Hank stood up. "The question is not whether I want to. You both know I
want to. The question is whether _you_ want to."
They answered together that of course they wanted to. But their
eyes--his wife's and son's eyes--could not meet his, and so he said he
was going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would in
all probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and that
they shouldn't count on him for normal social life.
He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.
But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a
lighted room. "Phil and Rhona are here." He blinked at her. She smiled,
and it seemed her old smile. "They're so anxious to see you, Hank. I
could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want
to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will."
He sat up. "Phil," he muttered. "Phil and Rhona." They'd had wonderful
times together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest and
closest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.
Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!
* * * * *
It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'd
also expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him to
expect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil sounded
very much the way he always had--soft spoken and full of laughter and
full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, and
clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had--so much
more gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than was
good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along
on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.
They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to
Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee
and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he
merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.
There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been there
many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized
him. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as
if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.
At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he
said, "I haven't danced with my girl Rhona." His tongue was thick, his
mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her
face--pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual
of flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were going
to be sick.
"So let's rock," he said and stood up.
They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.
And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,
mechanical dancing doll.
The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,
"Beddy-bye time."