Evenings
Tom Peacock/Norman Dike, PG

He calls you Tommy. He calls a lot. Usually, he’s drunk.

12/22/45

Your wife says, “Darling, there’s somebody named Norman on the phone, and he wants to speak to you.”

“Norman?” You don’t know any Normans.

“I think he’s from—from the army.”

You have a secret fear that one day you’ll get a call from somebody high up in the 101st, saying there’s been a mistake, you have not been honorably discharged, report for duty at 0500 tomorrow morning. Your spine is cold when you pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Peacock? Ah, Norman Dike here. Remember me?”

12/31/45

“Happy New Year, Tommy.”

“Same to you, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir. Please.”

“Uh—happy New Year, Norman.”

1/12/46

Now, when your phone rings after nine in the evening, your wife doesn’t even pick it up. You have the feeling that she’d like to pretend you were never any part of the war. Some nights, you feel the same way.

“Have you been drinking, Norman?”

“Just sherry. A very manly quantity of sherry.”

Some nights, you want to leave the phone off the hook. Some nights, he makes you laugh.

1/18/46

“Did you ever get hit, Tommy?”

“Yeah. In Holland. Shrapnel in my shin.”

“Did it hurt?”

Always the stupid questions. “Yeah, it hurt a lot.”

“You know, everybody I meet these days asks me about the war. They all want to hear about my wounds. I lie.” His voice stays casual, jocular, like it always is. “I tell ‘em I gave my Purple Heart to my parents. Is that terrible, Tommy? Do you hate me?”

You try.

“Tommy?”

“It’s… it’s not so bad.”

1/27/46

“Tommy?”

“Yes?”

“I was all right, wasn’t I? With Easy Company? They liked me, didn’t they? You liked me?”

“They—of course we liked you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Tommy.”

“What did you want me to say?”

2/2/46

Thunder, loud. You were terrified of thunder when you were a boy. Now your wife—fine, pragmatic woman—has gone to bed, and you’re drinking vodka tonics in the study. It’s after midnight. The phone rings.

“Quite a storm, eh, Tommy?”

“Norman? Where are you?”

“Downtown Montpelier. In the—uh—” There are noises of drawers and paper. “The Buchanan Grand Hotel, according to the stationery. Nice hotel. Nice town you live in, Tommy.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Business. I just finished dinner with three reper—repa—representatives of the Ford Motor Company. I spent the whole night telling war stories I stole from other men. Better men.”

“Norman, are you—”

“I have a Luger, Tommy,” he says with great dignity. “I bought it off a sergeant on V-E Day. I believe I’m going to shoot myself.”

Lives have depended on your choices before. You’ve been hasty and rushed and frequently wrong. This decision is fast and easy.

“Norman, don’t move. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You get there in six. The rain pounds your car, and all you can see are brilliant, fragmented lights. Falling tree branches clunk off the roof. You drive like an old lady, hunkered down in the seat with the dashboard at eye level.

You are there—parking across two spaces in front of the Buchanan Grand, dashing for the door with no umbrella—and you are somewhere else.

They know you at the desk; you worked here as a bellboy when you were sixteen. The clerk doesn’t think twice about giving you Norman Dike’s room number, even though you’re dripping and disheveled and wearing pajamas under your overcoat. You’re there, cold, and you’re cold in another place.

“Norman!”

For the longest thirty seconds of your life, you wait.

There’s nothing on him to show that there’s anything wrong when he comes to the door, save for a shiny drunken brightness around the rims of his eyes. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and dress pants, and he looks the same as the last time you saw him, which was almost a year ago—the same tidy, clean-shaven babyishness.

“It’s damn good to see you, Tommy,” he says, leaning a little on the doorjamb.

“Where’s the gun?”

“Gun? Oh—the gun—yes. Come in.” He steps back into his room and pulls the Luger out of the top bureau drawer. He hands it to you the wrong way, barrel first. You wonder if he ran with scissors as a kid.

You take the gun. It’s too light in your palm.

“Norman, this isn’t loaded. Where are the bullets?”

“Bullets! Yes, of course, bullets. Ah—no. I don’t have any.”

The bed creaks loudly in protest when you collapse onto it. “Christ, Norman. You scared the daylights out of me.”

“Um. Very sorry.” He sits down beside you. “If it’s any… uh… consolation, I wasn’t just yanking your chain. I meant to do it. I did.”

You look at him, just look, and wonder if he’s that drunk or just that stupid. He really does expect that to console you. So what are you supposed to say?

People shot themselves when you were young. The Depression did it to them. A man lost his job and his land and his savings, and he took his rifle and blew his brains out. Was it a cousin or an uncle of yours who did that? It’s not supposed to happen anymore. The war made a new world. You and Norman and Easy Company made a new world.

“Is it really that bad?” you say.

“You got wet.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, Norman.”

“Say, what’s that sergeant of mine up to these days? What was his name—Lincoln—no—Lipton. Whatever happened to Lipton?”

“He got a battlefield commission. I think he’s going to college now.”

“Ah,” Norman says. “Good man, Lipton. Very good man.”

“You’ve changed the subject.”

“No,” he says. “I haven’t. You and I… We weren’t very good at our jobs, were we?”

You’re taken aback. “I—I was a perfectly good platoon leader.”

“I know for a fact that Nixon only stayed in Belgium so Winters could get you out of his hair.”

“Bullshit,” you say, bristling. “Nixon stayed in Belgium because he couldn’t let Winters out of his sight.”

He smiles ruefully. “If there hadn’t been a war on, we wouldn’t have made it out of Officer Candidate School. And because there was a war on, we shouldn’t.”

“Norman, you’re not making sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense,” he snaps. “You’re not listening. We… I should’ve…”

Suddenly you feel acutely embarrassed. “I have to go home. To my wife. She’ll be worried.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I’m going to shoot myself.”

“I’m taking your gun with me.”

“I’ll jump out the window.”

“We’re on the second floor. All you’ll do is break your legs.”

“Goddamn it, Tommy,” he says, turning his face away. “I’m asking you. Don’t leave. Not yet.”

2/3/46

“Hello?”

“Sheila? It’s me.”

“Thomas! Where have you been all night? I’ve chewed my fingernails bloody over you!”

“I… I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“Don’t sweetie me!”

“I just couldn’t sleep, so I… went to visit an army buddy of mine.”

“All night long? And you couldn’t leave a note? For heaven’s sake, Thomas…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Just—come home. Come home right now. Oh, Thomas, I thought something awful had happened.”

“No. Nothing awful. Everything’s fine.”

2/4/46

“Tommy?”

“Norman. Hello. How are you?”

“Not so bad. I’ll be a lot better once this terrific scotch is gone. Care to help?

“Tommy? Are you there?”

“When are you leaving town?”

“Tomorrow morning. How about it?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”