Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

He’d have liked Margaret to have seen him on patrol, his face and hands blackened, his hands covered with soot, covered. It was a shame she hadn’t seen him holding a BAR, the immense lethal length of the rifle, the hand grenades dangling from his waist, as he stalked the unseen enemy, the bodiless enemy, the enemy who was not one, not a live person who breathed and smiled and smoked cigarettes and talked, not that sonofabitching enemy.

The war is over, he thought.

He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to one of the welders. He stood watching him and the steady flame which spurted from the slender welding rod. The man cut the flame, lifted his mask, and grinned up at Don. Don stood spread-legged over him. He brought his hands behind his back and clasped them there.

“How’s it going, Pete?” he asked.

“So-so.” Pete grinned. He was a gnomish man with crooked black eyebrows and a bright smile. Black curling hair hung onto his forehead where the welding mask was pushed up like the visor of a helmet. Squatting beside Don, who stood muscular and fair, his blond crew-cut hair reflecting the fluorescent glow, his hands behind his back, Pete looked like a squire kneeling to fasten a knight’s leg armor.

“How you like to get bombed by this bastard?” he asked, grinning.

“I wouldn’t,” Don said. He liked Pete. He liked the smiling face and the glowing brown eyes. Pete was a nice guy, and also a good welder.

“Me neither. We keep buildin’ them bigger an’ bigger. Pretty soon we won’t be able to fit them in the factory. Why you think they gettin’ so big, Don?”

“To carry more bombs, I guess.”

“What for? An atomic bomb you could fit in a lady’s pocket-book.”

“We won’t use no atomic bombs,” Don said.

“We use them already, dint we?”

“Sure, but that was a necessity.”

“So they’ll be other necessities. War makes its own reasons. Some guy someday’ll just say, ‘It’s a big necessity we got to drop an atomic bomb.’ Boom ! Up your mother’s poop!” Pete laughed.

Don did not laugh with him. “I don’t think we’ll use atomic bombs again,” he said.

“What then? Hydrogens? The same thing. Boom ! Up your mother’s...”

“Nobody with sense is going to use nuclear weapons,” Don said quickly.

“Hey, there’s a real strength word,” Pete said. “Nuclear.”

“What’s a strength word?”

“I bought this book about strength words. Don’t you want strength, Don?”

“I got all the strength I’ll ever want,” Don said, smiling, thinking Pete was joking and figuring he’d ride along with the gag.

“Pithy,” Pete said.

“What?”

“Pithy. That’s a strength word.”

“What’s so strong about it?”

“You know what it means?”

“Pithy?”

“No, pithy. Pithy.”

“Sure. It means meaty.”

“That’s right,” Pete said, surprised. “Did you buy that book?”

“I don’t need a book to tell me what pithy means,” Don said. “Give me another strength word.”

“Fructify. That’s a really advanced strength word. That’s near the end of the book.”

“Fructify, huh?” Don thought for a moment. “I don’t think I know that one.”

“It means to bear fruit. It’s a dilly, ain’t it?”

“It’s a good word,” Don agreed. “I’ll have to tell it to Margaret. She likes new words. She’s got a pretty good vocabulary.”

“Fructify,” Pete repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “It sounds dirty, don’t it?” He burst out laughing.

“Well,” Don said, displeased that Pete was beginning to joke. He was enjoying the strength words. It didn’t hurt a man to try improving himself.

“Tell it to Margaret,” Pete said. “Margaret’s so beautiful, she needs to be smart, too. It’s absolutely necessary, otherwise people won’t even look at her.” His laughter exploded merrily.

“Well,” Don said, putting his hands into his pockets.

“The kind of strength Margaret got,” Pete said, “is the kind of strength I like.”

“Well,” Don said.

“She’s the most passionate-lookin’ woman I ever seen, all due respect.”

“Well,” Don said, embarrassed.

“You ever get tired of her, you give me a buzz. I leave my wife and run away to China with Margaret. I abscond. That’s a strength word.”

“Well,” Don said, grinning.

“Is she as passionate as she looks?”

“Aw, come on.”

“Come on, is she? I only seen her once but—”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Is she or ain’t she?”

“Well, not so much. You know. Not so much. She’s just a woman. They all get their moods. You know.”

“Sure,” Pete said. He paused, laughed secretly, and then said, “Maybe you don’t fructify her enough.” He exploded hysterically. “Oh, brother, that word breaks me up!”

“Come on, come on,” Don said. “Go back to your welding. We ain’t building airplanes talking about women, that’s for sure.”

Pete’s laughter trailed off. He sighed, lowered his mask, and went back to work. Don walked away from him, his hands in his pockets.

“You were always getting into accidents,” Mrs. Gault said that night. “From when you were a little baby. Oh my, were you a handful!”

They sat in the living room — Don, his mother, and Margaret. The television was on, and Margaret was trying to watch an hour-long dramatic show, but Mrs. Gault kept telling stories of Don’s childhood. Margaret wondered how he managed to sit through the same stories over and over again with such a seemingly interested smile on his face. She had heard each story at least forty times since they were married, and God alone knew how many times Don had heard them before he and Margaret met.

“When you were only three,” Mrs. Gault said, “I can remember it as plain as if it was yesterday. Your father — God rest his soul — and I were getting dressed for a wedding. Your Aunt Marie. Well, you were running through the rooms with a bottle in your mouth, just chewing on the nipple, and you tripped over the door jamb between the rooms. You split your chin wide open.”

“I had to have three stitches, Margaret,” Don said.

“Uhm,” Margaret said.

“Oh, that was a time!” Mrs. Gault said. “The doctor rushing in. I never saw so much blood in my life, and us waiting to go to a wedding. Oh, my God, you were a terror!”

“Well, I lived through it,” Don said.

“Certainly, you lived through it! But the heartache! Do you remember the time in Spotswood, New Jersey? At your Aunt Gussie’s? That was another time.”

“I remember that one,” Don said.

“You were pumping water outside. Your aunt had one of these old-fashioned pumps. This was after your father died, poor soul. You were pushing the handle up and down, but you didn’t realize you were building pressure in the pump. Then you let go of the handle and it snapped up and hit you right in the mouth! I swear to the Lord above, it’s a miracle you didn’t knock every tooth out of your mouth. Oh, my God, it was terrible! I remember I was wearing a white sun dress, and I held your head against me, and your lip was bleeding. Oh, I hate to even think of it! Blood all down the front of my dress! It soaked right through to my brassière, Margaret!” She shook her head, vividly remembering the incident and its terror.

“I remember that,” Don said. “I was never so surprised as when that pump handle came up and hit me.” He smiled. “But I suppose it was funny, in a way.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the funny one,” Mrs. Gault said, leaning forward as if on cue. “The funny one was when we had that summer bungalow at the beach, you and I. Oh, that was the funny one.” She began laughing.