A Matter of Conviction

“What’s that?”

“It means ‘Wet and cry.’”

“It’s a good name. I’ll call you that from now on.”

“Don’t you dare! Go to sleep. I’ll wake you later.”

“You twisted my arm,” he said.

He was asleep again almost instantly. She listened to his heavy breathing and she thought again, He’s so tired, I should let him sleep. She got out of bed and walked to the dresser where he’d put his cigarettes and his billfold and his dog tags. She shook a cigarette free from the pack, lighted it, and then went to stand at the window, looking out over the fields, silvery white in the moonlight. The floor was cold. She stood by the window for just a little while, one arm folded across his pajama top, the other moving to her face each time she sucked in on the cigarette.

She put out the cigarette then and went back to the bed. “You’re so warm,” she said. He grunted in his sleep and she grinned delightedly and thought, He really is. He’s the warmest human being I know. He’s always so warm. His feet are never cold. How does he keep his feet so warm?

“Warm my feet,” she said, and he grunted again, and she stifled a laugh.

I mustn’t laugh. It’s really Friday, no matter what he says, it won’t be Saturday until I wake up in the morning, why are men so ridiculous about time? She lay in bed with a smile on her face, holding his hand between her own, clutching his hand to her bosom. In a little while she fell asleep, the smile still on her mouth.

She heard the shower going, and she opened her eyes. She could not have been asleep for more than a few hours; there was bright sunlight streaming around the edges of the leaded casements. He began singing in the bathroom, quite suddenly and quite awfully, and she grinned and stretched and pushed her blond head deeper into the pillow, feeling very luxuriant and very loved and also very tired.

Well, he sings in the shower, she thought. She was pleased, even though he sang terribly. She pulled the covers to her throat, feeling that she looked very impish and pure and clean without make-up, and probably very horrible. When he sees me, he’ll run out of the room screaming. Maybe I ought to get up and put on some lipstick. The singing stopped, and then the sound of the water. The bathroom door opened. He had wrapped the towel around his waist and he headed for the dresser now, apparently going for a comb. He had not dried himself very thoroughly. There were droplets of water clinging to his shoulders; his face and hair no were still wet, the hair clinging to his forehead. He moved totally unaware of her, stepping into a narrow wedge of sunlight, his eyes suddenly flashing very blue. She watched him, the broad shoulders and the narrow waist, the pathetic droplets of water clinging to him, the damp hair flattened against his forehead, his face glistening wet, the blue eyes captured by sunlight. She watched him silently, seeing the man as he moved toward the dresser, thinking, This is the man unawares, this is the man I love.

She made a small sound.

He turned, mildly surprised, his eyebrows quirking upward, his mouth beginning a smile. “Oh, are you awake?”

She could not answer for a moment. She loved him so much in that instant that she could not speak. She nodded and kept watching him.

“You look nice,” she said at last, inadequately.

He went to the bed, knelt by it, took her face in his hands and kissed her. “You look lovely,” he said.

“Oh, ja, ja, ja. I’ll bet.”

“Oh, ja, ja, ja. You’d win.”

“I look horrible. I’m a horror.”

“You’re the most beautiful horror I’ve ever seen.”

She ducked her head into the pillow. “Don’t look at me, please. I have no lipstick on.”

“The better to kiss you, my love,” he said, and he turned her face to him, capturing it in his hands again. His mouth was reaching for hers when they heard the airplanes. He lifted his head. The noise of the planes filled the sky, and then the small room. His eyes turned toward the window. A squadron of planes, Karin thought, heading for Berlin, and then she noticed that he was trembling and she was filled with instant alarm.

“What is it?” she said.

“Nothing.”

She sat up and gripped his arms. “What is it, Hank? You’re shaking. You’re—”

“Nothing. Nothing. I... I...”

He got off the bed and walked to the dresser. He lighted a cigarette quickly and then went to the window, following the progression of the squadron across the sky.

“Transports,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The war is over, Hank.”

“In Germany it is,” he said. He took a hasty drag at his cigarette. She watched him for a moment and then threw back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed and went to stand alongside him at the window. The planes were out of sight now. Only their distant hum could be heard in the sky.

“What is it?” she said firmly. “Tell me, Hank.”

He nodded bleakly. “I’m flying on Monday. That’s why I got the weekend. I’m taking some brass to...”

“Where?”

He hesitated.

“Where?”

“One of the islands in the Pacific.” He squashed out his cigarette.

“Will there be... shooting?”