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in your hand to do it.”
•••

“My train leaves in the morning,” Freddie says noncha-
lantly, as though he might have instead made a remark on the
weather. Ira doesn’t respond, just hands him another dish to dry,
watching the way the soft cloth curls around Freddie’s fingers.
He’s managed to avoid discussing this again with Freddie in
the short weeks since their argument over Freddie’s enlistment,
and he wasn’t going to spoil their evening—what could be their
last, Ira reminds himself—by bringing it up now. Of course Ira
knows the train comes in the morning. Of course he knows, has
Freddie’s time and date of departure cut so deeply into his mind
that it might as well be into his flesh.
“You don’t have to take me to the station,” Freddie contin-
ues. “I can take a cab.” Freddie sets the dish on the rack, raises
his head a little. “It might—I think it might be best if you don’t
come.”
“You don’t want me to come?” Ira says after a moment,
scrubbing out the last pot. Freddie dries and sets it carefully
aside before handing the dishcloth to Ira to dry his own hands,
and suddenly it’s real, it hurts and it’s real and Freddie’s train
leaves in the morning.
“I do want you to come.” Freddie looks at him. “I just
thought—you don’t have to. Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“You’re probably right,” says Ira, surprised at how thin his
voice sounds, how suddenly afraid, and it’s nothing at all like a
goodbye when Freddie pulls him close, and Ira promises to write,
and promises to wait and promises the moon.

•••
It’s not like Ira had never considered writing a “Dear John”
letter while Freddie was overseas. It would have been easy—two
words, Dear Freddie; address and stamp the envelope. He’d actu-
ally gone so far as to write the salutation down on a piece of pa-
per, knowing he wouldn’t have to write anything more than that,

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