(12)
—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996
Continued from page (11)
“A promise you can’t keep. Jesus. Sissy to the altar, Sam to the
war.”
Sam wilted. “Joy and need. Or maybe kissing and death. ‘No way but
this.’” He shook his head sharply. “No, goddammit. Why put the worst possible
interpretation on everything? Let’s fight history, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Say you’ll beat history.”
“I’ll beat history.”
“Not very convincing.”
“The enemy has superior strength.” She gave him a fragile grin.
“And the friendly forces are divided.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes misted. “Jamey
thinks I’m beautiful, Sam. What am I going to do when he sees that I’m not, when he sees
that I’m the pits? I look into the mirror of his eyes, and I see a cute thing with dark hair and
a long neck and nice clothes. He doesn’t love me. He’s got a crush on me. He can’t
tell the difference.”
“You’ve already told me,” Sam said. “You’ll learn
to love him the way he wants.”
“Yes.”
Her sadness pulled him downward like a diver’s sinkstones. “Guess
it’s over. No more enfants terribles, no more wine games, no more We-of-Us.”
She wheeled and slapped him. “Stop it. Don’t you ever . . .
There’ll always be us, we’ll always be hand-in-hand. Just knowing you’re alive is enough
to keep me going. I’m part of you. If anything happens to you, part of me—”
“Sissy, get real. History always intervenes. What about Jamey? He really
loves you. How can you keep some part of you for me?”
“What I am will be his, and what I am is partly you. I don’t have
to make a choice. I am what I am.”
Sam let his gaze wander to the balcony. Seamless mist had filled the bay and was
climbing up their hill. Fog swallowed the light and colored the night gray.
“Sam?” She took hold of his sleeve. “Sam, when I got your
last letter I copied it over word for word and sent it back to you. Why?”
“Because my letter said exactly what you would have said.”
“What more proof do you want?”
TOM'S TALES