Albuquerque

Chapter 21 Albuquerque The ships kept coming that September, slipping each night into New York harbor after the 13-day return across the North Atlantic. The world had once again been saved from itself, but war, as its always does, took its price in blood. There was a weariness to the soldiers on the decks but an expectation too. The men who had left as boys stood looking at the lights, trying to remember what home and love felt like, telling themselves that the war was behind them now. But some part in each remained unconvinced, like the past had crossed ahead of them and waited now in the eyes of everyone they ever knew. “Look at that,” a GI from Albuquerque said. “Never seen something piled so high,them buildings.” He tugged at an empty sleeve with his good hand. “Where I’m from things is spread out, farms and fences, not all scraped together like this here.” “Yeah big cities. They sure can pile it up,” another said. “Hey Pasqual you said you’s from here right?” The thin Italian boy nodded. “Know every gin joint from Brooklyn to the Bronx.” He looked away like he was trying to remember himself, who he was back then. Someone called out “You think anyone will meet us?” “Like who?… family? I guess,” Pasqual murmured. “I hear the USO sends some girls to meet each ship but they’re just the welcome home kind, not the throw their arms around your neck kind you bums is looking for.” The boy from Albuquerque, suddenly self conscious, tucked the armless sleeve in his coat pocket. “My girl’s supposed to be there,” he said. “Do you think she’ll recognize me?” No one answered him. “Sometimes now I don’t recognize myself no more. You know, like I’m different. I got the same name, and the same face, but I aint the same. Like some stranger's standing in my shoes." “Shut the hell up Albe. You're one of the lucky ones. You get to step off of this war and into some kind of life. There’s still a lot of us laying in dirt wishing they had your one good arm to throw around a future.” The ship maneuvered into a slip, then bumped against the piling and a small group waiting near the dock searched the rail for some face they knew. The men who sacrificed and bled for each other looked into each others’ eyes.Then they told themselves they would call and write and remember but that’s just the kind of lie men tell each other when the truth is, all they want is to forget. On the dock a panhandler with a fiddle raised the instrument to his chin and began to play. The melody seemed sweet at first, then darkened, like it was reaching down to lift something hidden inside it. It rose, carrying both the weight of things lost and the pull of things still hoped for. The Italian boy stepped off the ramp and his mother and father surrounded him with arms and tears. “Thank God!” she cried. “Thank God. I prayed for you each day. Every morning mass. I never missed. Thank you God.” His sister, standing to the side, said, “Should have been praying to the patron saint of lost causes.” And for the first time in two years the boy laughed. He touched his sister’s arm, she kissed him and he felt himself let go. Let go of the wariness that had crept into him always waiting for the next blow. “You’re home” she whispered and began to cry. “You’re home.” The others met aunts and uncles, family friends and distant cousins. And so they stepped away from all they had seen and tried with all their hearts to become what they had once been. They hailed cabs headed for trains and bars, small towns and well lit houses, trying once again to believe in what used to be. The soldier from Albuquerque was the last one off the ship. He stepped onto the slip and walked unsteadily toward the street. A girl sitting alone saw him and stood. He began to walk slowly toward her. Unsure, she stepped toward him then began to run. As she reached him she stumbled and he caught her with his good arm. Neither said a word, like they were inspecting the past and wondering if what it had demanded might follow them into the future. The soldier finally said “I wasn’t sure you’d still want me…like this.” He waved the sleeve. Looking up into his face, she thought of all the nights that she would never feel that arm around her waist, never feel that hand on her skin. Then without a word she reached down and took his good hand. “Let’s go home” she said. He looked at her steadily. Like he was seeing her for the first time. Then he nodded and they walked off into the shadows, hand in hand. Watching it all was a beggar, playing a fiddle. The song he played was full of something broken but also something blessed. As though they relied on each other. As though they were the same. WLM