Chapter 9: Three in the Morning

He told it to the windshield, with the river going by outside.

I lay against his side with the coat over us, and I didn't say a word.

"It was a hill in Korea," Hal said. "December of 1951. You don't need the name."

"All right."

"There was a boy in my squad, nineteen years old, from Dayton."

"He sold brushes door to door before they drafted him. He'd talk to anybody."

His voice was very even.

"We were dug in. They came up the hill about three in the morning."

He stopped. I felt his chest rise and fall.

"He was next to me. He got hit. I held him until it got light."

"Hal."

"It took a long time. He wanted to talk about brushes."

I put my hand on his chest, flat, over his heart.

It was going hard.

"I get home, and I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine for years."

"I work. I go to church. I buy a car."

"And then every now and then it's three in the morning, and I'm sitting up with somebody by the arms."

"Who?"

"Whoever's closest."

He turned his head and looked at me, finally, in the dim light off the water.

"The first time was my sister, at her place, one Christmas."

"I woke up and had her by both shoulders against the wall."

"Did she..."

"She was all right. She's never said a word. But I haven't stayed in a bed with anybody since."

"Until me."

"Until you." His eyes were wet. "I didn't mean to put you in one. I thought if I went to the garage..."

"I know what you thought."

"I'd never hurt you. I'd cut off my hand."

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