He stood at the intersection that was indicated on the crumpled piece of paper he'd held on to more tightly than the lifejacket that kept him afloat after the transport ship bringing him back to North America was sank by a wolf pack of u-boats -- left would lead him down the path he recognised well: alone with only his thoughts to accompany him. Right would lead him to something he thought many times he would forever lose. A chance for happiness. He hoisted his heavy bag over his shoulder, tightened the collar of his overcoat and turned right on Wellington street towards the house number he stared at each night before grabbing the little sleep allotted him in the sweltering heat of North Africa.
you don't think about that number when the shells a droppin' on yer head like pigeon shit in central park, boy, you jes' make sure yer shots are as straight as the hell yer sendin' the bastard shootin' back at ya to
He walked slowly down the street. The weather was unseasonably warm for February as far as he knew, and the streets and the sky shared the same shade of gray. He wondered if people were looking at him from behind their veiled windows: a 6"1 lanky piece of green haunting their quiet street with echoes of past invasions. The trees seemed to be petrified with sadness -- long icicles dangling from the tips of branches like frozen tears. The houses themselves were cookie cutter copies of one another, the sole marked difference the colour of the bricks and the occasional buick or chevy in the driveways. He finally came upon 945 Wellington street. It was like the others, a two story bungalow with a patch of yellowish lawn in front of it. The roof was black shingles, the first story was aged red bricks while the lower half was exemplary stone work. He looked to the sky, took a deep breath and walked up to heavy wooden door.
knock-knock, tchich-click
"Oui?" a small elderly woman asked as she looked up at him, she pushed her glasses up her nose and closer to her squinting eyes.
"Isabelle Si-roy, silvuplay?"
"Euh ... un instant. Isabelle! Y'a un homme qui veut t'voir. Yé grand. C't'un américain pis yé ben grand."
The elderly lady stepped aside and he hesitantly stepped past her and entered the house. He was facing a narrow staircase leading upstairs to 2 rooms. On his left there was a closed door and on his right he looked on to a well furnished living room dominated by a stone fireplace and heavy french wooden furniture. The living room was darkened as thick wool curtains filtered what little daylight was left. But light did emanate from the kitchen at the back of the house; from there he heard muffled voices and the rustling of people as they rose frantically from the table.
"Qu'est-ce qui a m'man?" he heard coming from the lips he dreamt about since that faithful day of shore leave nearly a year ago. She emerged from the kitchen with the same grace she'd demonstrated when he first saw her in La chaudière bleu, swerving around luxurious tables, snatching up empty plats with one hand and depositing mouth watering dished in front of grateful patrons with the other. Then and there, he'd known he wanted to watch her move forever.
Isabelle froze in her steps as she saw the tall man in green standing in her hallway. "William," she whispered as he dropped the sack from his shoulder to the floor. From behind her a patchwork coloured cat trotted up to the bag, sniffed it, and then rubbed itself against his legs. William picked the cat up with a quick gesture as Isabelle approached him carefully. The animal curled up in the crook of his right elbow as if it was the most natural thing in the world and began to purr with an intensity that startled the elder woman.
"William?" Isabelle asked as she came within arm reach. She reached out and touched the cat reassuringly.
"Hi Isabelle. I'm William Payton. Once, I was a soldier and you said you'd never forget me. I'm just a man now -- do you remember me?" His voice trembled.
"Âllo, William Payton from Brooklyn. Born in 1913, November 1st, the day after me. I'm 21 now. So are you. I could never forget something like that." Her voice was quiet now, like the cat's purring was. The entire house seemed to listen with intense focus as they spoke.
"Isabelle Si-roy. The third of seven children. This must be your mother Claudette and this ball of fur has to be Matou."
"Yes. But my name is pronounced Seer-Waa. Sirois."
"Oh," he stated awhile she took Matou from his arm and set him down on the bag. The cat tucked its legs under its body and curled its tail around its body. "I was wondering ... if you remembered what I told you before I shipped out."
"You said you were probably going to start loving me the farther you were from me. You said that if you survived your tour of duty you would come back to me. But you stopped writing and I thought you'd died."
She reached out and touched his rugged face.
"I almost did. But I survived by saying to myself I had to keep my promise to you. Of all the promises I made, I couldn't break this one." He closed his blue eyes and she caressed his eyelid with her thumb.
the rattle of machine gun fire, the smell of cordite, hot lead and blood filling his nostrils, orders being shouted as shells hit the ground before their feet, rushing to his feet and hoisting the high caliber gun, remembering the importance of taking this hill from the sniper, chasing up the hill, unhitching a grenade from his webbing while the kickback of the gun fought to throw him down the hill, enemy bullets tearing the flesh of his arm and the presence of intense heat as his limb stopped responding, words screamed in a language forever unknown to him as the explosive fell in the midst of the enemy and did its job, rendering flesh and searing bone, thinking about Isabelle as the blowback from the explosion tossed him back, reminding him of how he felt the first time he saw her
