From Here to Eternity

by James Jones

“Are you sure you decent? You wont embarrass me?”

  “Quit clowning and bring the bottle.”

  Angelo was barefooted, his narrow pigeon breasted shoulders fully exposed, wearing nothing but the civilian slacks that he had bought secondhand from somebody in the Company and that were so much too big for him that his other hand had to clutch them around the scrawny waist to keep them up. He sat down on the bed beside them grinning happily like an amateur conspirator and handed Prew the bottle.

  “Thanks,” Prew said dryly, finding himself grinning, as he always found himself grinning, whenever little Angelo showed up someplace. “You want a drink?” he asked Lorene.

  “No thanks.”

  “Whats a matter?” Angelo said. “Dont you drink?”

  “Not much. And never straight whiskey.”

  “You dont?” Prew said.

  “No,” Lorene said. “Oh, I drink a cocktail, or a bottle of beer. But I dont drink. Why? Is there any Law that says every whore must be a drunkard?”

  “No,” Angelo said. “But most of them are, I guess.”

  “Well, I’m not. I think it is a weakness.”

  “I grant you that,” Angelo said.

  “And I dont like weakness. Do you?” she asked Prew.

  “No,” Prew said. “I dont like weakness. But I like to drink.”

  “With you its not a weakness,” Lorene said. “With you its more like a virtue, somehow.”

  “I dont get that,” Angelo said. “That beats me.”

  “I dont get it either,” Lorene said. “Still, I feel it somehow.” Still holding the quilt tight up around her shoulders she turned her head and smiled at Prew. Then she wiggled her body, it hidden by the quilt, over toward the center of the bed, over toward Prew, to give Angelo more room at the edge, and smiled up at him again, snugly.

  “There are some people,” she said, smiling at him, “whose weaknesses seem to be strength, instead of weakness.”

  “That is a very profound remark,” Angelo said. “Maybe thats why I still dont get it.”

  “Well its so,” Lorene smiled contentedly.

  “Hey!” Angelo protested. “What are you gonna do, marry this guy? Way you grinnin at him you look like his wife.”

  “Do I?” Lorene said. She smiled up at Prew and suddenly, momentarily, it came into both their faces looking at each other that this was just as if she were his wife, his private possession, and as if this bed were their home that an outsider, a much beloved friend but still outsider, had invaded friendlily, the Third Person, another man who did not know her, all of her, as he knew her and whom she did not want to know her as he knew her, and who because of this enhanced this privacy of intimacy.

  Prew put his hand out on the shapeless mound of quilt underneath which was the solid, curved, deep-flesh quiveriness of her hip, that he felt suddenly and momentarily truly belonged to him and she seemed to purr silently under his fingers and for the first time he considered with shock the possibility that sleeping with her had not made arise at all, the startling possibility that he was in love with her.

  What a possibility, he thought; man, man, what a possibility. But then why not? In this place, on this Rock, who else is it possible for a soldier to fall in love with, except a whore? This Rock, where the white girls, even the middle-class white girls, were all little snobs and where there were no white girls below the middle class. This Rock, where even with the gook girls that were the lowest class it was a disgrace to be seen talking to a soldier. So then why not a whore? It was not only possible, it was perfectly logical. Maybe it was even sensible.

  And it was a possibility he was to remember all his life and wonder about often, after that. Whether this was just a sudden fleeting appreciation that just happened to hit them both because Angelo came in the room just when he did. Whether it would have happened some other way than this if Angelo had not come in, or maybe not happened at all. Whether it was just that he had not had a woman for so long that this momentary thing had sunk a hook for permanent illusion into him when he was off guard and snared him with an imaginative wishful-thinking of his own creation. Whether maybe, strangest possibility of all, it was that love between a man and a woman happened to them all this way, was born full-grown from the copulation of a chance situation with a meaningless coincidence. It seemed the original possibility opened up a lot of other possibilities, and if during the rest of his life before he died he could have ever resolved that original possibility he felt he could have understood many things.

  “You people look happy,” Angelo said, sensing it himself. “Are you people happy? I’m happy. Do I look happy?”

  “Happy as can be expected,” Lorene smiled, answering both at once, and Prew felt her hand under the quilt creep to him and then the fine-boned, woman’s fingers resting on the inside of his thigh.

  “Watch that!” Angelo grinned. “I seen you. Well for Christ’s sake, look at her, Prew. She’s blushing.”

  Lorene, blushing, turned to Prew and winked and he found her fingers with his own hand secretly and pressed them into him hard.

  “If you want any more of this whiskey, buddy,” Angelo said, “you better get it now. Because it wont be there long, once old Sandra gets aholt of it again.”

  “Stark had his share yet?”

  “Stark aint getting any share,” Angelo said. “I went down to his room before I come here. I listened at the door and couldnt hear a sound, and knocked and couldnt raise a soul, and looked through the keyhole and couldnt see a thing. (I think there was a shirt hung on the knob, by God.) I even climbed up on the doorknob to look through the transom to see if he had died and the son of a bitch had hung a towel over it. I call that plain goddam bad manners.”

  “What you mean is,” Prew grinned, “you think he’s a suspicious bastard.”

  “Yeah,” Angelo said. “As if anybody would look through his goddam old transom.”

  He frowned at them so indignantly so long that Lorene giggled and finally had to laugh out loud.

  “Hell, honey,” Angelo said to her, “that’s nothing. When I was takin basic us guys use to do that for a hobby.”

  “What,” she laughed, “look through whorehouse transoms?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why once over to the Pacific Rooms, they was three of us, and this one old boy, a long, thin drink a water from Georgia, regular old Georgia nigger lyncher Klansman like his Daddy, he use to brag how they cut their nuts out for just lookin at a white girl, well this old Georgia boy took some big fat dame to the room and me and this other boy climb each other’s shoulders to peek through the transom on him. Well, that old fat gal was layin back all stretched out chewin gum and readin a Western Love Story Magazine and that big long son of a bitch was down there eatin it. Man, I mean he was really goin to town on it, too. And there she was, chewin gum and readin, just as unconcerned one way or the other as if she was home in bed. Me and this other boy like to fell off each other’s shoulders laughin.

  “That Georgia stringbean never did hear the last of that, man. We razzed him so much he finally transferred to the Quartermaster to get away from it.”

  “Well,” Lorene said, “you meet all kinds. In this business.”

  “In any business,” Angelo said profoundly. That’s Life. And I don’t mean the magazine. Ony, I’m sure glad I aint a Georgia nigger, and I hope I never have to meet that boy and his compatriots on some deserted street at night in Atlanta, G A. I love my cods too well.

  “Well,” he said, getting up. “I’m a kind of guy can tell when he’s overstayed his welcome. I can tell when I aint wanted. I leave you people to your lovin.”

  “Aw, stick around,” Prew grinned. “Please dont rush off.”

  “Yas,” Angelo said, “I like you too, you bastard. I will just leave you some of this whiskey and then I wont feel so guilty. I put it in a glass and you can drink it at your leisure.”

  He wandered around, finally finding a tumbler on the stand, one that was full of water that he threw in
a solid stream out the window where it hit the screen and sprayed, him saying, “I hope theres a cop under that,” and filled the glass full of whiskey from the bottle. Prew watched him grinning, and feeling ridiculously warm inside, almost fatherly, noticing how the whiskey had slowed Angelo’s normally high agitation down until he seemed to be moving vaguely slowly like a slow motion film, and how this was the first time he had ever seen the tiny, curly headed Wop relaxed.

  “That be enough?” Angelo said.

  “Hell, yes. I drink all that I’ll be about as much use as a melted candle.”

  “Okay. I see you then. See you in the morning. We go somewhere,” he said, “the three of us, and eat a good expensive breakfast before we go back. Maybe we go to the Alexander Young Hotel, ’ey? They open up early and they serve good breakfasts. Breakfast is important,” he said, “after a good night on the town. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Prew grinned. “I’ll see you.”

  “You like him,” Lorene said, after Angelo had closed the door, “dont you? You like him a lot.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I do. He’s such a comical little bastard, and yet somehow he makes me always want to cry while I’m laughin at him; and thats why I really like him. I dont know, maybe I’m nuts. Did you ever feel that way about people?”

  “Yes,” Lorene said. “Often.”

  “Well, thats something,” he said.

  “I feel it about Angelo,” she said, “every time I see him. And I think maybe I feel it about you.”

  “Me!”

  “Yes. You know,” she said faintly, “you’re a funny one, a very funny one.”

  “One funny fellow,” Prew said. “Am I?”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Arent other fellows funny?”

  “Not like you. Not the way you are.”

  “Well thats good. Maybe you’ll remember me then.”

  “I’ll remember you.”

  “Will you? Will you remember me tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Next week, too.”

  “Will you remember me a month from now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I dont believe it.”

  “But I will though. Truly I will.”

  “All right. I believe you. I know I’ll remember you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “But why? Why will you remember me?”

  “Because,” he said, “because of this.” And smiling, he took a corner of her quilt and flipped it off her and looked at her lying there, legs together, feet straight up. hands flat at her sides where the curve of her hips began to swell.

  She did not move and turned her head to smile at him. “Is that the only reason?”

  “No. Also because you wiggled over to me when Angelo was here.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Maybe not all. But a lot.”

  “But not because of talking to me?”

  “Yes, that too. Definitely that too. But this also,” he said looking at her.

  “But the talking too?”

  “Yes. The talking too. Talking is important.”

  “To me it is.” She smiled contentedly at him and took a corner of his quilt that he was still lying under propped up on one elbow looking down at her and flipped it off of him, like he had done to her.

  “Why, look at you,” she said.

  “I know. Aint it shameful?”

  “I wonder what caused that.”

  “Cant help it. Does it every time.”

  “But it looks very uncomfortable.”

  “It can be. Sometimes, it is.”

  “Well, we better take care of that. Right now. Dont you think?”

  “Yes. I think.”

  “Theres only one thing to do with that. Theres only one place to put that.”

  “You mean here? There? Right there?”

  “Yes. There. Right there. There will take care of it. You think there will take care of it?”

  “Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.”

  “This is much better, now, isnt it? Than the other time?”

  “Much better. Much, much better.”

  “To me, too. But why? Why is it better?”

  “Because where there were two before, now there is only one. Because we both want to do it.”

  “Yes, now we both want it. But still, we are not one person. You cant feel what I feel. I cant tell you what it feels like with you. I’ve always wondered what it feels like, to a man. What does it feel like, to you?”

  “To me? Did you ever burn your finger, bad? And then smear it with Unguentine?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Unguentine enfolds it softly? How it soothes it? How it stops the burning? Is warm and cool and stops the itching, burning, red hot pain?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Thats how it feels, with me. How does it feel to you?”

  “With me? With a woman? Oh, did you ever have your ear itch? deep down inside? And you put a twist of cotton on a toothpick to get at it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how you try to reach it with it? But you are afraid to go too deep, somehow? You want to, but you are afraid it is a thing you ought not to do, somehow?”

  “Yes? Yes, tell me. Tell me all of it. I want to hear.”

  “So then, you go as deep as you dare go in there. You go clear deep down inside after it. But you never get quite deep enough to touch it, oh, never quite to the bottom of it. The ear keeps right on itching, away inside. You relieve it some, a little, and the relief is very satisfying. But still it only tantalizes you, a pleasant torture.”

  “Yes? Go on?”

  “Thats all. Thats how it is with a woman. When she really wants it. But only when she really, truly wants it. When she doesnt want it, it is like doing the same thing when the ear does not itch. You know, I have never done this before, talking like this, and doing it.”

  “Havent you? Ever? Not even once? With anyone?”

  “No, never. With no one. Ever.”

  “But you wanted it? before? With others?”

  “Yes. Some. Not for a long time though. Not for a long time like it can be, with a woman, when she really wants it.”

  “You mean like now?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Like now, when she really wants it. Really, truly, absolutely wants it. Needs it. Like now. Oh, now. Please, now. Right now, now.”

  “No. No, wait. Please wait.”

  “Oh, no. Now. I cant wait. Even a little. Maybe I can, a little. Oh, no. I cant. Oh, now.”

  “All right then, now. Now now now, O Jesus, Holy Jesus, now.”

  “Did you?” he said. “You did. Didnt you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lorene said. “Oh, I did. Not for a long time, have I. But really, oh, I did. Really and truly and completely.”

  “I wanted you to. Oh, I needed you to,” he said gratefully, and he bent his head down for her lips.

  “No,” Lorene said. “Dont do that. Please dont.”

  “But why? Why not?”

  “Because I’d rather you wouldnt. Because it would spoil it, and I dont want to spoil it.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dont be sorry. Its all right. But you must remember where we are. You must remember who I am.”

  “To hell with that. I dont care about that.”

  “But I care about it. It would make it like all the others, all the drunks, all the brutal ones. All of them, they all try to kiss you, as if in that way they could get something that all the rest dont get.”

  “Yes,” Prew said. “Yes, I guess thats right. I guess thats what they want, isnt it? I’m sorry.”

  “Theres nothing to be sorry for,” Lorene said. “Its just I didnt want it spoiled. Not now. You’d better move now,” she said. “Move. Move over. This towel is ruined.”

  “It should be. I wouldnt be much surprised if the sheet is, too.”

  “Thats what I’m afraid of. I cant change it. Minerva handles all that and she’s gone home now.”


  “To hell with it. I like it that way. We’ll sleep in it. Be good for us. I like it. Its only you and me.”

  “It looks like we’ll have to,” Lorene said. “But I dont like it.” She got up with the sodden towel, to take it to the granite basin, then to take the smaller basin from the stand of vials and bottles and squat over it and he could smell the hospital smell of Lysol.

  “I wished you liked it,” Prew said.

  “Ugh,” Lorene said.

  “But its only part of you and me, parts that have mingled, that are one now, that can never be separated, ever.”

  “It smells,” Lorene said. “Ugh.”

  “Yes,” he said, sitting up so he could see her on the floor. “It smells. Like rich, leaf moldy, fresh plowed, mountain earth on a windy, warm Spring day. One alone, mine at least, smells rotten, like death. But both together, mingled, smells like life.”

  Lorene stood up, finished, and smiled across at him. “Prew,” she said, “little Prew boy, who is such a funny one. I’m sorry about when you wanted to kiss me, little Prew boy.”

  “Its all right.”

  “No, its not. But I cant help it. Its not you, its because of—this place. And of the others. You dont understand.”

  “I understand it.”

  “How could you? never having been a woman?”

  She washed her hands, thoroughly and carefully, and came back then and got in the bed and turned off the light. “Sleep a little?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said in the darkness. “Do you go to the beach often?”

  “Beach? What beach?”

  “Waikiki Beach. Where Bill The Surfboard Rider struts his stuff.”

  “Oh, there. Yes, all the time. Every day if I can make it. I love it. Why?”

  “I’ve never seen you out there.”

  “You wouldnt know me if you saw me.”

  “Maybe I would.”

  “No. You wouldnt.”

  “I think I would now.”

  “No, you wouldnt. I have to wear a banana leaf hat, and a beach jacket, and wrap my legs with a towel or else wear slacks. To keep from getting tanned. You’d think I was an old, old tourist woman, if you saw me.”

  “I was wondering how to go about lookin for you, away from here. I’ll know what to look for now, when I go out.”

  “No. Please dont do that. Really.”