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One night in Bastogne, while Renee was still alive and Babe was still a stranger, Eugene’s hand was caught under him while he slept. When he woke the hand was dead to the world and for one terrifying moment, he thought he’d somehow lost the hand in his sleep. As he gripped it tightly, digging his nails in, he thought it was only fitting. Parts of him were dying every day in this frozen wasteland. Why not his hands?
He feels a bit of shame at thinking about pieces of him dying while men he’s known for two years die around him, sometimes—often—while he’s right there next to them, telling them it’ll be okay. But it’s true, he thinks, considering Renee’s blue scarf tied around Babe’s hand. If he were whole he’d never have hurt Babe, would’ve gotten right up and gone running when Captain Winters called him.
If he were whole he’d never have called him Babe either.
Bastogne only gets worse: they lose Hoobler, Muck and Penkala, Toye, Guarnere, and Compton. Eugene loses bits of himself with each casualty but Babe is right beside him now, the sun bursting through a gloomy sky, stubbornly bringing parts of him to life, parts he thought long dead.
Babe talks: about growing up in Philadelphia, his family, movies he’s seen, jokes Bill told him. Eugene finds himself growing more and more attached to Babe, offering him tiny bits about his own life. There’s not much else to do between being shelled. In quiet moments, when Babe is out of the foxhole socializing or on patrol, he finds himself listing orange things in his head. Marigolds. Tangerines. Monarch butterflies. Jack O’lanterns. The sunset off his porch in Bayou Chene. A roaring fire to warm his hands by.
It’s a lovely color, he muses, while Babe takes his helmet off. He doesn’t know why he never noticed before.
He doesn’t realize he’s in too deep until he wakes in his foxhole, alone, hearing the familiar screams of medic! As he scrambles out and runs along the frozen ground he finds himself praying: please don’t let it be Babe, please, let him be okay. It’s a marigold bursting through the earth and a little death all at once. He might love Babe and that might make him a terrible medic. Every prayer for Babe’s safety is a wish that someone else was the one who got hit.
It bothers him enough that he doesn’t seek Babe out in the church. Sitting inside of a building, free from the threat of artillery for the first time in weeks, clears his head. His dynamic with Babe has been inappropriate. He’s supposed to remain detached. How will he keep a cool head if it’s Babe bleeding out in front of him? How will he able to save his life? He couldn’t bear it if his attachment hurt Babe somehow.
Babe was a lifeline in Bastogne, stitching up parts of him like he was the medic and Eugene was the soldier. He’ll always be grateful for that. And now Babe can go back to his friends and Eugene can retreat to his solitude and the war will end soon enough.
It doesn’t quite work out that way.
He avoids Babe the best he can in Haguenau. But when Jackson dies and it’s Babe he looks to first, he realizes that it’s not so easy to suppress a feeling. He lets himself wonder if he shouldn’t. St. Francis’s prayer echoes in his head. What if Babe is the one he’s supposed to console, to understand, to love with all his heart? He prays to God to give him a sign and drifts off into an uneasy sleep on a mattress in the basement.
Someone shakes him awake. “Gene. Gene.”
He bolts upright. “Who’s hurt?”
He blinks blearily. Babe sits next to him, looking sheepish. “Nobody! Sorry. I just,” he hesitates and glances down at his hands. “I just didn’t wanna be alone.”
So Babe prefers his company. Is this his sign from God? Eugene shifts so his back is against the wall and pats the mattress next to him. Babe smiles weakly and sits next to him, shoulders brushing.
“He reminded me of Julian,” Babe says.
“I know.”
Julian will probably haunt Babe for the rest of his life. Eugene wishes he could help Babe understand that it wasn’t his fault but then, he’s one to talk, isn’t he, because he blames himself for every man he can’t save.
He lays a hand on Babe’s knee. “You did everything you could.”
Babe looks down at his hand and then cautiously lays his head on Eugene’s shoulder. Eugene’s heartbeat quickens. Sure, they’d cuddled up on the line, but that was for sharing warmth. It’s not warm by any means in Haguenau but it’s not Bastogne. This feels like something else entirely.
Eugene takes his hand off Babe’s knee and wraps his arm around his shoulder. Babe sighs and sinks into Eugene, head on his chest.
Eugene chuckles. “What, none of the other men wanted to hold you?”
“Didn’t want them to hold me,” Babe mumbles into his chest.
Eugene smiles and takes his free hand to stroke Babe’s hair. It’s browner in Haguenau, with the grime and gloom that seems to have settled into everything, and while Babe’s still handsome, he misses the bright red. He imagines how it would gleam copper under the Louisiana sun, wonders if Babe would freckle or burn. Would Babe like the heat, the birdsong, the solitude of the Bayou? Eugene misses home deeply, aches for it, and inexplicably misses Babe there with him.
Babe’s breathing slows and starts to even out. When he speaks, it’s through a fog of sleep, half-dreaming. “You got a nice heartbeat.”
“What?”
“Steady,” Babe says into his chest, as if he’s trying to tell Eugene’s heart itself. “Comforting. Like your hands.”
Eugene fights the urge to drop a kiss on Babe’s hair and leans his head back against the wall, shutting his own eyes. He feels sleep coming for him too, faster now that Babe’s here with him.
Babe finds him again in Berchtesgaden in the tiny room Eugene has claimed as a clinic/bedroom. He’s drunk and dripping blood from his hands.
“What happened to you?” Eugene asks, yanking bandages out.
Babe giggles. “Fell and cut my hand on a rock.”
Frankly, Eugene is surprised he hasn’t dealt with more stupid injuries tonight. Half the company is drunk off Hitler’s stash. He pours sulfa onto the cut, which isn’t as dramatic as it had seemed.
“Think it’ll scar?” Babe asks, watching him bandage the wound.
Eugene shakes his head. “Should heal up just fine.”
“Damn,” Babe says, slurring slightly. “It’s right near where you cut me. I was hoping to have a scar to remember you by.”
Eugene tries not to laugh. It reminds him of a sentiment from one of those ridiculous gothic romance novels his sister used to leave around the house. He wonders if Babe stole it from one of his own sister’s books.
“I think you’ll find all this difficult to forget, Edward.”
“But I want to remember you,” Babe insists. “Your eyes, your hands, your voice.”
Eugene realizes he’d been lingering with the bandage and finishes, releasing Babe’s hand. “My voice, huh?”
“It’s beautiful,” Babe says earnestly, eyes wide. “You should be on the radio.”
“You’re drunk, Heffron,” he says and pats Babe’s shoulder affectionately. “Sleep it off.”
“Only if you sleep with me.”
Eugene snorts and locks the door. “Is this how you talked to Doris?”
Babe climbs onto the cot and kicks off his boots. “You’re prettier than Doris.”
He lays down on the side by the wall. Eugene takes off his jacket and his own shoes, shy, as if Babe might change his mind. Babe holds his arms open and Eugene lays down, turned away. He feels Babe put an arm over his side, hands tracing idle patterns over his shirt.
It’s an odd sensation, to be held. But nice, Eugene thinks, putting a hand over Babe’s and interlacing their fingers. Maybe he could get used to it.
Austria is beautiful and for the first few days, everyone seems to forget about the war in favor of soaking up the sun. Babe invites him on a long winding walk through the woods. As soon as they’re deep enough in, Babe slips his hand in Eugene’s. He fights back a grin, feeling like a giddy teenager. They walk a little longer, Babe chattering the whole way, until they reach a clearing with a small pond. Tiny orange fish dart around the water.
“Is this what the bayou is like?” Babe asks.
Eugene shakes his head. “It’s messier. Mossier. Pretty, but not like this.”
“I’d like to see it someday.”
“Whenever you want,” Eugene says.
This seems to satisfy Babe who nods and then steps closer, eyes searching Eugene’s. He cups Eugene’s face and kisses him, softly, too quickly.
“I’m sorry, Gene,” he says. “I had to do it once.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Eugene breathes and closes the gap between them.
It’s been a long, long time since Eugene kissed anyone and if he thought that part of himself was dead, Babe is reminding him it’s still kicking. He feels desire rush up and down his entire body. Babe isn’t close enough and so he pulls him in by his waist, till their bodies are melting together.
“Jesus, Gene,” Babe gasps. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Eugene kisses him again, done with talking, and thinking, until he remembers that there’s still a war going on, and with all likelihood, he and Babe will both be deployed to the Pacific. A terrifying image of Babe bleeding out in the sand strikes him. He wrenches away.
“We can’t. I can’t.”
Babe doesn’t release his hold on Eugene’s face. “Why not?” he asks, almost a whine, and Eugene fights the urge to give him whatever he wants.
“The war ain’t over, Babe. If we end up over there, fighting Japan…” he trails off.
“It’ll be okay,” Babe insists, running his thumb along Eugene’s cheek. “The war is gonna end soon enough.”
Eugene lets Babe kiss him one more time.
Austria serves them, and Eugene in particular, several reality checks. He hears news of a soldier dying in a car accident and can’t stop himself from a moment of dizzying horror where he imagines Babe slumped over the wheel, blood marring the sunset orange of his hair. He wants to kill himself for the split second of relief he feels when he sees it’s Janovec.
He tries to explain things to Babe when he drags him out to spend time with Easy Company out in a field. It’s a warm evening, almost warm enough that if he closes his eyes he can pretend it’s Louisiana. He wishes they could just sit and enjoy it.
“You’re—this thing between us, it’s making me a bad medic,” Eugene says. “Every time someone gets hurt I think of you first.”
“That’s okay,” Babe says.
“It’s not. When I saw Janovec my first thought was that I was glad it wasn’t you. Do you understand how that makes me feel?”
“Bad,” Babe says, looking crestfallen.
Eugene sighs, unable to endure the expression on his face. “But I don’t want to stop. You’re ruining my life, Heffron,” he jokes. “Gonna go straight to hell now.”
This seems to cheer Babe up. He offers him a cigarette and then digs through his pockets for a lighter, coming up empty. Eugene looks through his own, pulling out his rosary first, before finding the lighter and lighting Babe’s cigarette.
“What do you pray?” Babe asks.
“The prayer of St. Francis,” he says, reciting it for Babe.
Babe takes a thoughtful drag of his cigarette and sits quietly, absorbing it. “I feel like I understand you better.”
“Do you?” Eugene asks and blows out smoke.
The sun is sinking lower and the sky begins to turn into the blue of twilight. He’s glad Babe made him come out for this. How many times has he let himself sit and enjoy the company of the men like this? Whatever way the war goes, this might be one of the last times Easy is all together.
“I want you to know,” Babe says, “that you deserve to be loved.”
He almost drops his cigarette in the grass. Speechless, he glances at Babe, seeing earnest brown eyes staring back at him. His heart thuds in his chest and he feels like a girl in one of the pictures. Where did Babe learn to be so romantic? In Philly?
“I—” he begins, stuttering, not even sure how he feels, let alone what to say.
He’s saved by Webster stomping by, abandoning Liebgott on the other side of the field. “You alright, Webster?”
“J—Liebgott,” Webster corrects, “is an infuriating person.” He joins them on the grass.
“Careful, Webster, that’s my buddy you’re talking about,” Babe says. “So love. Any thoughts?”
“What?”
“It’s what Gene and I were discussing. What does Harvard have to say on the subject?”
Eugene shakes his head and returns his attention to his cigarette. Webster tips his head to the side and thinks about it.
“Love is a paradox,” he says. “It’s all these contradictory emotions tied together. Life and death, joy and sadness, fear and safety. Maybe people would love each other better if we could be honest about the complexity.”
“Huh. Guess Harvard is worth something after all,” Babe says.
Webster chuckles and gets to his feet. “Glad I could provide some of that quality Cambridge education.”
They watch Webster head back to quarters. Babe shifts his body to face Eugene. He expects him to say something else about love but Babe surprises him when he opens his mouth. “Does anybody else here speak French?”
“Maybe Webster. Nixon for sure. Why?” Eugene asks, smile curling at his lips. “I can help you.”
“Nope. I want to say something to you and I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Babe says cheerily.
“You want to speak French together?”
“It’s hot when you do it.”
Eugene feels a blush blooming on his face. “Oh really?”
“Say something to me now,” Babe says, voice as low as the sun.
Eugene runs over his vocabulary. He’s rarely had a reason to try and seduce someone in French. “Je te veux au fond de moi.”
Babe grins. “I like the sound of that. In fact,” he says, standing and stretching. “I think I’m pretty tired. Gonna head to bed.”
“I’ll be in late,” Eugene warns. “Told Spina I’d close up the clinic for him.”
Babe is already asleep in their room when Eugene arrives, beds pushed together. He strips down and climbs in, curling up right behind Babe, resting his chin on Babe’s shoulder. He’s drifting, drifting, drifting when someone pounds on the door.
“Doc! Doc! We have a gunshot wound.”
Not Babe, Eugene thinks, staring down at his sleeping form. He gets out of bed and pulls on his clothes, yanking open the door and his shirt on at the same time. Spiers stands there, his usually blank face eerie with anger. Eugene hopes he doesn’t notice the one bed situation.
“Grant was shot in the head. Let’s go. Heffron,” Spiers shouts into the room. “Get up. You’re out searching for this scum.”
Eugene hears Babe fall out of bed with a curse as he follows Spiers down the hallway.
Grant’s wound is bad; it would’ve been brutal on the battlefield and is downright ghastly in this time of relative peace. Eugene does as much as he can—hangs a bag of plasma, bandages the wound, and prays for Grant’s safety—as they listen to the surgeon say he can’t operate. Spiers finds a German doctor and they sit a vigil in the waiting room until the surgeon comes out and says he’ll make it.
It’s the wee hours of the morning when they return. Spiers stalks in ahead of Eugene who meanders a little, half-asleep on his feet from the adrenaline crash. As he makes his way inside, Liebgott shoves a bloody man in front of him.
“Doc. Can you fix up his face a little before we take him to the MP?”
If looks could kill, Liebgott would be a dead man. After Liebgott, some of the other Easy men come shuffling out, including Babe. Eugene sends him for the first-aid kit he stashed in their room and cleans up the guy as best as he can. He’d taken quite a beating and while Eugene understood the anger of his friends, he couldn’t tolerate the carelessness.
He tries to ignore Babe as they head upstairs to their room but rounds on him as soon as the door is closed.
“What is wrong with you?” he demands. “Almost killing a man?”
“He shot Chuck in the head,” Babe says, almost growling. “And I threw one punch.”
“It wasn’t your place,” Eugene snaps.
“What if it had been me? You’re telling me you wouldn’t do anything to the guy who shot me in the head? Because if someone ever did anything like that to you—”
“I’m a medic, Edward. First do no harm. I don’t want nobody killing over me either,” he says. “It was stupid. What if you had killed him? You’d be court-martialed. Maybe even executed, and then we’d never get our chance!” he says, voice rising. He doesn’t know what to blame the sudden rush of emotion on: the sleep deprivation, the near loss of a friend, you deserve to be loved.
It ends the argument, all the anger vanishing from the room. Babe wraps his arms around Eugene, pulling his head into his chest. “Is that what you want? After the war?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Eugene admits. More than anything. He can’t imagine a life without Babe.
Babe holds him for a moment and Eugene swears he could fall asleep right now. He pulls away, reluctantly, and takes off his bloodstained clothes, falling into the bed. Babe follows him in with slightly more grace, pulling him close. Eugene is slipping into unconsciousness the second his head hits the pillow. He’s already almost dreaming of the Bayou at night, a thousand stars in the sky, sitting in a wooden boat with Babe, when he presses a chaste kiss to his lips, dragging Eugene back to Austria for a second.
“Goodnight, bien-aimé,” Babe—real or dreamed—says.
And then the war ends, on a sunny day, during a baseball game Babe made him go to. Their chance is fast coming now; nothing stands in their way except everything. At least Eugene can stop feeling like a shitty medic. Now he’s just a guy waiting to go home.
Ostensibly they’re still soldiers, occupying Austria, but everyone seems to have given up, even the officers. Between sparse duties Babe and Eugene roam the Austrian countryside, have sex, and drink. It’s a decadent life; it’s what Babe deserves. Eugene pushes him to go hang out with the other guys sometimes, half-heartedly, but Babe makes excuses not to. They know they’re coming up on a separation and whether it’s temporary or permanent remains to be seen.
Eugene gets to go home first with most of the original Toccoa men. September fifteenth. He might be back in Bayou Chene for his birthday. Imagine that. Babe won’t be leaving until October but he seems to be taking the whole thing in stride. On their last night in Austria he’s the life of the party, downing drinks, playing darts, and dancing with the local girls. Easy Company mingles around them, maybe for the last time.
Eugene sits in the corner with Webster and watches Babe dance, contemplatively. They’ll never be able to dance like that. Babe spins his girl around while Liebgott dips his low.
Webster holds out his whiskey and taps it against Eugene’s beer. “To the paradox.”
Webster and Liebgott duck out together around midnight, bickering about which book Liebgott is borrowing for the journey home. Babe sticks it out till the bartender ushers them out after three. They’re stuck in a big group of Toccoa men and Eugene sighs quietly. So much for a moment alone.
Babe notices and stops suddenly. “Aw, Gene, no! You can’t get on the boat without your grandmother’s cross. No, no. My mom would kill me and yours probably would too. Let’s go back for it,” he says theatrically.
“Uh, yeah, thanks, Heffron.”
Their friends continue on without them, too drunk to care or ask questions, and Babe and Eugene duck into an alley. They kiss, Eugene pressed up against a brick wall, for a while before Babe deems the coast clear and tugs him back into the street.
“Do you remember, in Bastogne, how the sun came out when you bandaged my hand?” Babe asks. When Eugene nods, he continues. “I wanna see all kinds of sun with you. Austrian sunrise. Philly sunset. A Bayou sunshower.”
Eugene feels that curious blend of joy and sadness, so sharp it makes him want to cry. How can Babe be so sure?
“I’m gonna miss you like hell, Edward,” he chokes out. Babe thumbs at a tear that slipped out without his notice.
“We’ll meet again,” Babe intones, taking Eugene’s hand and spinning him under the slowly lightening Austrian sky. “Don’t know where, don’t know when,” he croons, wildly tone deaf.
“But I know we’ll meet again,” Eugene finishes, not much better. “Some sunny day.”
Babe takes Eugene’s face in his hands and kisses him like they’re the only two people in the world. It’s a perfect goodbye.
🔸🔸🔸
He keeps it together the whole trip back to America. Doesn’t cry until his train pulls into Louisiana and then he weeps. For Babe, himself, all the men who died under his hands, out of grief and sheer relief.
It’s over. And he’ll never go back. But now what?
After the hubbub of his first few days back, where his parents and siblings fuss over him and insist he stays at the family home, he finally arrives at his little cabin right on the Bayou. The white paint is more weathered, chipping off the sides, but otherwise is the same as he left it. His little brother had taken care of the yard and his older sister stopped by once a month to dust and open windows.
It’s overwhelming to have a room to himself, let alone an entire house. He’d spent the last two and a half years of his life sharing bunks, foxholes, fields. Living alone seems both peaceful and terrifying. He wishes Babe were here.
The army had offered an unemployment allowance and he takes it gratefully. He doesn’t know what the hell to do with his life. Ever since he dropped out of high school he worked a string of odd jobs. Nothing had ever given him a sense of purpose like being a medic had. But he can’t bear having people’s lives in his hands again.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore, other than writing Babe an excessive amount of letters. Babe replies twice, to let him know his leaving had been delayed, he was hoping to get home for Christmas and to send him his new address. Eugene swallows and hopes that absence does make the heart grow fonder.
The months roll by, and Eugene feels a bit like he did in Bastogne, except more useless. There’s nobody around to keep alive but himself. His right hand develops an inexplicable ache between his thumb and pointer finger. He and the doctor he sees both dismiss it as psychological: it only happens when he thinks about something stressful (the war, Babe’s absence) for too long. It’s a ridiculous problem to have, he knows other men wake up screaming in the night, and here he is complaining about a phantom pain. In a desperate moment, he writes a letter to Spina, trying to be casual. How do you cope? What are you doing with your hands now?
Spina sends him back a surprisingly long letter, almost Webster-like. I’m doing carpentry these days. A priest told me the opposite of death isn’t life. They’re entwined. The opposite is creation. If you can make things with your hands, eventually you’ll forget all the people you lost with them. I don’t know if it’s true but it sure seemed to help me.
Every time he looks at his hands he remembers the letter. How can I create with you, how can I bring something to life? He gets a job as a contractor and draws up plans for homes, arranges the bones that will cradle love and life. From the attic he pulls out his grandmere’s chest, digs out her faded recipe journal. He makes gumbos and beignets and crawfish étouffée, poorly, as he tries to figure out what the hell his grandmere meant by splashes and dashes and pinches of ingredients, and then well enough that he invites his family over for dinner. With his hands occupied his mind sometimes wanders, occasionally down foxholes and through camps, and so he starts playing all the records he owns or the radio.
March brings a letter from Babe, where he apologizes for his long silence and promises to get down there ‘soon,’ and springtime. He can finally plant things—a note on grandmere’s shrimp gumbo recipe says it’s better with your own vegetables—and sketches elaborate plans for his garden. There’ll be vegetables and fruits and a whole row of orange flowers, whatever the garden store has.
One April morning, he hauls his radio out onto the porch and begins to prepare his garden plots. He dreamed of Babe last night, waking with tears in his eyes, and decides to start with the orange daisies. He digs up dirt methodically as the radio chirps in the background. Vera Lynn begins to croon “We’ll Meet Again” as he pours seeds into the plots and he smiles.
“I told you so.”
He whirls around. In technicolor: Babe Heffron himself. Red lips, orange hair shining under the sun, green army bag slung over his shoulders, sky blue t-shirt on, chocolate eyes warm. He doesn’t waste time coming up with a line and throws himself at Babe instead, kissing him like it had been years since their last.
It knocks Babe off balance and they fall into the grass, taking breaks between feverish kisses to laugh. Finally Babe pulls back, panting. “Hell of a welcome, Gene. Guess that’s that southern hospitality.”
Eugene brushes their noses together. “You’d know. As a south Philly native.”
Babe giggles. “Speaking of Philly. I was feeling a little off so I stopped to see Spina before I left.”
“Oh?”
“He said I’m lovesick,” Babe grins.
Eugene groans. “You’re lucky my tomatoes haven’t grown yet or I’d throw one at you.”
“The only cure? To be naked in your bed in the next five minutes.”
“You should get a second opinion.” He reaches out to Babe’s neck and feels his pulse thrumming excitedly. The touch is half for the joke, half to remind himself that Babe is here, really, really here. “Ah. It’s much worse than Spina said. If you’re not there in two minutes I don’t know if you’ll make it,” he says. He stands and makes a break for the house, pulling off his shirt as he goes.
Babe’s delighted laughter chases him all the way in.
They take their time. Eugene whispers je t’aime into Babe’s skin so many times that it stops sounding like a word at all. Babe, for his part, calls Eugene bien-aimé which sends him right over the edge, gasping and seeing orange stars.
After, they lay together quietly. Babe lays with his head on Eugene’s chest and traces patterns on his hands. Eugene feels a sense of peace he hasn’t felt in a long time, maybe one he’s never felt. Maybe they could live here forever. Maybe every day could be like this one.
“What are you gonna do down here in the bayou?” Eugene asks.
“Dunno. Was thinking I’d just be your housewife.”
“Careful,” Eugene says. “You got competition.”
It’s not clear enough that it was a joke because Babe stiffens, stops touching Eugene’s hands.
“I mean, I might have to be the housewife. I make a mean beignet. And gumbo,” Eugene says, rushing through the words, wanting to sweep away any doubts from Babe’s mind.
“Coming home to you and dinner?” Babe asks, rolling back on top of Eugene. “I might be the luckiest man in Louisiana,” he says, poorly imitating Eugene’s accent.
Half the reason Eugene starts kissing him again is to make him be quiet.
🔸🔸🔸
They make a life together through the seasons. Eugene gardens for the rest of spring and Babe buys an old rusting truck he’s determined to fix up. In the summer Eugene perfects his Cajun lemonade and Babe finds three calico kittens on the side of the road who they christen Marigold (Eugene’s choice), Bogart (Babe’s choice), and Francie (mutually agreed on). Autumn arrives: Eugene introduces Babe to his family and finds that affection for Babe Heffron must be a hereditary Roe trait. Winter blows in and Eugene marvels at the fact that Babe has been with him for all the seasons. For Christmas he knits Babe a scarf, which Babe teases him endlessly about but wears anytime the temperature dips below fifty.
Through it all, Babe never mentions going home. He writes letters, reads dispatches from his family aloud at the kitchen table, and calls them once a week. And he seems… happy. Happy with Eugene and his odd jobs and the rusty truck and the kittens. He goes to church on Sunday. Fishes on the Bayou with Eugene’s little brother. Listens to the radio while he does the dishes and sings along. Eugene observes all of this carefully, trying to run calculations in his head. Is this enough? Am I loving you properly? Or am I letting myself be loved and holding you back?
Another year winds away. Babe’s truck looks respectable now. The kittens grow up. Eugene starts drawing up plans for an addition to the house: guest rooms for Babe’s family to visit, a bigger kitchen, a sunroom for the cats to lounge in. Babe mentions playing the piano, off-handedly, and Eugene buys him one the next time he gets paid.
“I ain’t even good,” Babe says, bashful. “The nuns said I was just alright.”
He plays something, and it’s simple, but all the more beautiful for its simplicity. Eugene rests his chin on Babe’s shoulder. “My babethoven.”
Babe giggles and strokes his hair. “I love you.”
“Je t’aime aussi.”
In November, Babe broaches the subject of the two of them going to Philadelphia for Christmas and Bill’s wedding. Eugene can hardly tell him no and he’s cautiously excited for the trip. He’s never been to Pennsylvania and he wants to meet the Heffrons, even though that idea terrifies him. He wants to meet the people who molded Babe, shake their hands, thank them.
As the train pulls into Philly, Eugene’s hand cramps up and he winces. Babe notices and, after a quick glance around, pulls it into his own and massages carefully. “They’ll love you. My mom and sisters because they love Gone With The Wind. And my dad and brother because I do.”
Eugene forces out a chuckle. “I don’t sound anything like those people.”
“To a south Philly gal? You might as well just start calling yourself Rhett Butler.”
December in Philadelphia is cold, Eugene thinks, wrinkling his probably red nose. Babe seems to relish the chill, wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and taking deep inhales.
“Christmas in Philly, Gene,” Babe grins. “Nothing like it.”
Babe’s childhood home is a two floor brick townhouse. It has a picture window and a small porch with a bench and a grill. He used to sit out here and make out with Doris, Eugene remembers being told. Through the windows they can see Babe’s family milling around. Almost all of them are red-heads, Eugene notes, huffing out a quiet laugh.
“You ready?” Babe asks, gloved hand slipping to squeeze Eugene’s.
“I guess.”
Babe drops his hand and pushes the front door open. The Heffrons envelop them immediately. They’re loud and friendly and just like Babe and Eugene likes them immediately. Babe’s sister takes his bag, his mother grabs his coat, and his brother pushes a beer into his hand.
“Shut up!” Babe says, grinning. “This here is Gene Roe, the best medic in the goddamn war and my very close friend.”
Eugene smiles, shyly. “It’s real nice to meet y’all.”
“Oh that accent!” Babe’s sister, Irene, says. “No wonder you like him so much.”
The whole family laughs and Eugene feels the tension slip out of his chest. Maybe this’ll all be fine. Maybe he and Babe will have a great trip.
Famous last words, Eugene will think later.
First, on Christmas Eve, he and Babe slip out after presents. Mrs. Heffron had bought him a book about native Pennsylvania plants so that ‘Babe could have a slice of home in the garden,’ and he’s so touched by the sentiment, for both of them. Babe gives him the official Heffron walking tour of the neighborhood, telling all of his childhood tales, pointing out Julian and Bill’s houses along the way. Eugene can’t keep the smile off his face; he’s heard the stories before but Babe is telling them with so much animation they feel new.
“Babe Heffron! Is that you?” A bell-like voice asks.
Babe whirls around. A blonde woman about their age stands on a porch, smiling in the dim light.
“Doris!” Babe says. “How ya doing?”
She skitters down the steps, pink dress flouncing. Eugene realizes, with an ugly note of jealousy he didn’t think himself capable of, that she’s not very pretty. “Better now that I’ve seen you again! How are you?”
“Just peachy. Been living down in Louisiana with Gene here,” Babe says. “Gene, this is Doris.”
“Nice to meet you,” Doris smiles, clearly uninterested. “Say, Babe, you wanna take me out for a drink while you’re home?”
“Well, that would be real nice, Doris, but—” Babe stutters.
“He has a girl back in Louisiana,” Gene says, unamused.
“Oh!”
Babe grins. “I do. Gorgeous. Sweet. Bakes beignets. I’m in heaven.”
Doris laughs. “I’m happy for you. But a girl isn’t a wife. Give me a call if you’re ever around.”
No, a girl isn’t a wife. A girl isn’t even a girl at all. He’s nothing. Babe’s very close friend.
Doris disappears into her house. Babe puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes for a minute, the most affectionate they let themselves be in public. “Were you jealous, Gene?” he asks, sounding delighted.
“Maybe,” Eugene mumbles.
“You have nothing to be jealous of,” Babe says tenderly, leading him back to the house. “I thank god every day she wrote me that dear babe letter. And I’m real grateful it’s you I’m squiring around Philly.”
Eugene doesn’t know what his problem is. He knows Babe doesn’t care about Doris anymore. He knows Babe loves him. Maybe it’s just hard to see the ghosts of Babe’s past. Maybe it’s that he knows, deep down, Doris, or someone like her, should be the ghost of Babe’s future.
Bill’s wedding is two days after. Babe is the best man and wears his dress uniform, looking like the Babe Eugene met three years ago. Red-heads in green, Eugene thinks, with a small smile. He stands next to Bill at the front of the church laughing while they wait for Bill’s fiancée, Fran. Eugene sits in the third row, with the rest of Easy Company, between Webster and Spina.
“Where’s Liebgott?” he asks.
Webster scowls and sneaks a drink from a flask. “I don’t know and I don’t care. We haven’t spoken since 1946.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Eugene says. “I know he meant a lot to you.” What if that fate awaits him and Babe?
They watch Fran, beaming in a white dress, float up the aisle. Babe’s grinning so hard it must hurt. When Bill and Fran say their vows, Babe’s eyes shine with tears. He finds Eugene’s gaze and smiles.
He wants to get married. And Eugene can never give that to him. Eugene feels bitter tears prick at his own eyes and swallows down the sadness. He won’t ruin Babe’s best friend's wedding.
At the reception Babe is busy with best man duties and Eugene and Webster drink whiskey and compete to see whose mood can get worse. They’re both winning. Eugene goes up to the bar to get the next round and leans against it as he waits. Babe is dancing with his little niece, twirling her around, and Eugene watches them fondly.
“He’ll make such a good father, won’t he?” Fran says, sidling up next to him.
Eugene’s heart feels like it cracks in half. “Yeah,” he whispers. “He will.”
Eugene doesn’t feel much like returning to Webster or the reception. He wanders out into the hallway and finds a dusty room next to the reception full of old bond rally decorations. So this is what they did at home while he went crazy in a foxhole. He sinks to the floor and listens to the faint sounds of the wedding band crooning.
He feels sick, from the whiskey and the weight of what he’s done. Babe should be marrying a pretty girl and dancing around a reception hall with her and having lots of babies in a house down the street from where he grew up. He shouldn’t be wasting his life in a shack on the bayou. Eugene had let the rush of being loved by Babe cloud his judgement; had let it get in the way of loving Babe.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Babe says, lightly reproachful. Eugene hadn’t even noticed the door open. “C’mere.” He offers Eugene a hand, pulling him up and into his arms. They sway to the music, Eugene cracking a smile in spite of himself. “Been wanting to dance with you all night, handsome.”
Babe deserves to dance, Eugene thinks nonsensically, and he can’t dance with him. He bursts into tears, head falling into Babe’s chest, sobbing in a way he hasn’t since the end of the war. He feels that same sense of finality. It’s over. Now what?
“Hey, hey. Shhh,” Babe soothes, tightening his arms. “It’s alright. I told you that Philly whiskey would get ya.”
Eugene inhales, trying to control himself. “I love you.”
“I know, bien-aimé. I know.”
Their train leaves the next morning. Eugene has a pounding headache and a worse pain in his hand as they wait for the train to pull up. Babe is no worse for the wear and cheerfully eats a doughnut.
“Babe,” Eugene begins. “You should stay here. Take Doris out for that drink.”
“Huh?”
“You should stay. Not come back to Louisiana, I mean. This trip opened my eyes. I see the life you could have. That you oughta have. Maybe even the one you want,” Eugene says, forcing the words out around the lump in his throat.
“Jeez, Gene,” Babe says, choking out a bitter-sounding laugh. “I didn’t tell you Casablanca was my favorite movie because I wanted you to do it to me.”
“You deserve a wedding. A wife. Kids.”
Babe frowns. “What are you and the cats?”
“Not enough,” Eugene admits.
“ Eugene—”
“I want you to be happy.” Eugene says. It’s firm. A prayer. A decision.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Babe’s hands twitch at his sides. He wants to touch Eugene. And thank god he can’t, or Eugene would never be able to convince himself this is the right thing to do.
“No,” Eugene says, vehemently. “I just don’t want you to wake up in ten years and realize you wasted being young on some… dalliance with a man. I don’t want to take years of your life from you.”
Babe looks stricken, eyes filling with tears. Eugene feels like he just cut him in the foxhole again. “A dalliance? Is that what this is to you?”
“No. Goddamn it,” he says, feeling like he’s not doing this right. It doesn’t feel noble or self-sacrificing or like Casablanca at all. He feels like Babe is another man dying at his hands, only this time, he’s the one who fired the gun. “I just think you should stay another month or so. Spend more time with your family. Think it over.”
“Fine,” Babe spits, reminding him of the guy who snapped at him in Bastogne. Only the goddamn nuns call me Edward! It makes Gene want to laugh and cry. “I’ll stay. I’ll even take out Doris for that fucking drink because you want me to.”
His train pulls up then, its whistle sounding like a goodbye. He knows he should get on but finds himself unable to walk away. Will this be the last time he ever sees Babe Heffron? He wishes the expression on Babe’s face weren’t so heartbroken. Eugene wants to remember him happy. Joyful. The way he looked last night surrounded by his friends and family.
Babe surprises him by pulling him into a hug. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now,” he whispers. “But don’t you ever forget what I told you in Austria.”
Babe pulls away, leaving Eugene dazed, giving him a firm shake and telling him to call when he gets home. What had Babe told him in Austria? That feels like a lifetime ago. He gets on the train, shell-shocked. What had he just done?
He promised to love with all his heart. That’s what he’s doing, he reminds himself. If he didn’t love Babe with every cell in his body he never could’ve told him to stay. Babe’s love had been a gift from God, one he will never regret receiving. But it was time for Babe to give someone else that gift.
He looks out the window and sees Babe standing there, staring back, looking dumbfounded. Babe is wearing the blue knit scarf. Eugene might’ve even been the one who put it on him this morning. Maybe Babe will keep wearing it, through all the winters of his life, remember Gene’s hands every time he wraps it around his neck. He’ll stop for a second and think about Gene, maybe smile fondly, and then chase his kids out the door for school.
It’s the happiest ending he can hope for.
🔸🔸🔸
Back in Louisiana, the house feels too empty, even with the cats winding around his legs and sticking to him like glue. His left hand develops the ache too. Somehow none of his old coping mechanisms seem to help; not the cooking or the gardening or even the knitting. His hands feel like that night in Bastogne again: the hands of a dead man walking.
For it was always Babe who made his hands feel like an instrument of life. Babe would drop kisses on his knuckles, squeeze his hand, trace on his palm. He came undone at Eugene’s hands; there wasn’t a part of Babe his hands hadn’t touched. They’d built a life between them with these hands: caressed each other in the night, handed each other chipped mugs of coffee or tea in the morning, painted the walls of their bedroom orange in the afternoon, sat hand in hand on the porch and watched the sun set in the evening. A life Gene ended.
As January wears on he tries to sit with his grief, to soothe it, to keep it out of his hands. Memories of Babe fall like snow in his mind, chilling his heart and invigorating it simultaneously. The time he did have with Babe will be a balm to the pain as much as it drives the pain. Love is a paradox, he remembers Webster saying in that Austrian field years ago. My paradox, my Babe, amour de ma vie.
He dreams of the field that night, recalls the sun hovering in the sky, as unwilling to leave as he is now. He remembers Webster and Liebgott bickering, Luz laughing, Babe asking him about French. He remembers people who were never there at all: Bill dancing Fran around the flowers, Toye smoking, Julian frolicking. The field was lively, untouched by the war, and Babe was there.
“I wish we’d stayed here forever,” he tells Babe, taking a drag of his cigarette.
“I want you to know that you deserve to be loved,” Babe says.
He wakes up crying, alone in a bed that used to always have Babe beside him. That was what Babe wanted him to remember. You deserve to be loved. Why was it so hard for him to believe that? He’d known all along as a child that he was odd, never dreamed of a wife or wanted any of the girls in the pictures. Maybe he’d always felt that being loved was too much to hope for. That loving alone could get him by. He knows now that it can’t. Just another way he’s failed, his own life fading under his hands.
In the morning he resolves to write Babe a letter, or maybe to call, but he hasn’t figured out what to say. He rolls dough restlessly, trying to write a script in his mind. I’m sorry, it was a mistake, I’m an idiot. I love you. I’m ready to be loved. Come home to me. Unless you realized you do want a wife and then I’m happy for you, and I love you anyway, but I’ll never love anybody else again, and Doris ain’t pretty enough for you, Babe, you’re too beautiful—
The front door creaks open and the cats go running, hoping their prodigal father has returned.
“Gene?” Babe calls.
Eugene puts the dough down and wipes his hands on the kitchen towel. So Babe has come to do it in person—he’s a good man, of course he wouldn’t Dear Gene him. Eugene steels himself and heads out into the hall to meet Babe. He gets to see him one more time. How precious, to think that glimpse of him in the train station won’t be his last.
Babe’s hair is wet, dripping into his eyes, and he looks tired from the train.
“Take a last swim in the bayou?” Eugene teases. It slips out instinctively; he forgets that he’s attending their funeral.
Babe laughs his familiar laugh and Eugene savors it. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there, Gene. How’d ya not notice?”
Eugene shrugs. He’s been so preoccupied the world fell away.
“Can we go sit? I had to walk the last mile and my feet hurt.”
Eugene nods and they go into the living room together. Babe collapses into the couch and Eugene sits in the armchair, ramrod. The cats jump beside him and Babe pets Bogart absently.
“I’m sorry I’ve been quiet. I took some time to think about what you said,” Babe says. “Not because it’s something I’ve been wanting badly or nothing. But I figured if you thought it was important for me to think about that I should.”
Eugene nods.
“And I have missed my family like hell. Bill too. Even went and saw Julian’s ma. But I thought about it. If I wanted a church wedding and a coupla kids and a house down the block from my parents.”
A long moment stretches between them and Eugene tries to beat down the hope clawing at his hands.
“I want you more than anything. I don’t care if a life with Doris would be easier. I love you. But I’m glad you made me think about it. Because I’ve always loved you. Since you bandaged my hand in that foxhole. Been a constant feeling and now it’s my choice. With all my heart.”
Eugene launches himself at Babe, hope exploding into joy and love and life. He kisses Babe desperately, hands roaming everywhere; Babe’s hair, his cheeks, his neck, down under the collar of his shirt. He mumbles devotions in French, delirious with relief. I love you, I want you, spend the rest of your life with me, you’re the love of my life.
“Je t’aime aussi,” Babe whispers back, accent clumsy. “Come to bed.”
Hand in hand, they go.