Chapter Forty-five

Major Matthew Canfield, aged forty-five—about to be forty-six—stretched his legs diagonally across the back of the army car. They had entered the township of Oyster Bay, and the sallow-complexioned sergeant broke the silence.

‘Getting close, Major You better wake up.’

Wake up. It should be as easy as that. The perspiration streamed down his face. His heart was rhythmically pounding an unknown theme.

‘Thank you, Sergeant’

The car swung east down Harbor Road toward the ocean drive. As they came closer to his home, Major Matthew Canfield began to tremble. He grabbed his wrists, held his breath, bit the front of his tongue. He could not fall apart. He could not allow himself the indulgence of self-pity. He could not do that to Janet. He owed her so much.

The sergeant blithely turned into the blue stone driveway and stopped at the path, which led to the front entrance of the large beach estate. The sergeant enjoyed driving out to Oyster Bay with his rich major. There was always lots of good food, in spite of rationing, and the liquor was always the best. No cheap stuff for the Camshaft, as he was known in the enlisted man’s barracks.

The major slowly got out of the car. The sergeant was concerned. Something was wrong with the major. He hoped it didn’t mean they’d have to drive back to New York. The old man seemed to have trouble standing up.

‘Okay, Major?’

‘Okay, Sergeant. How’d you like to bunk in the boathouse tonight?’ He did not look at the sergeant as he spoke.

‘Sure! Great, Major!’ It was where he always bunked. The boathouse apartment had a full kitchen and plenty of booze. Even a telephone. But the sergeant didn’t have any signal that he could use it yet. He decided to try his luck. ‘Will you need me, Major? Could I call a couple of friends here?’

The major walked up the path. He called back quietly. ‘Do whatever you like, Sergeant. Just stay away from that radiophone. Is that understood?’

‘You betcha, Major’’ The sergeant gunned the engine and drove down toward the beach.

Matthew Canfield stood in front of the white scalloped door with the sturdy hurricane lamps on both sides.

His home.

Janet.

The door opened and she stood there. The slightly graying hair, which she would not retouch. The upturned nose above the delicate, sensitive mouth. The bright, wide, brown searching eyes. The gentle loveliness of her face. The comforting concern she radiated.

‘I heard the car. No one drives to the boathouse like Evans!… Matthew. Matthew! My darling! You’re crying!’