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i.
Joe offered Web his hand. Not his heart or his friendship or even his forgiveness. So why Web suddenly thinks they’re the best of friends is beyond him. Web follows him around like a lost puppy, bunking next to him, constantly yammering on about Harvard and books and fucking philosophy. Joe tries to be caustic but Web doesn’t seem able to take it seriously anymore. He thinks it’s their thing or something. Idiot.
There he is, nose in a book, laying on his stomach on the top bunk. His wide blue eyes dance across the page, full lips falling open, dark hair a mess from where he’d run a hand through it at a particularly exciting part.
Joe puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, taking a long drag. “Whatcha reading, Web?”
Silence. Web doesn’t even look up, completely lost in whatever the hell The Great Gatsby is. For a moment Joe wonders if it’s some superhero he hasn’t heard of. Maybe Web isn’t such a lost cause.
“Web,” he tries again. “Web. David!”
Web startles, eyes somehow getting wider. “Yes?”
“I said,” Joe scowls. “Whatcha reading.”
Web tucks a Harvard bookmark into the pages and shows Joe the cover, beaming. Joe’s probably the first person to ask him about a book in a year. Unless some nurse sat by his bedside and simpered over Web’s thoughts on literature while Joe froze to near death in Bastogne. He feels a confused jolt of jealousy.
“It’s about a group of wealthy New Yorkers who make a mess of each other’s lives. Old money vs. new money. You know.”
Joe knows no money. “Didn’t think college boys read the society pages.”
It earns a frown from Web, which makes Joe smile. “It’s more than that. You should read it. I mean, the writing is beautiful,”’ he said, flipping the book open and clearing his throat. “‘And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.’”
Joe considered this. It was alright—more than alright, he agreed. Life did feel like it began again in the summer. Especially after living through Bastogne. “So it’s about summer?” he says, instead of offering any of his thoughts.
Web furrowed his brow. “It’s about the futility of the American dream, I think. How we reach for things and find they’re not at all what we thought they’d be.”
“And what would you know about that, Harvard?” Joe prods. Web lived the American dream every damn day. “What have you ever had to reach for?”
Web’s lips thin into an angry line. Shame, Joe had been enjoying looking at them. “No, you’re right, Liebgott. Nobody who’s gone to Harvard has ever wanted something he can’t have,” he snaps and shuts the book. He swings his legs off the bed and clambers down.
Joe watches his back retreat out the doorway and feels only a small bit of satisfaction.
ii.
Things blow over between Joe and Web like they always do and soon enough, with only a bit of cajoling, Web is back at his side. Joe finds he’d sort of missed him. He’s good background noise, he rationalizes. It’s hard to think about all the misery he’s seen when Web is there prattling on about how this reminds him of Hemingway and has Joe ever read Hemingway because Web really thinks he might like him, it’s very simple, and then they’re arguing again.
Web sits outside in the sun, basking, and reading a new book. How many fucking books is he hauling around Europe? Joe tries not to notice how the sun makes his hair gleam.
“What’s it today, Web?”
Web smiles up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Rebecca. You might like this one. It’s a little more thrilling.”
Joe sits down next to him in the grass. Web offers him the book to read the back cover of; Joe sort of wishes Web had just read it to him. He skims it. New wife, Manderly, Mrs. DeWinter. It’s all ringing a bell in his head, but why?
“I saw this movie!” he says.
“I’m sure this is better,” Web says loftily, as if only simpletons enjoy movies.
“It was pretty good. I took Marie,” he says. A crease appears in Web’s forehead. “My younger sister,” Joe explains. “Anyway, we liked it. I’m not a fan of Joan Fontaine though. Not my type.”
“Really?” Web asks, raising his eyebrows. “Are you more of a Rita Hayworth guy?”
“Vivien Leigh.”
Web nods slowly. “Scarlett O’Hara. Ridiculous book.”
“Nobody cares about the fucking book, Web, honestly. Vivien Leigh is a knockout. That dark hair? Those blue eyes? She’s a dream.” Joe says. He trails off when he realizes he could be describing the man across from him. Honestly, does Web look a bit like Vivien Leigh, if Vivien Leigh were an annoying guy who went to Harvard?
Web’s lips quirk upward. “Dark hair and blue eyes?”
Joe swallows. “I don’t think you’re pretty.” And it doesn’t sound like the joke it’s supposed to be.
“Who said anything about me?” Web says.
How he manages to look so innocent is beyond Joe. Maybe they taught him that at Harvard. No, it’s his damn eyes. He and Vivien Leigh both have eyes for the pictures. Christ, what is wrong with Joe?
“Shut up,” Joe says. “I’ve had enough of you and your books.”
Web has the audacity to look a little amused. “You came over here, Lieb.”
Joe scrambles off the grass and makes for the house. “Well I won’t make that mistake again.”
“So I take it you don’t want to borrow Rebecca?” Web shouts after him.
iii.
Web is reading a truly ridiculous book on a couch in the farmhouse they’re staying. It has to be a thousand pages. There’s no way he’s had that in his bag since Haguenau. Joe marches over to get to the bottom of this.
“Are you getting Harvard to mail you books? How can you possibly carry all of these around?” Joe demands.
“Good evening to you too,” Web says, not even looking up. “One of my old professors sent me this one. I carry a few books. Otherwise some of the guys graciously have taken a book or two in their packs.”
Joe scoffs. Who on earth had Web conned into carrying books around for him? And why hadn’t he asked Joe? “You didn’t ask me to.”
“You would’ve said no.”
“Probably,” Joe admits. “So which suckers are doing it?”
“Babe, Skinny, Luz, Lipton, Nixon.”
Babe checks out—he’s a nice guy. Skinny likes Web for some reason. Luz probably has some joke up his sleeve. Lipton noticed nobody welcoming Web back and went overboard with kindness, but Nixon? Why the hell was Nixon helping?
“Are you blackmailing Nixon?”
Web snickers. “No. He just said he has a friend who carries something for him so it’s only right that he’d pay it forward.”
Joe wonders what Winters is lugging around for Nixon. He pushes the thought aside and squints at the book in Web’s hands. “Ulysses,” he says, sure he’s mispronouncing it.
He must have said it right because Web doesn’t correct him. “It’s by an Irish guy. Fascinating stuff. I wonder if you’d like it. It’s really…real.”
“Really real,” Joe mocks, half-heartedly. “What’s real about it?”
“It takes place in almost real time and follows a man walking around Dublin over the course of a day.”
“A thousand pages for one guy walking around? Are you kidding?”
“Well. It’s two guys walking around,” Web says, lips twitching like he wants to laugh. “It’s so experimental. This could be the future of literature.”
“God, I hope not,” Joe says. “If one of my little Liebgotts brings that shit home in high school they’ll have to call you.”
Web’s eyes sparkle. “I’d be happy to help your children reach beyond your intellectual horizons.”
Joe shoves his shoulder. “And I’d be happy to mail your children copies of Flash Gordon.”
Web smiles, wide, genuine, happier than he’s ever seemed and Joe feels it all the way in his chest. Oh no. Oh no. Goddamn it. David Webster, of all people?
“Mail away,” Web says. “I’ll feel lucky to hear from you at all, Lieb.”
It’s too sincere and Joe wants to brush him back with a barbed retort: you won’t hear from me. But the lamplight is casting a warm glow over Web’s face and the couch is big enough for two but not so big that their arms won’t brush and Joe is sort of curious about how this stupid book could be the future of literature. He sits next to Web, just a little too close.
“So what are the Irish guys doing?”
“Well, there’s Leopold Bloom and—”
“Bloom? Does he own a fucking flower shop?”
“Shut up. So there’s Bloom and Stephen Dedalus.”
iv.
Everyone is sitting around together in a field in Austria as the sun sinks lower and lower. The war is almost over; they can do things like this. Luz, Perconte, and Bull are trying to round up guys to play poker. Nixon and Welsh drink while Winters looks on contentedly. Babe even managed to get Doc Roe out of the clinic and the two of them are cozied up on the edge of the field. Joe surveys the scenes around him, knowing he’d be welcome anywhere—well, not with Spiers, who appears to be counting silverware—but looking for one person in particular.
Web sits among colorful wildflowers and still manages to be the prettiest thing for miles. He’s reading a surprisingly thin book with a worn cover and sipping wine straight from the bottle.
“What would Harvard say about this?” Joe clucks. “Wine without a crystal goblet?”
“Joe,” Web says, fondly, and Joe smiles stupidly. He never knew his name could sound so right. “Do you even know what Harvard is?”
Joe snorts and steals the bottle, taking a long swig. “What literature will you enlighten me with today, professor?”
“Big words for a big mouth,” Web says. “It’s poetry. Robert Frost. You should read some.”
“Frost? Does he write Christmas poems?” Joe ask, trying to goad Web into reading him poetry in that pretty, polished voice. Maybe if his teachers had sounded more like Web he would’ve paid attention in class.
Web falls for it, hook, line, and sinker. He thumbs through the pages, brow furrowed, lips in a concentrated pout. “Mending Wall,” he reads.
Joe listens, closing his eyes, imagining the scene. It could be him and Web, out in denim and white t-shirts, under a nice blue American sky. They’d pass a beer back and forth and nobody would be around to notice how their fingers lingered. Web would wax poetic about nature while Joe did all the work. They’d have a nice time. Not that Joe actually wants to live on a farm with Web. He’s not Winters.
“‘There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder if I could put a notion in his head: ‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down,’” Web says and closes the book, looking over at Joe.
Joe has a feeling, which thrills and disconcerts him, that Web may have been imagining the same thing as him.
“Well,” Joe says. “He’s right. Good fences do make good neighbors. I hate my neighbors.”
“What?” Web exclaims, eyes dismayed.
“We need walls. You can’t just let anybody in,” he says. “To your yard, I mean. It would be chaos.”
Web drops his book on the ground. “I didn’t realize I was just anyone. But I suppose you’ve never let anybody in. No vulnerability for Joe Liebgott, no sir.”
Jesus Christ. How was Joe supposed to know that Web had gone searching for some poem to communicate some hidden meaning to him? Joe had been talking about actual fences. But he can’t admit that to Web. He’ll never hear the end of it.
“Just because I don’t let you in doesn’t mean I don’t let anybody in,” he says, sharpening his tone like a knife.
“Who says I want you to let me in?” Web spits. “I have no desire to go wandering around the pine forests of your heart.”
“The pine forests of my heart?” Joe says, incredulous. “Did we fall into Gone with the Wind?”
The angry flush on Web’s face fades, replaced by a deep frown. He exhales and takes another drink, shaking his head.
“And look. I never said I wouldn’t want to go hang out in the apple orchard,” he says, trying to speak Webster. “But it would never work. You know? So it’s good to have a fence up. You can still lean over every once in a while.”
Web is silent for a long moment. They watch Luz’s circle collapse in uproarious laughter. Joe probably should’ve just played poker with them. Could’ve saved Web some trouble.
“I don’t want to spend my life leaning over fences,” Web says softly.
Joe sighs and tries to shape his tone into something gentle. “I think you’ve read into this too much.”
Web collects his book and stands, jamming a hand in his pocket. “Yes. I suppose I have.”
He walks away, head low, more defeated than Joe has ever seen him. For a moment, Joe considers running after him, doing something stupid like trying to kiss the sad look off his face. But he’s done enough damage.
A small measure of relief courses through his chest when Doc and Babe pull Web down into conversation. He couldn’t bear the thought of Web alone with his books.
v.
It turns out that Web is much better at the isolation game. Joe puts on a whole show designed to get Web to speak to him but nothing works. He makes jokes about Harvard, rich people, extended hospital stays, and books. Web never bites. In a real low moment he sits outside and pretends to read a German book when he knows Web is due back from guard duty. Web passes him by without a second glance.
He tries not to be hurt by the fact that he’s never been able to ignore Web, even when all he felt for him was resentment.
Joe lays on a couch and idly wonders if he’d misread Web’s hysteria about the poetry. Someone who wanted to come into his forest would’ve done it by now. And Joe certainly wants to go into the apple orchard, take a juicy apple into his mouth, scrape his teeth on skin—
“Are you okay?” Babe asks. “Your face looks like a tomato.”
“Yes,” Joe snaps. “Do you know where Webster is?”
“Probably in his room. He’s lucky he has one by himself.”
Joe sweeps into the room without knocking. Web sits on the bed, nose stuck in an old book. He can tell Web is about to snap at him but he shuts up once he sees who it is and returns to his reading. Joe sits down next to him, back to the wall.
“So,” Joe says. “Pride and Prejudice. Is that about being a WASP?”
Nothing. Joe tries again. “You know, I think I saw that movie too.”
Web turns a page.
“I bet the book is better,” Joe lies. “Do you like it?”
He might as well be talking to himself. If he didn’t know better he’d think Web had actually gone deaf.
“Just tell me what the fucking book is about, for the love of god.”
Web glares at him. “It’s about a ridiculous, judgemental person determined to misunderstand someone who makes every effort to be kind to them!”
That isn’t what Joe remembers of the movie but it’s been a while. And now he knows when Web talks literature in vague terms, he’s really talking the two of them. “I’m not determined to misunderstand—oh fuck, just come here.”
He presses his lips to Web’s impossibly full ones and Web stays very still. After an excruciating second Joe pulls away. Well. He’d certainly messed this up. He’s going to go to Winters and ask if they can deploy him to the Pacific tomorrow.
Web’s face breaks into a delighted smile and Joe can’t help but smile back. So much for the nice Jewish girl. This is the smile he wants to die for. Web leans in and kisses him back, mouth falling open like it always does. Joe brushes Pride and Prejudice off the bed as he clambers on top of Web.
“You lost my page!”
“Shut up,” Joe breathes between kisses. “You don’t need to finish it. You know how it ends now.”
Web laughs into Joe’s mouth and leans back. “I want you to read it.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just stop fucking talking,” he says and pulls Web closer.
+i.
Nothing gold can stay, said Robert Frost, and Joe has to concede his point. He and Web enjoyed a few golden days: swims in the glittering lake, stolen kisses in closets, and Joe’s head on Web’s chest while he read out loud.
And then Joe ruined it, or Web did, or maybe it had been doomed from the start. Joe shot the Nazi and Web wouldn’t, and Joe hadn’t been able to decide if he was angrier at Web’s inaction or the judgement in his eyes. If he’s being honest, he was more hurt than angry. Web had glimpsed something he found ugly in Joe and it made him turn away. All the terrible things Joe said after had just proved him right.
He can admit, only to himself, that he misses Web profoundly. He misses Web’s ridiculous eyes and his plump lips and his thick hair and all his pretentious books and his stupid monologues. Web doesn’t appear to miss him at all; aside from looking tired all the time, he seems unaffected. And that should make Joe happy, shouldn’t it? He doesn’t want Web to suffer. Instead he just feels miserable. How did he end up desperately infatuated with an indifferent David Webster? It’s just embarrassing.
Even more embarrassing is that Joe is going to do something about it. He won’t apologize or admit he’s wrong–he’s not sorry, he was following orders, and he’d happily kill every fucking Nazi and not lose a wink of sleep over it–but he’ll figure out some sort of gesture to win Web back over.
He pores over the poetry book Web lent him but apparently Robert Frost hasn’t missed anybody in his life, or at least he won’t come out and say it simply. Joe decides he’ll give Web one of his own books. Let Web try to speak Liebgott for once; Joe’s certainly put in the effort to speak Webster.
But which to give? He muses over Flash Gordon and Dick Tracy and Batman. At the very bottom of his stack he finds an old issue of Superman. He used to think Supes was kinda lame. All that power and always being nice? But once he met his own blue-eyed square-jawed writer he softened up on Superman. Now he asks his brother to mail him the newest issues.
He pages through the comic, feeling an aching sense of nostalgia for a world that was never really real. A world where the good guys defeat the bad guys and are no worse for the wear. Superman never has to watch his friends bleed out or spend weeks huddled in a foxhole or tell his people they need to go back into their prison. How is it that the comic book villains are less evil than real people? Like a child might, he wishes for a minute that Superman were real.
He stuffs the rest of his comics into his bag and sets off to find Web.
He has to ask around, but eventually, Babe tells him that Web went down to the lake. When he gets there, Web is sitting on a stone, staring out at the water. Shockingly, he doesn’t have a book with him.
He doesn’t know what to say to Web—he’s not the writer here—so he shoves the comic in Web’s direction. “Here. You should read this.”
Web glances at the cover and then him. “Let me guess. Superman would’ve just shot the guy, and I’m no hero, I’m just a spoiled, cowardly, Harvard boy who doesn’t understand the world is different from all the stupid books I read, right? Did I get all that?”
Joe cringes at the recitation of his words from their fight. “No. He wouldn’t have. I guess that’s why he reminds me of you. You’re both too idealistic.”
“I’m not an idealist,” Web says tiredly. “I just have enough blood on my hands.”
Joe sits next to him and they lapse into silence. Web turns back to the lake. “I came out here to be alone, Liebgott. I don’t think we have anything left to say to each other.”
His last name has never stung before. He feels Web slipping away, drifting out into the water, never to return. “Listen to me. The war already took away so much,” he says. Limbs. Lives. Ideals. Innocence. Hope. Humanity. From me. From you. From every damn solider we know and every one we don’t. From my people. “I don’t want to lose you to it too,” he says, throat burning.
“Oh, Joe,” Web murmurs, opening his arms. Joe falls into them, burying his face in Web’s chest. They stay like that for a long moment and Joe feels the golden days again. And then they hear voices coming closer and separate with a sigh. “I’d kiss you,” Web says, “if half the company weren’t coming for a swim.”
“Something to look forward to,” Joe says and begins to stand.
Web yanks him down. “Hold on a second. I’m going to read this and I might have questions about this Superman fellow.”
“What kind of loser doesn’t know Superman?” Joe asks, exasperatedly, but leans back on the rocks.
“Only joking,” Web says. “I’m not that hopeless. But I don’t want you to go.”
And Joe has no real desire to leave. He hopes to spend a long chunk of his life sitting next to Web while he reads. Why not start right now?