Foreign Matters

A man returning from war after 13 years returns in the early 50's to find things have changed.

Here was a man who had met Death.

He had held Death, felt Death, seen Death, but he had been lucky enough to escape it. He had survived a war, perhaps the largest war in history, and here he was, standing back at his own front door. His own home.

It was normal; life was normal and he was normal. At least, that's what it felt like. What he wanted it to feel like. He had finally returned after 13 years or war, starting all the way back in 1941 when he first joined the army. That was right after Japan bombed the harbor. That was when it began. Even that, four years later, ended. But he hadn't returned home after that, no, he'd been one of those lucky few to remain in Europe for five years. And after those five long years, he still hadn't come back, because then the war with Korea began, and the man who had met Death met Death once again. Finally, after three years of this, he could return. It was January. It was '54.

This man was so close to his new start.

He wrapped his hand around a shiny, brass door nob and opened the door.

Pine. Fake pine. That was the first thing that hit him when he stepped into the house. Fresh, clean, and strange. Different. Not... real. Not that smell of dust and bodies and sweat he'd become so used to.

But not what he remembered, either. It was new.

This man called for his wife, but she was already in his arms. They embraced each other, but still, something seemed off to the man.

Foreign.

He took a moment to study her. Not only did she feel different, she looked different.

Her hair... she'd cut it. Those long straight blonde locks he had once longed to spend hours pulling his fingers through had been cut above her shoulder and curled in this new fashion everyone called Glamour. Her dress was a harsh cacophony of colors so bright they seemed to scream, polka-dots and flower patterns.

Too cheery for this man. Too new. Too strange.

She was happy and he didn't want to upset her, so he dusted off his smile and put it back on. It was old and rusty from sitting on the shelf too long, but his lips managed to turn up. He even managed to laugh.

But oh, it didn't feel right. Nothing was feeling right. He wasn't right, this man who had met Death.

His wife who had never seemed so young led him around his house, pointing at new paintings that had gone up and laughing at small anecdotes she had to tell him.

Then she showed him a small black box of magic, one that filled the room with strange sounds and bright, colored pictures, and called it a television.

Well, that was new too. Or was he the new thing, intruding in the house, intruding on his own wife?

That's how he felt; he certainly didn't belong among all the clean, dustless, bright things that had snuck in his own home while he was gone. He had become a fish and the war his water, and peace that sneaky cat who had knocked over his bowl and left him suffocating on air.

They watched this television for a while, and he listened to his wife laugh at the people on the screen, listened to her as she explained how a new episode of Father Knows Best came on every Sunday and she simply could never miss it.

So many new, strange sounds and words.

This man and his glamorous wife sat down for dinner at exactly 6 o' clock and ate something that had come from Betty Crocker's Cookbook. His wife explained how she had bought the whole collection and how fantastic it was.

Then the wife showed him how to use the dishwasher. Another amazing invention that made her life easier. He listened silently but didn't understand.

At 8 o' clock his wife kissed the man who had met Death goodbye and said she had to go to work.

As a waitress.

His wife.

And he watched her go in stony silence as this strange woman fixed on a bright pink dress and white apron and matching hat, then slipped out of this home that certainly was not his.

He was choking.

He couldn't breath.

He ran to the bathroom and vomited up the Betty Crocker meal and sagged on the sink, sweating.

Sweating- that was familiar. That was home.

He looked up, into the mirror.

The man who had met Death stared at the forsaken stranger.  

Reviews

[Marie]

Good story. I could feel for this man who had become almost a ghost in this living world.

One think--I don't think TV was in colour at that time; at least it would have been very rare.