From the direction of the coaches a soldier suddenly lurched awkwardly toward them and collapsed in the table’s empty seat like a rag doll. He was small and his uniform spilled over him in crumpled folds. His face, lean and sharp featured, contrasted palely with the Marine’s and his black, crew-cropped hair shone under the light like a cap of sealskin. With tired eyes foggily studying the three as though there were a screen flung between them, he picked nervously at two chevrons sewn on his sleeve.
The woman shifted uncomfortably and pressed nearer the window. She thoughtfully tagged him drunk, and seeing the girl wrinkle up her nose knew she shared the verdict.
While the white-aproned negro unloaded his tray the Corporal said, “What I want is coffee, a big pot of it and a double jigger of cream.”
The girl dipped her fork into the creamed chicken. “Dontcha think what these folks charge for their stuff is awful, dear?”
And then it began. The Corporal’s head started to bob in short uncontrollable jerks. A lolling pause with his head bent grotesquely forward; a muscle convulsion snapping his neck sideways. His mouth stretched nastily and the neck veins tautened.
“Oh my God,” the girl cried and the woman dropped her butter knife and automatically shaded a sensitive hand over her eyes. The Marine stared vacantly for a moment, then quickly recovering he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Here, fella,” he said, “you better have one.”
“Please, thanks … very kind,” the soldier muttered and then beat a knuckle-white fist against the table. Silverware trembled, water wasted over the glass tops. A stillness paused in the air and a distant burst of laughter sliced evenly through the car.
Then the girl, aware of attention, smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. The woman looked up and bit her lip when she saw the Corporal trying to light his cigarette.
“Here, let me,” she volunteered.
Her hand shook so badly that the first match went out. When the second attempt connected she managed a trite smile. After a while he quieted. “I’m so ashamed … please forgive me.”
“Oh, we understand,” the woman said. “We understand perfectly.”
“Did it hurt?” the girl asked.
“No, no, it doesn’t hurt.”
“I was scared ’cause I thought it hurt. It sure looks that way. ’Spose it’s sorta like hiccups?” She gave a sudden start as though someone had kicked her.
The Corporal traced his finger along the table rim and presently he said, “I was all right till I got on the train. They said I’d be fine. Said, ‘You’re o.k., soldier.’ But it’s the excitement, the knowing you’re in the States and free and the goddamned waiting’s over.” He brushed at his eye.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The waiter set the coffee down and the woman tried to help him. With a little angry push he shoved her hand away. “Now please don’t. I know how!” Embarrassingly confused she turned to the window and met her face mirrored there. The face was calm and it surprised her because she felt a dizzy unreality as if she were swinging between two dream points. Channeling her thoughts elsewhere she followed the solemn trip of the Marine’s fork from plate to mouth. The girl was eating now very voraciously but her own food was growing cold.
Then it began again, not violently as before. In the rawish glare of an oncoming train’s searchlight distorted reflection blurred and the woman sighed.
He was swearing softly and it sounded more as though he were praying. Then he frantically clutched the sides of his head in a strong hand vise.
“Listen, fella, you betta get a doctor,” the Marine suggested.
The woman reached out and rested her hand on his upraised arm. “Is there anything I can do?” she said.
“What they used to do to stop it was look in my eyes … as long as I’m looking in somebody’s eyes it’ll quit.”
She leaned her face close to his. “There,” he said, quieting instantly, “there, now. You’re a sweetheart.”
“Where was it?” she said.
He frowned and said, “There was lots of places … it’s my nerves. They’re all torn up.”
“And where are you going now?”
“Virginia.”
“And that’s home, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s where home is.”
The woman felt an ache in her fingers and loosened her suddenly intense grip on his arm. “That’s where home is and you must remember that the other is unimportant.”
“You know something,” he whispered. “I love you. I love you because you’re very silly and very innocent and ’cause you’ll never know anything but what you see in pictures. I love you ’cause we’re in Virginia and I’m almost home.” Abruptly the woman looked away. An offended tenseness embroidered on the silence.
“So you think that’s all?” he said. He leaned on the table and pawed his face sleepily. “There’s that but then there’s dignity. When it happens with people I’ve always known what then? D’ya think I want to sit down at a table with them or someone like you and make ’em sick? D’ya think I want to scare a kid like this one over here and put ideas in her head about her own guy! I’ve been waiting for months, and they tell me I’m well but the first time …” He stopped and his eyebrows concentrated.
The woman slipped two bills on top of her check and pushed her chair back. “Would you let me through now, please?” she said.
The Corporal heaved up and stood there looking down at the woman’s untouched plate. “Go on an’ eat, damn you,” he said. “You’ve got to eat!” And then, without looking back he disappeared in the direction of the coaches.
The woman paid for the coffee.
JUG OF SILVER
(1945)
After school I used to work in the Valhalla drugstore. It was owned by my uncle, Mr. Ed Marshall. I call him Mr. Marshall because everybody, including his wife, called him Mr. Marshall. Nevertheless he was a nice man.
This drugstore was maybe old-fashioned, but it was large and dark and cooclass="underline" during summer months there was no pleasanter place in town. At the left, as you entered, was a tobacco-magazine counter behind which, as a rule, sat Mr. Marshalclass="underline" a squat, square-faced, pink-fleshed man with looping, manly, white mustaches. Beyond this counter stood the beautiful soda fountain. It was very antique and made of fine, yellowed marble, smooth to the touch but without a trace of cheap glaze. Mr. Marshall bought it at an auction in New Orleans in 1910 and was plainly proud of it. When you sat on the high, delicate stools and looked across the fountain you could see yourself reflected softly, as though by candlelight, in a row of ancient mahogany-framed mirrors. All general merchandise was displayed in glass-doored, curio-like cabinets that were locked with brass keys. There was always in the air the smell of syrup and nutmeg and other delicacies.
The Valhalla was the gathering place of Wachata County till a certain Rufus McPherson came to town and opened a second drugstore directly across the courthouse square. This old Rufus McPherson was a villain; that is, he took away my uncle’s trade. He installed fancy equipment such as electric fans and colored lights; he provided curb service and made grilled-cheese sandwiches to order. Naturally, though some remained devoted to Mr. Marshall, most folks couldn’t resist Rufus McPherson.
For a while, Mr. Marshall chose to ignore him: if you were to mention McPherson’s name, he would sort of snort, finger his mustaches and look the other way. But you could tell he was mad. And getting madder. Then one day toward the middle of October I strolled into the Valhalla to find him sitting at the fountain playing dominoes and drinking wine with Hamurabi.
Hamurabi was an Egyptian and some kind of dentist, though he didn’t do much business, as the people hereabouts have unusually strong teeth, due to an element in the water. He spent a great deal of his time loafing around the Valhalla and was my uncle’s chief buddy. He was a handsome figure of a man, this Hamurabi, being dark-skinned and nearly seven feet tall; the matrons of the town kept their daughters under lock and key and gave him the eye themselves. He had no foreign accent whatsoever, and it was always my opinion that he wasn’t any more Egyptian than the man in the moon.