The Best American Short Stories 2015 by T.C. Boyle Read Free Book Online Page A

she heard whimpering in the walk-in closet. Her heart began to beat quickly. She tiptoed to the closet and opened the door to find Joe sitting with her back against the wall, silk blouse soaked in sweat, a cache of guns and knives at her feet. She was breathing quickly, chest heaving. She looked up at Georgie with glistening, scared brown eyes.
    â€œGo away,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Don’t look at me like this.”
    Georgie stood in the doorway, tan legs peeking out from underneath the white-cotton gauze gown Joe had bought for her, unsure of what to say. “Are you OK?” she asked. “Are you sick?”
    â€œI said go away.”
    But Georgie sensed hesitation in Joe’s voice and kneeled down beside her, sliding two guns away, bringing Joe to her chest. Joe gave in, sweating and sobbing against Georgie’s skin.
    â€œYou can’t begin to understand what I saw,” Joe whispered. “There were bombs whistling overhead, dropping in front of me as I drove. There were men without heads, arms without bodies, the smell of gangrene we had to wash from the ambulance—every day, that smell. There were the boys who died. I heard them dying. Their faces were burned off. They were not human anymore. I can still see them.”
    â€œShh,” Georgie said. “That was a long time ago and you’re here. You’re safe.”
    â€œWhy did you leave me like that?”
    â€œI just wanted to swim.”
    â€œI thought you were dead.”
    â€œWhere’s Marlene?”
    â€œAsleep. In the stone house.”
    Georgie kissed Joe tenderly on the forehead, cheeks, and finally her mouth, and eventually they moved to the bed. Georgie had never been the aggressor, but she pushed Joe onto her back and pinned her wrists down, straddling her, biting her neck and shoulders.
    That night, as they lay quietly on the bed, they could hear the faint sounds of a woman screaming, not in anger but in pain. Celia, Georgie thought, wincing.
    When morning came, Joe acted as if nothing had happened, and Georgie found her standing naked on the patio, newsboy cap over her short hair, her toned and broad body sunned and confident, big white American teeth clenching a cigar from which she never inhaled.
    â€œShall we have breakfast with Marlene?” she said.
    â€œI just thought—”
    â€œDon’t think. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking here.”
    Â 
    Georgie came to the dinner table that night with a renewed sense of entitlement. She belonged there. She sat down, considered her posture, and took a long drink of white wine, peering at the guests over the rim of her glass.
    Marlene came into the dining room like a bull. She plowed past the rest of the company, ignored Georgie, and reached for Joe’s hand across the table.
    Hannah set shrimp cocktails and sliced lemons in front of each guest.
    Phillip and Joe were in an argument about using the boat to take Celia to the hospital in Nassau.
    â€œJust put her on the goddamn boat,” Phillip said, ignoring his food. “She’s been in labor for two days.”
    â€œWhat did they do before I was here?” Joe asked, exasperated, letting her fork hit the plate in disgust. “Tell her to just do that.”
    â€œDarling, have another glass of wine,” Marlene said. “Don’t get worked up.”
    â€œHave you seen her?” Phillip demanded. “Have you
heard
her? She’s suffering. She’s dying. What don’t you understand?”
    â€œI’ve seen suffering,” Joe said. “Real suffering.”
    â€œOh, don’t pull out your old war stories now,” Phillip scoffed, tossing his greasy, unwashed hair to the side.
    â€œJoe—” Georgie began.
    â€œIt’s not your place,” Marlene hissed.
    â€œJust put her on the boat and let’s go,” Phillip interrupted. “Let’s go now. She’s going to die. I’m going to