Delivery Boy War

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For a week, this time, she was alone in a burned world. The landscape was as unreal as this life she was leading. “Home” meant the sane green hills of central New York State. Here, on the California desert, there was a harshness alien to her.

The little house assigned to them was on the station street known as Brass Row: for majors through full colonels. The whistling roar of the jets was merged in her mind with the arid wind that scoured baked rocks. There was no getting away from the sound. Though the PX stocked everything she needed, she would drive into San Berdoo, telling herself that the long trip was necessary for some special item which she never seemed quite able to find. And, even there, she would hear that jet-sound. It was a sound you didn’t hear with the ears alone...

A full week, this time... At dusk she went out behind the house. This was the part of the day she liked. The air was spiced at dusk, not smelling of hot stones. It cooled off quickly, and she put on the yellow cashmere sweater she had taken out with her. Just as she lit a cigarette, she heard the phone. It stopped her heart, because this time it was a full week. She threw the cigarette aside and walked in, trying not to run, for to run was the sort of confession you had to avoid making.

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