He leaned down to kiss Grace on the cheek. “This one is for your birthday, princess. Give Daddy a big kiss. I won’t be here in September when you turn ten.”
“No, Daddy,” she sobbed into the folds of her mother’s skirt. “You don’t have to leave.”
The train whistled its two-minute warning. “Harold,” Norman said, “you must be a fine little boy, just like I had to be when my father went off to fight the Great War.”
“Norman, don’t deceive the boy,” Victoria warned, acid in her voice. “Your father fought in the Spanish-American War long before you were even born.”
“I know, Mother, but the boy doesn’t have to learn that now.”
It was now time to say goodbye to Agnes. She stood eighteen inches in front of him. “Take care of yourself, Agnes, and the children. And good luck.”
An impenetrable distance lay between them. He looked his wife in the eyes, but a glaze had come over Agnes. She spoke in the smooth legato she’d put into her voice since they made their decision. “Good luck to you, Norman.”
The whistle blew its one-minute warning. “I’m off, then.” He went up the steps and looked down the tracks – at the end, just as he’d expected, Cristina stood alone in a corner. He nodded his head and boarded.
The train left 30th Street Station on its way to Washington. Norman sat with his back against the seat and looked ahead. In an hour they’d reach Wilmington, three hours Baltimore, four Washington, and six all the way to Camp Pendleton. England lay beyond that.
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