Chapter 3
Fuck it is cold was the one thought occupying his full attention. Without warming up a goddamn thing. The major couldn't see the bay from here. Fucking feel it though, cold and fatal.
It was brutal in March, standing out here in the wind, to watch a demonstration. Fuck! Phone me. I'll believe you.
Fuck again! Thinking of bay waters brought the major back to Helen, his dead wife. And that, right there, was the express train to stupid. Helen died. Helen died. Helen died. Helen died.
But, then, no: she couldn't have died. That was his problem at the moment. Amos, as an engineer, as a military officer, a college man ... he had to accept it. Helen's death was a fact. It was true enough. He'd seen and touched one last time her body. Seen the burial. Heard the priest. Felt the absence.
Yet he kept expecting Helen to show up any minute. Right now, on this desolate blasted military explosives proving ground, he wouldn't be surprised to see her turn the corner. Come deliberately, encouragingly, in his direction, a Broadway smile spreading up her ruddy cheeks (especially in this frigid weather) as her eyes locked on his.
It was the best time of his life ever: his time with Helen.
She was a cat; she didn't much like being in the water. But, on vacation, she'd gladly sit all day atop a blanket, reading and toasting while Amos went swimming. The Chesapeake was so fine in the summer, like Greek-god water. They'd make a day of it. Iced beer, shucked oysters, steamed crabs. And after: because she was toasty and he was salty and baths beckoned.
Fuck it is cold. The major climbed a few steps up the path, so he could actually see the bay. He saw that the service boat from the yacht club was already a half-mile off. Even facing a razor-sharp wind, Amos paused to admire the boat's lines. It was a Herreshoff launch outfitted for....