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I know his story by putting scraps together. He started to tell me about Kimple. At first his face was calm. He dragged out a few words. Then he looked down at his feet. His hands contracted slowly, nervously. He was trying to get hold of himself again.
A man doesn’t cry easily like a woman. He isn’t built to cry and sobs rack his frame.
The first time in my life I ever saw a Marine give way.
They’re hard stuff, for they deal with death....
Hurricane warnings were up and the Kittery was sailing at eleven. Johnny borrowed a truck from the guard and we drove down to the dock.
“Don’t,” said Johnny, “tell her that you saw me here.”
“Of course I’m going to write to her. The kid’s starving in Washington today.” I hadn’t told him that.
“Please don’t write.” Johnny rubbed his knuckles. “I know, I’ll send her an anonymous allotment. But don’t write. I don’t want her to know where I am.”
“All right, Johnny. I won’t.”
A fine rain was coming down and when the boat shoved away from the dock and pointed its nose at the Kittery’s lights in the stream, I looked back. Johnny was still standing there. Alone. Shot to pieces. Rotting his guts with rum. Eating his heart out for a girl he hasn’t seen or heard of for five years.
And Carol, leaning forward across a dinner table, interrupting Phil’s monologue, an eager expression on her face. “Ron, did you ever know a Marine named Faulkner?”
“I told you before that I didn’t.”
Her eyes on her plate. A little sigh which nobody ever noticed but me.