never seen before. The bathroom was pin neat, except for a razor sitting on the sink.
He knew. He’d known. But what to do about it?
A door opened downstairs. He slipped off his shoes and crept out of the room and into the hallway. From his vantage he could see Lorraine framed by the front door, the taxi that had deposited her pulling away from the curb. She carried a box of groceries and a cosmetics case she used whenever they went away on overnight trips. She shut the door with her hip and proceeded to the kitchen. His heart jumped. He loved her, he still loved her. He could hear her as she moved from room to room, setting down the box of groceries and her bag, switching on the radio, kicking off her shoes. He tiptoed down the stairs and hugged the wall of the parlor so he could better observe her. She was wearing a day dress he didn’t recognize — black with white polka dots. Her hair was long. She looked... good.
She left the kitchen and began to head his way. He receded into the shadow provided by the highboy as she returned to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. With her back now to him, he took a chance and darted toward the kitchen. There he saw up close the food she’d lugged from Kregar’s: a Lady Baltimore cake, steak, a couple potatoes.
She was coming back inside, this time with the mail in her hands. Her eyes were cast downward as she rifled past the bills and landed on his postcard. She sank to the sofa. He watched her. She did not look happy when she reached for the telephone and lifted the receiver. She asked for an exchange that he didn’t recognize and waited for the operator to connect her.
He emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Lorraine,” he said.
She looked up, startled. They stared at each other. Someone said something into the receiver and she replied in a rush: “I have to go. My husband’s home.” She replaced the receiver and stared at him still.
“I thought you’d be at the station. At least that.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Remembering the postcard, she raised it toward him, as though it were a letter for him, not from him. “I didn’t see your postcard until just now. I thought... I thought next week.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“I’m glad you’re home.” She stood and came to embrace him, but he caught her wrists in his hands and held her at arm’s length.
“Don’t lie to me, Lorraine.”
Her smile faltered. “I’m not lying. You’re hurting me.”
He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to snap both of her arms in two. She tried to free herself from his grip, but he held on even tighter.
“Please, Bill.” Her voice was tense with pain. “We have to talk.”
“I think I know that.” He shook her. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Bill, let me go. You’re scaring me.” Her eyes filled with tears.
He released her. She looked at the deep red marks he’d left and again they didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”
“It’s all right.” She rubbed the feeling back into her wrists.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
He didn’t want to know after all. When she opened her arms wide, he sank into them and inhaled the scent of her new perfume. They held onto each other for a long time, maybe five minutes, just rocking.
The kitchen door opened and footsteps sounded behind him. He turned. It was Roger.
“Did he hurt you?” Roger asked.
“No, no.” Though he had pulled away from her, she touched his arm still.
“Buddy, we need to have a serious talk.”
“You can’t do this.” He stumbled toward his duffle, then stopped and eyed the fireplace poker, knowing he looked desperate, that he was desperate, the boy who went to war, not the soldier who had done the killing over there.
“Sometimes things change,” Roger said. “We were hoping you would understand.”
Bill started to cry. Once he started, the sobs grew louder and more ugly with each second. “I want to kill you,” he blubbered. “I want to kill the both of you.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Get him a whiskey,” Roger said. And she hurried to the cabinet to pull out a bottle of booze. “Sit down,” Roger continued. “Have a seat. Let’s take it easy.”
He was tired of killing. He didn’t think he could do it again.
“Sit.”
He didn’t know where to go. He sat. Roger handed him a tumbler of whiskey, saying something again about the way things change, they just change.
He had to go somewhere.
Tonight.
He didn’t belong.
Roger Cleveland had come home.
Cheater
by Aubrey Hirsch
Squirrel Hill
Alex’s apartment looks like a hotel room after the guests have gone to check out. There are towels on the floor and dirty wine glasses scattered around. The bedspread came with the sheets, came with the curtains, came with the throw pillows on the couch. A complete set. The fireplace is fake. There is only generic art on the walls. No photographs. No real trace of a permanent personality. Maybe Alex is a different man with every girl he brings home. Or maybe there is no real Alex. Or maybe he just doesn’t care to decorate. I tend to think people have more depth than they really do.