“So they’ll be other necessities. War makes its own reasons. Some guy someday’ll just say, ‘It’s a big necessity we got to drop an atomic bomb.’ Boom! Up your mother’s poop!” Pete laughed.

Don did not laugh with him. “I don’t think we’ll use atomic bombs again,” he said.

“What then? Hydrogens? The same thing. Boom! Up your mother’s...”

“Nobody with sense is going to use nuclear weapons,” Don said quickly.

“Hey, there’s a real strength word,” Pete said. “Nuclear.”

“What’s a strength word?”

“I bought this book about strength words. Don’t you want strength, Don?”

“I got all the strength I’ll ever want,” Don said, smiling, thinking Pete was joking and figuring he’d ride along with the gag.

“Pithy,” Pete said.

“What?”

“Pithy. That’s a strength word.”

“What’s so strong about it?”

“You know what it means?”

“Pithy?”

“No, pithy. Pithy.”

“Sure. It means meaty.”

“That’s right,” Pete said, surprised. “Did you buy that book?”

“I don’t need a book to tell me what pithy means,” Don said. “Give me another strength word.”

“Fructify. That’s a really advanced strength word. That’s near the end of the book.”

“Fructify, huh?” Don thought for a moment. “I don’t think I know that one.”

“It means to bear fruit. It’s a dilly, ain’t it?”

“It’s a good word,” Don agreed. “I’ll have to tell it to Margaret. She likes new words. She’s got a pretty good vocabulary.”

“Fructify,” Pete repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “It sounds dirty, don’t it?” He burst out laughing.

“Well,” Don said, displeased that Pete was beginning to joke. He was enjoying the strength words. It didn’t hurt a man to try improving himself.

“Tell it to Margaret,” Pete said. “Margaret’s so beautiful, she needs to be smart, too. It’s absolutely necessary, otherwise people won’t even look at her.” His laughter exploded merrily.

“Well,” Don said, putting his hands into his pockets.

“The kind of strength Margaret got,” Pete said, “is the kind of strength I like.”

“Well,” Don said.

“She’s the most passionate-lookin’ woman I ever seen, all due respect.”

“Well,” Don said, embarrassed.

“You ever get tired of her, you give me a buzz. I leave my wife and run away to China with Margaret. I abscond. That’s a strength word.”

“Well,” Don said, grinning.

“Is she as passionate as she looks?”

“Aw, come on.”

“Come on, is she? I only seen her once but—”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Is she or ain’t she?”

“Well, not so much. You know. Not so much. She’s just a woman. They all get their moods. You know.”

“Sure,” Pete said. He paused, laughed secretly, and then said, “Maybe you don’t fructify her enough.” He exploded hysterically. “Oh, brother, that word breaks me up!”

“Come on, come on,” Don said. “Go back to your welding. We ain’t building airplanes talking about women, that’s for sure.”

Pete’s laughter trailed off. He sighed, lowered his mask, and went back to work. Don walked away from him, his hands in his pockets.


“You were always getting into accidents,” Mrs. Gault said that night. “From when you were a little baby. Oh my, were you a handful!”

They sat in the living room — Don, his mother, and Margaret. The television was on, and Margaret was trying to watch an hour-long dramatic show, but Mrs. Gault kept telling stories of Don’s childhood. Margaret wondered how he managed to sit through the same stories over and over again with such a seemingly interested smile on his face. She had heard each story at least forty times since they were married, and God alone knew how many times Don had heard them before he and Margaret met.

“When you were only three,” Mrs. Gault said, “I can remember it as plain as if it was yesterday. Your father — God rest his soul — and I were getting dressed for a wedding. Your Aunt Marie. Well, you were running through the rooms with a bottle in your mouth, just chewing on the nipple, and you tripped over the door jamb between the rooms. You split your chin wide open.”

“I had to have three stitches, Margaret,” Don said.

“Uhm,” Margaret said.

“Oh, that was a time!” Mrs. Gault said. “The doctor rushing in. I never saw so much blood in my life, and us waiting to go to a wedding. Oh, my God, you were a terror!”

“Well, I lived through it,” Don said.

“Certainly, you lived through it! But the heartache! Do you remember the time in Spotswood, New Jersey? At your Aunt Gussie’s? That was another time.”

“I remember that one,” Don said.

“You were pumping water outside. Your aunt had one of these old-fashioned pumps. This was after your father died, poor soul. You were pushing the handle up and down, but you didn’t realize you were building pressure in the pump. Then you let go of the handle and it snapped up and hit you right in the mouth! I swear to the Lord above, it’s a miracle you didn’t knock every tooth out of your mouth. Oh, my God, it was terrible! I remember I was wearing a white sun dress, and I held your head against me, and your lip was bleeding. Oh, I hate to even think of it! Blood all down the front of my dress! It soaked right through to my brassière, Margaret!” She shook her head, vividly remembering the incident and its terror.

“I remember that,” Don said. “I was never so surprised as when that pump handle came up and hit me.” He smiled. “But I suppose it was funny, in a way.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the funny one,” Mrs. Gault said, leaning forward as if on cue. “The funny one was when we had that summer bungalow at the beach, you and I. Oh, that was the funny one.” She began laughing.

In a bantering voice, Don said, “I’m sure glad you think it was so funny, Ma.”

“Donald, you were so comical that day! I have to laugh just to think about it.”

Don looked at Margaret, grinning, anticipating the story.

“I was down at the beach,” Mrs. Gault said. “You were thirteen years old at the time, we had that nice little cottage at Rockaway, remember? And there was this bed, a cot actually. Oh, this is ridiculous!” She began laughing again, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“I’ll never forget that cot,” Don said.

“Anyway, I heard you yelling, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened to you. I came running up from the beach in my bathing suit, and there you were. You’d sat up too suddenly and got yourself caught on the cot.”

“I got caught on the cot, Margaret,” Don said, smiling.

“But you can’t imagine how, Margaret!” Mrs. Gault said. “He was just a boy, but it was so funny, the way he caught himself. Actually, I shouldn’t laugh. He could have been seriously hurt. Oh, but it was so funny. I couldn’t stop laughing when I saw him.”

“And I kept crying,” Don said.

“I think you were embarrassed,” Mrs. Gault said. “I think it hurt, too, but mostly you were embarrassed. I shouldn’t have laughed. But it was really comical, Donald. Even you began laughing after I’d got you loose. Oh, my, that was a day, all right. I can remember holding your head against me and both of us laughing to beat the band when it was all over. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. Sure, I do. You smelled of suntan oil. You got very brown that summer.”

Mrs. Gault nodded, lost in reminiscence.

In the kitchen, the telephone rang. Margaret rose.

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” Mrs. Gault said. “Remember how our house was a meeting place for all your friends? That little apartment? I used to get a kick out of them. Since you got married, none of them come around any more. Not one of them. Wasn’t I good to them when you were a boy?”

“Oh, sure you were, Ma. But they were my friends. You know how it is.”

“Sammy... Was that his name? The short fat one?” Mrs. Gault burst out laughing. “But he was always eating, that one! Always!”

Margaret was certain, as she lifted the receiver from its cradle, that the caller would be Larry Cole and that he would break the date they had made for Thursday night. She’d been expecting him to back out ever since she’d left him, and the call now did not surprise her.

“Hello?” she said softly.

“Margaret?” the voice asked.

It was not Larry Cole. She was startled by the voice because she had not heard it for some time. And then, recognizing it, remembering it, she began trembling and was incapable of speech for a moment.

“Margaret?”

“You,” she said. “Wh... what do you want?”

“Don’t hang up. Please.”

“He’s home,” she said.

“Please. I only want to talk to you.”

Margaret glanced toward the living room. She could hear Mrs. Gault’s laughter through the closed door. “What about?” she asked.

“Margaret...”

She could feel his voice weakening, and his weakness brought a surge of strength. “Say what you have to say.”

“Can’t I see you?”

“No.”

“For just a few minutes?”

“No.”

“Please. Margaret, please. Say when, and I’ll come. I’ll meet you wherever you say.”

“I say no place, never.”

“Margaret...”

“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m going to hang up.”

“No! Please! Don’t!”

“I have nothing to say to you. Don’t call me again. If I hear your voice, I’ll hang up right away. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, but—”

“I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want you to call me ever again. If you call again, I’ll tell him. I swear I’ll tell him everything, and he’ll kill you. You know he’ll kill you.”