Free Pacific Avenue by Anne L. Watson

wasn’t right. She frowned at it. Or maybe that
frown was for Richard and me.
    “I think he is, mostly. He was nervous about meeting everyone
last night, and then the bang sort of took him by surprise.”
    “ Mostly? How
long does it take?” She hacked at the turkey, then slammed the knife down on
the counter with a disgusted expression.
    “Everyone’s different, I guess. You can’t set a
timetable.”
    “Is he seeing someone about it?”
    “I’m sure he knows the VA and the Student Health Service
are there.”
    “They won’t do much. Why not someone private?”
    “He’s going to school on the GI bill, Mom. He can’t afford
a therapist.”
    “Why don’t his parents pay?” She opened the
refrigerator, and shut it hard without putting anything in or taking anything
out.
    “They’re mad at him about the war.”
    “But they’re army, aren’t they? Why would they be mad?”
    “His dad wanted him to be an officer. When he enlisted
as a private, it was a sort of a slap in the face for his father. They don’t
talk too much anymore.”
    “I don’t understand. If his son was a draft dodger, I’d
get it. But just because he wasn’t an officer?”
    “Believe me, Mom, it matters. Especially since they’re
black.”
    I assembled some messy-looking sandwiches while Mom
fussed with rewrapping the bread. She looked at that wrapper as if the answer
to all Richard’s problems might be printed on it, right next to the list of
ingredients.
    “Kathy, are you sure you want to get involved in this?
I mean, he’s a nice young man, but I don’t know why you can’t find someone with
a little more in common. . . .” She broke off.
    “I already am involved. I thought it was you and Dad
who taught me to stick by my friends.” Did you mean white friends, Mom? Is
that what you had in mind?
    “We want you to be happy. And I definitely think he
should see a psychologist. Maybe you should too.”
    She grabbed the platter and draped parsley over the sandwiches.
I didn’t think it made them look much better, but I kept my mouth shut. She
shoved the dish at me without another word. Then she left, turning in the
doorway only to say, “I’m getting a headache. I don’t think I want dinner after
all. Take care of your dad, would you?”
    * * *
    With Thanksgiving behind us, it was time to start studying
for finals. My art classes were graded on projects, but I had tests for the
academic classes, and tests scared me. And Richard, majoring in engineering,
had a much more difficult exam period to look forward to. We both had a lot to
do.
    Neither of us wanted to spend much time apart. But trying
to study at his place was no good—we needed to talk, to touch each other, to
make love. We could only study if we went to the university library, separated
by the table—even there, our eyes would meet, our fingertips lightly brush.
Sometimes I’d steal a look at Richard as he studied. It was amazing how sexy he
seemed when he was concentrating on his book. I stored those glimpses and took
them out to savor at home, like cookies from a secret hoard.
    I might catch Richard smiling a lover’s smile into his
book, or he might turn to me with a serious gaze, as if I were an engineering
formula he needed to learn. He was unpredictable, moody. His face changed like
a kaleidoscope, first one pattern, then another. Sometimes his eyes were
luminous, like an agate in water. Then they’d turn dull as a dry pebble. Sometimes
he’s not even here—he’s back in Vietnam.
    But he was special and familiar, and all I wanted.
    Other couples studied in the library, probably for
reasons much the same as ours. They too glanced and touched and then turned
back to books. Like them, we had “our” table. Like them, we barely looked
beyond it. I stopped thinking everyone was staring.
    But one day I had a creepy feeling that I’d never had before.
When I looked up, it took a minute to find the reason: a guy in a green
corduroy coat. He seemed