Machine Dreams

but her tiredness showed in her shoulders, in how she moved and held her head. Butter spattered in the hot skillet and she cracked the eggs, the sound loud in the quiet house; he had done a man’s job in getting the kid to sleep, but Bess would never take advantage of a break and rest. On her feet from six in the morning and never sat downexcept to eat meals or read to Katie or do handwork while she listened to the radio.
    “I dare say you enjoy driving around Winfield in that new car of yours.” She turned the eggs expertly and put the bread in the oven to toast. “The office girls over at the hospital were saying how fine your new Pontiac looks and how everything has changed since the men came home—just in these six months. New cars on the streets, the firehall dances crowded again, Main Street full like every afternoon was Saturday. First peacetime spring is coming, even through this chilly weather. I really enjoy going upstreet to pay the bills.”
    Mitch smiled. All during the war, he’d thought of her walking the length of Main Street, ladylike, holding envelopes in her gloved hand. Wartime stockings well mended, coat and hat sensible, neat leather purse over her arm. She paid hospital and personal accounts herself between one and two in the afternoon. Mailing a bill four blocks was foolishness, stamps were money, people ought to speak as they take care of business, it’s only civilized, and wouldn’t everyone agree a Main Street where people exchange talk is one reason the war was fought, a small but human reason? He pictured her receiving news, tidbits of stories, at the bank, at the mercantile, at the telephone company.
You don’t say, Oh, don’t tell me, Well I had no idea, The Lord bless us and keep us.
And it wasn’t just love triangles, but who would run for the school board, how much loan money the bank had to distribute, should the town establish an annual festival in summers, like the Buckwheat Festival over at Elkton.
    Bess arranged the salt and pepper shakers, the jam jar, near his plate. “I was saying to Mr. Chidester at the Hardware—Mary’s father, you know—the Pontiac Eight sedan is the nicest car on the market, stamina, not really terribly expensive. And the dark blue, with the chrome and the gray top, is really lovely.”
    He kept his expression serious. She wanted him to mention Mary, but he wouldn’t. And she was funny when she tried to talk about cars. Really though, he was touched that the merchants downtown were discussing his new car. For a moment he thought of leaving the Philippines on the ship, seeing with a last glance the dirty women sitting on the docks, the packs they roped to theirbacks made of hemp net, showing their paltry possessions. The moment passed, the look of their faces receded, and he saw instead the rich dark blue of the car, felt again the shock of its newness as he’d leaned inside at the salesman’s invitation: the dash, the steering wheel, the silver gray upholstered seats, even the floors—absolutely clean, shining and private and quiet like the interior of a big jewel. He’d thought maybe he’d die in the war; he was seldom in obvious danger, since he wasn’t infantry, but he’d thought his apparent safety somehow made the odds worse: it would be an accident with the machinery, or a fluke attack on the airstrip—
    He ate his toast and jam. “It’s thanks to you I was able to buy that car so soon,” he said. “You and Clayton should have sold the old Ford, not kept it out there in the garage. You could have used that money.”
    “Don’t talk silliness. I knew you could sell it to help buy a new one when you got back. And what good is money in wartime? We were glad to keep it for you, and I don’t want to hear another word.”
    “I told you, Bess, I’ll take you and Clayton to dinner in Winfield. A night on the town, anytime you’ll let me.” He waited as she smiled, pleased, then shook her head in the familiar denial. “Or maybe I should take those office girls for a ride, all four of them.”
    She smiled more broadly, her shoulders relaxed. “I think one girl at a time is enough.”
    “I guess I should be thinking along those lines myself,” he answered.
    “Now, you know there’s no hurry. Plenty of time. You haven’t been back but a few months.” She nodded once, conclusively.
    He ate the eggs, relishing the heat of the food and feeling in the kitchen an old privacy. Where did it come from, coming back as though