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say who had done it: that fellow with the constant cough who’d bunked next to him in Virginia. Wouldn’t you just know that of all the men he’d trained with, that was the one they would ship west with him? The guy’s rifle had gone off when he stumbled—an accident, but one that never should have happened in view of the safety measures drilled into them from the start. Still, look at it this way: that fellow was a whole lot worse off now than Michael. He was still in the Army.
    It was Thursday afternoon, and Michael, wearing gray work trousers and a blue plaid cotton shirt washed nearly translucent, was shelving pinto beans as he spoke. Mrs. Brunek, Miss Jakubek, and Mrs. Serge stood at the counter, each ostentatiously displaying a grocery list, but they weren’t fooling a soul. People had been coming in all day on the flimsiest of excuses, just wanting to wish Michael well and hear what he had to say for himself.
    He said it would take him a while to catch on to this ration-point business. So complicated! So many forms! And there were other things to get used to. The skylight in Penn Station, he said, had been painted over completely, that pretty compass-rose sort of glass made opaque in case of air raids. Did they know that? No, they did not. They didn’t have much reason to ride the train these days.
    And it was such a surprise, he went on, to see the blackout shades in everybody’s windows. Why, things were no different here than out west! Evidently he had expected that home would be exempt somehow—that the war was only elsewhere.
    Well, just look at Davey Witt. Davey refused to sleep in a room alone now. Lord only knew what those poor boys had been through, so far away from Baltimore.
    Mrs. Anton punched the keys of the sculptured brass cash register and the drawer slid open with its musical chin-chink! She was wearing her normal clothes again, but her manner was livelier than the three women had seen in ages, and when she told them “Come back soon!” she was very nearly singing.
    Halfway out the door, the women caught sight of Pauline. She was flying toward them in a drift of pink-flowered white muslin, holding onto her straw hat so it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze she’d set up. Interesting how she’d changed her colors just at the very time when she was changing in people’s opinions. From dangerous and dramatic red to gentle, soft pastels, she’d gone. Probably that was due to the season, but still, they did like her so much! She was just what Michael needed, someone to warm up his life. Notice how she greeted all the women by name. “Hello, Mrs. Brunek! Hi, Miss Jakubek! Hi, Mrs. Serge!” And how at home she seemed, darting past them into the grocery store, trilling her fingers at Michael’s mother and tossing Michael a dimpled smile that turned him sweetly self-conscious. For of course the women followed her back inside. It would be a shame to miss this!
    She said, “Guess what, Michael.”
    “What,” he said, beaming. He reached for the cane that he’d hooked on the edge of the counter.
    “Guess!”
    “Well, I don’t know, Polly.”
    “Reverend Dane said we can be married in his church.”
    “He did? Really? That’s great!” Michael said.
    Pegging the length of the counter so that he could come out and join her, he flicked a glance toward his mother in passing. The neighbor women checked too. How would she take the news? Her son getting married in a Protestant church: not what most mothers would hope for.
    Mrs. Anton was stalwart. She raised her chin and said, “Isn’t that nice!”
    “Naturally you’re all invited,” Pauline told the women.
    They looked at each other and murmured their thanks. (Father Pasko would throw a fit.)
    “Also, guess what, Michael,” Pauline said.
    He was standing in front of her now, leaning stiff-armed on his cane and smiling down at her. He said, “What.”
    “Guess!”
    Michael was so slow and stodgy; the women had never realized how