Harry Turtledove - The Man with the Iron Heart

“I just might, yeah.” Tom mimed writer’s cramp, which made Atkins chuckle. “What do you think about the people who don’t think we ought to be pulling out of Germany?”

“Well, that depends. There were some of those guys over there, and you gotta respect them. I mean, hell, they were laying it on the line like everybody else, y’know? So that was okay. But the people back here, the safe, fat, happy people who wouldn’t be in any danger regardless of what goes on in Germany-fuck them and the horse they rode in on. Those clowns are ready to fight to the last drop of my blood. That’s how it looks to me, anyways.” Gil Atkins chuckled again, this time in mild embarrassment. “You’re gonna have to take out some words before you can put this in your paper, huh?”

“That’s part of the business,” Tom said. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me. You helped a lot.”

“Only time I ever got in the paper before was on account of a car crash,” Atkins said. “And that one wasn’t even my fault-other guy was drunk, and he sideswiped me.” He bobbed his head and tramped off. Before long, no doubt, he’d find the station. He’d ride back to Sioux City and start scrambling eggs and frying bacon and flipping hamburgers. He’d have a regular job again. Hell, he’d have his life back again. Try as Tom might, he couldn’t see what was so bad about that.

Tom had his own job, too. “Hi. I’m Tom Schmidt, from the Chicago Tribune. Can I talk to you for a minute?” This guy with his shiny Ruptured Duck walked past him as if he didn’t exist. Try again-what else could you do? “Hello. My name’s Tom Schmidt. I’m from the Chicago Tribune…. ”

“Auld Lang Syne” came out of the radio. Guy Lombardo’s orchestra was playing in the New Year, the same as usual. Over the music, the announcer said, “In less than a minute now, the lighted ball in Times Square will drop. It will usher out 1947 and bring in 1948. Another year to look forward to…”

Ed McGraw looked down at his wristwatch. “Boy, I’m a whole year fast,” he said.

Buster Neft laughed. So did Betsy. Stan looked around, wide-eyed. He’d stayed up way past his bedtime, but New Year’s Eve was special. He would be three pretty soon, which seemed impossible to his grandmother.

Diana McGraw only smiled at Ed’s joke. He made it about every other New Year. And when he wasn’t a year fast, he was a year slow. Yeah, Diana had heard it before, too many times. She’d heard just about everything from him too many times.

“The ball is dropping!” the announcer said. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year!” Ed lifted his beer. All the grownups had drinks of one kind or another. Even Stan had a glass of grape juice. If he wanted to pretend it was wine-well, why not?

Betsy raised her highball in Diana’s direction. “Here’s to you, Mom! If anybody made 1947 what it was, you’re the one.”

“Thanks,” Diana said. Along with the rest of her family, she drank the toast. It was true enough. American soldiers were coming home from Germany. Most of them were already back, and the ones who weren’t would be before long. Diana had had a lot to do with that.

And now it was-literally was, this past minute or so-last year’s news. The second phone line here didn’t ring as often as it had even a couple of months earlier. The withdrawal wasn’t controversial any more; it was an accomplished fact. By the nature of things, accomplished facts weren’t news. The world was starting to forget about Diana McGraw and Mothers Against the War in Germany. Why not? They’d won.

Pretty soon, she’d go back to being just another housewife from Anderson, Indiana. Up till Pat got killed, she hadn’t thought about being anything else. She still wished she’d never had any reason-well, never had that reason, anyhow-to think about anything else.

But she’d got used to going all over the country for the cause. She’d got used to fielding phone calls from reporters and Congressmen and other important people. She’d got used to being an important person herself. And she could watch that fade like a cheap blouse the first time it met bleach. Once you’d been famous-even a little bit famous-how did you get used to ordinary life?

Baseball players had to deal with it. So did actors who had one or two hit movies and then saw their careers fizzle out. Some managed gracefully. Others grabbed the limelight a little while longer by doing something disgraceful.

Diana might have managed that if news of her tryst with Marvin (she still couldn’t remember his last name) had made the papers. Everybody on the other side would have been delighted to see her exposed as a woman without any morals to call her own.

But nobody knew about that little encounter except the parties involved. She had no idea whether Marvin’s conscience bothered him. She would have bet against it. He was a man, after all. Men took what they could get, and tried to get it even when they couldn’t.

Women weren’t supposed to do things like that. Which didn’t mean they didn’t, only that they weren’t supposed to. What bothered Diana most about ending up in bed with Marvin Whoozis was how much fun she’d had while it was going on. Marvin had casually shown her more varieties of delight in half an hour than Ed had since the end of World War I. Darn it, when Ed went Over There, couldn’t a Mademoiselle from Amentieres have taught him a little something? Evidently not.

And having a better idea of what she was missing only left Diana more frustrated when Ed wanted to lay her down. He still hadn’t figured out exactly what was wrong, even if he knew something was. She had no idea how to tell him, either. If she suddenly wanted him to start doing this and that when he’d never done-probably never even imagined doing-this and that before, what would he think? Most likely, that some other guy had done this and that with her while she was on one of her junkets.

He’d be right, too.

If only this and that-especially that-didn’t feel so good! If only she hadn’t got smashed with Marvin! If only…fame weren’t rolling away like the afternoon train bound for Indianapolis.

Which brought her back to where she’d started, full circle.

She realized Betsy’d just said something. She also realized she had no idea what. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “Your old mother was woolgathering there, I’m afraid. Must be second childhood coming on.”

“Oh, sure,” her daughter said with a snort. “What I said was, Buster and I’d better head for home. Stan won’t last much longer, and-”

“ Not sleepy,” Stan declared, but he spoiled it with a tonsil-showing yawn.

“We know you’re not, Killer, but we’re going home anyway,” Buster said. Stan yawned again. He was too “not sleepy” to put up much of an argument. Buster went on, “Maybe I’ll show up for my shift tomorrow, and maybe I won’t.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Ed agreed. “Hey, tomorrow’s Friday. Who wants to work a one-day week right after New Year’s?”

Their daughter and son-in-law and grandson headed out into the cold. Stan dozed off on Buster’s shoulder before the Nefts even made it out the door. It closed behind them. That left Diana and Ed all alone.

“Happy New Year, babe,” he said.

“You, too,” she replied automatically, even as she wondered, How?

“Want to-you know-celebrate, like?”

Her answering yawn was pretty much authentic. “Can we hold off a day? I’m really sleepy, and I don’t have to pretend I’m not, the way Stan does.”

Ed chuckled. “He’s a corker, all right. Yeah, it’ll keep a day. Sure.”

He was accommodating, which meant she’d have to be accommodating tomorrow night. And she’d lie there thinking about what Marvin knew and he didn’t, and…. Stop that! she told herself firmly. But herself didn’t want to listen.