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Hot shame flooded my body. If Tim knew what I had been thinking! How he would hate me! Yes, hate me, because Tim loved his brother more than himself.
But he could hardly have hated me more than I hated myself. Why had it taken me until now to see that Tim wasn't the dull, uninteresting person I had thought him in the days before Gene and I were married? Why hadn't I seen then that he had everything Gene lacked — kindness, generosity, a sense of honor? Why — why — why?
I stood up and hurried into the house, murmuring something about getting dinner ready. Somehow, I must keep Tim from guessing. I must not let myself be alone with him, must not let my eyes linger on his face, must not let my voice caress his name when I speak it.
The few days before he went back to camp were torture — made the worse because every moment could have been so precious. But somehow I managed. Somehow I even managed to make my good-by kiss sisterly and cool, even though my arms ached with the longing to throw them about him.
EVEN when he was gone, Tim still seemed to be with us. He was there when Gene held me in his arms at night. He was there when Gene decided he wanted to join the golf club, and bought an expensive set of clubs which he used every Saturday for exactly one month— until he decided golf was a silly game anyway and left the clubs to gather dust in the hall closet. Most of all, he was there when the news of Pearl Harbor crashed about us, and when Gene, after an hour of stunned disbelief, shouted boastfully that "we'll chop up those dirty little monkeys and send them back where they came from."
"Gene — don't!" I couldn't help saying, and he stared at me, a frown gathering between his eyes.
"Don't what?" he asked. "Sorry, but I don't seem to get it."
"Don't talk that way. As if — as if it were a game of some sort, and you had your money on one of the teams." It was the best I could do. I didn't have the words to tell him that once more he was being helped by Tim — by Tim and thousands of others — and that he should be humble, not vainglorious.
"Well, that's swell," he said angrily. "Maybe you think I ought to chew my fingernails and make up my mind we're licked?"
"You know I don't think that, Gene. I just — " Oh, what was the use? I could never make him understand. I summoned a smile and finished, "I guess I'm just shocked and upset by the news."
"Sure," he agreed, serious now and as grave as if he too had been expecting war instead of laughing at the idea. "Yes, I guess that's it. I know how you feel."
But the vengeful mood of that tragic December Sunday didn't last in Gene. The war was far away, and his imagination couldn't envision its horrors. In another week or two, it was almost as if we weren't at war at all. Our life went on just the same.
I tried to get hold of myself. I thrust the thought of Tim out of my mind, and I tried to believe that I could be happy with Gene. After all, weren't there many good things about him? — he didn't drink, he didn't go with other women, he nearly always came straight home from work. But always I came back to the dead-stop of the truth.
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