The Amateur Marriage Read Free

Barclay,” the girl explained. “I cut my forehead and your son gave me a bandage. I’ve knitted him a scarf. I hope I’m not too late.”
    “Too late for what?” Mrs. Anton asked.
    “Has Michael left for the front yet?”
    “The front?”
    Mrs. Anton pronounced the word with a little halt, a little different sound to the o . It seemed possible that she was picturing the front of a room or a piece of furniture.
    Before Pauline could elaborate, the door tinkled open again and here came Michael in his shaggy plaid jacket. He must have caught sight of Pauline from the street; you could tell by his artificial start of surprise. “Oh! Pauline! It’s you!” he said. (He’d never have made an actor.)
    “I knitted you a warm scarf,” she told him. She held up her parcel in both gloved hands; she tilted her fine-boned, delicate face. The little store was so crowded by now that they were standing almost nose to nose.
    Michael said, “For me?”
    “To wear to the front.”
    He sent a quick glance toward his mother. Then he took hold of Pauline’s elbow. “Let’s go get a Coke,” he said.
    “Oh, why, that would be—”
    “Michael? We have another telephone order,” Mrs. Anton said.
    But he said, “I’ll be back soon,” and he guided Pauline out the door.
    They left behind a larger space than they had occupied, somehow.
    Mrs. Pozniak paused for a moment longer, just in case Mrs. Anton had something interesting to say. She didn’t, though. She was staring grimly after her son, one hand tracing the Cream of Wheat box as if to square off its corners.
    Mrs. Pozniak cleared her throat and asked for a bottle of molasses.
    The parlor windows on St. Cassian Street developed a military theme, the Blessed Virgins and china poodles and silk flowers replaced overnight by American flags, swoops of red, white, and blue bunting, and grade-school geography books laid open to maps of Europe. Although in some cases, the religious items stayed put. Mrs. Szapp’s bleached-out Palm Sunday palm fronds, for instance, remained in place even after a banner bearing six satin stars was tacked to the wooden sash. And why not? You need all the intervention you can get, when every last one of your sons is off risking his life for his country.
    Mr. Kostka asked Michael what branch of the service he’d joined. This was in Sweda’s Drugs, which had reopened under the management of Mr. Sweda’s brother-in-law. Michael and Pauline were sitting at one of the marble-topped tables; they’d been observed together often over the past few days. Michael said, “The Army,” and Mr. Kostka said, “Is that a fact! I’d have thought the Navy.”
    “Yes, but I get seasick,” Michael told him.
    Mr. Kostka said, “Well, young fellow, the Army’s not going to ship you over by motorcar, you know.”
    Michael got a sort of startled look.
    “And when do you leave for boot camp?” Mr. Kostka inquired.
    Michael paused. Then, “Monday,” he said.
    “Monday!” By now it was Saturday. “Has your mother lined up any help at the store?”
    Oh, sneaky; very sneaky. Everybody knew that Mrs. Anton had no idea Michael had enlisted. But who was going to tell her? Even Mrs. Zack, famous for interfering, claimed she hadn’t the heart. They were all waiting for Michael to do it; but here he sat, sipping Coke with Pauline, and the only thing he would say was “I’m sure she’ll find someone or other.”
    Pauline was wearing red again. Red seemed to be her color. A red sweater over a crisp white shirt with a rounded collar. It was known by now that she came from a neighborhood north of Eastern Avenue; that she wasn’t even Catholic; that she worked as a receptionist in her father’s realty office. How this was known was through Wanda Bryk, who had somehow become Pauline’s new best friend. It was Wanda who reported that Pauline was just the nicest person imaginable, and so much fun! So vivacious! Just always up to some mischief. But others had their