“Of course.”
He almost smiled.
The man from the line who had shouted earlier approached with his hat still in his hands.
“I owe you an apology.”
Caleb shook his head.
“You saw what it looked like.”
“I saw wrong.”
“You saw fast.”
The man absorbed that, then nodded.
A little later, Walter came out with a blanket over his shoulders, looking embarrassed by the attention. That was when the crowd offered the kindest thing it could: it pretended not to stare. People returned to their trays, their coffee, their quiet conversations. Dignity came back into the room softly, like someone closing a door without slamming it.
Becky brought Walter a fresh meal, but this time she did not set it on a tray and send him back into line. She placed it at a small table near the wall with two chairs.
Walter looked at Caleb.
“You eating?”
Caleb had planned to say no.
Instead, he sat.
They ate soup together from paper bowls while the afternoon light dimmed against the windows. Walter told him he had served in Vietnam. Caleb said he had served in Iraq. Neither man asked for details. They did not need to trade pain like proof.
After a while, Walter said, “Some days I’m eighty. Some days I’m twenty-two.”
Caleb nodded.
“Some days I’m fifty. Some days I’m still there.”
Walter looked at him.
And for the first time that day, he smiled.
Part 7
Caleb came back the next Saturday.
He told himself it was because the Iron Saints had promised to help unload another donation truck, but he knew that was only half true. The other half was sitting at the same small table near the wall, wearing the same faded Army jacket and pretending not to watch the door.
Walter looked up when Caleb entered.
“You’re late,” he said.
Caleb checked the clock.