Stoner

The dinner went well. Finch was more affable than Stoner had seen him in years; Stoner thought of himself and Finch and Dave Masters sitting together on those distant Friday afternoons after class, drinking beer and talking. The fiancee, Caroline, said little; she smiled happily as Finch joked and winked. It came to Stoner as an almost envious shock to realize that Finch was genuinely fond of this dark pretty girl, and that her silence came from a rapt affection for him.

Even Edith lost some of her strain and tenseness; she smiled easily, and her laughter was spontaneous. Finch was playful and familiar with Edith in a way, Stoner realized, that he, her own husband, could never be; and Edith seemed happier than she had been in months.

After dinner Finch removed the brown paper bag from the icebox, where he had placed it earlier to cool, and took from it a number of dark brown bottles. It was a home brew that he made with great secrecy and ceremony in the closet of his bachelor apartment.

"No room for my clothes," he said, "but a man's got to keep his sense of values."

Carefully, with his eyes squinted, with the light glistening upon his fair skin and thinning blond hair, like a chemist measuring a rare substance, he poured the beer from the bottles into glasses.

"Got to be careful with this stuff," he said. "You get a lot of sediment at the bottom, and if you pour it off too quick, you get it in the glass."

They each drank a glass of the beer, complimenting Finch upon its taste. It was, indeed, surprisingly good, dry and light and of a good color. Even Edith finished her glass and took another.

They became a little drunk; they laughed vaguely and sentimentally; they saw each other anew.

Holding his glass up to the light, Stoner said, "I wonder how Dave would have liked this beer."

"Dave?" Finch asked.

"Dave Masters. Remember how he used to love beer?"

"Dave Masters," Finch said. "Good old Dave. It's a damned shame."

"Masters," Edith said. She was smiling fuzzily. "Wasn't he that friend of yours that was killed in the war?"

"Yes," Stoner said. "That's the one." The old sadness came over him, but he smiled at Edith.

"Good old Dave," Finch said. "Edie, your husband and I and Dave used to really lap it up--long before he knew of you, of course. Good old Dave . . ."

They smiled at the memory of David Masters.

"He was a good friend of yours?" Edith asked.

Stoner nodded. "He was a good friend."

"Chateau-Thierry." Finch drained his glass. "War's a hell of a thing." He shook his head. "But old Dave. He's probably somewhere laughing at us right now. He wouldn't be feeling sorry for himself. I wonder if he ever really got to see any of France?"

"I don't know," Stoner said. "He was killed so soon after he got over."

"Be a shame if he didn't. I always thought that was one of the main reasons he joined up. To see some of Europe."

"Europe," Edith said distinctly.

"Yeah," Finch said. "Old Dave didn't want too many things, but he did want to see Europe before he died."

"I was going to Europe once," Edith said. She was smiling, and her eyes glittered helplessly. "Do you remember, Willy? I was going with my Aunt Emma just before we got married. Do you remember?"

"I remember," Stoner said.

Edith laughed gratingly and shook her head as if she were puzzled. "It seems like a long time ago, but it wasn't. How long has it been, Willy?"

"Edith--" Stoner said.

"Let's see, we were going in April. And then a year. And now it's May. I would have been . . ." Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, though she was still smiling with a fixed brightness. "I'll never get there now, I guess. Aunt Emma is going to die pretty soon, and I'll never have a chance to . .

Then, with the smile still tightening her lips and her eyes streaming with tears, she began to sob. Stoner and Finch rose from their chairs.

"Edith," Stoner said helplessly.

"Oh, leave me alone!" With a curious twisting motion she stood erect before them, her eyes shut tight and her hands clenched at her sides. "All of you! Just leave me alone!" And she turned and stumbled into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

For a moment no one spoke; they listened to the muffled sound of Edith's sobbing. Then Stoner said, "You'll have to excuse her. She has been tired and not too well. The strain--"

"Sure, I know how it is, Bill." Finch laughed hollowly. "Women and all. Guess I'll be getting used to it pretty soon myself." He looked at Caroline, laughed again, and lowered his voice. "Well, we won't disturb Edie right now. You just thank her for us, tell her it was a fine meal, and you folks'll have to come over to our place after we get settled in."

"Thanks, Gordon," Stoner said. "I'll tell her."

"And don't worry," Finch said. He punched Stoner on the arm. "These things happen."