“Since when do you care what people think,” Grover said.
I don’t. I just wanted you to be aware. Don’t get angry at him. It doesn’t bother me.
“Then why even bring it up,” Grover said.
Augie crumpled the cocktail napkin and tucked his pen back into the breast pocket of his shirt. He leaned back and settled his shoulders into the hard wicker chair, and wondered why the Tooley’s, with all their millions, didn’t invest in some nice padding for their lawn furniture.
“Augie’s not retarded,” Grover told Mr. Tooley matter-of-factly when he stepped back onto the patio carrying a platter of assorted cheeses.
No chair pads and no hired help, Augie thought to himself. Some millionaire.
Mr. Tooley cleared his throat. “I never—well, gee, Mr. Peterson, I didn’t…”
“I’m just letting you know before you get such an idea in your head,” Grover said, in that same “it-is-what-it-is” tone of voice. “He hasn’t spoken since the war. He wasn’t hit in the head or anything. Some people just come back like that. If you saw what we saw over there, you’d understand. “
“With all do respect, Mr. Peterson, my father served this country in that same war—“
“Is he retarded?”
“What? No—“
“Well, neither is Augie.”
“Mr. Peterson, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I asked you and Mr. Colwell here today—“
“I know why you asked us here, Mr. Tooley. I’m not retarded, either.”
Augie was sorry he had ever written down the word retarded. It was the offensive words that Grover seemed to cling to in conversation. Augie should have known better.
“Fair enough, Mr. Peterson. Why don’t we just talk about the photograph shall we?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“So you’ve said, but I think if you knew why it is so important to me—“
“For the same reason the Heart of the Ocean was so important to Brock Lovett, Mr. Tooley,” Grover said.
“Excuse me?”
Augie sighed and started to reach for his pen again. Grover waved his hand dismissively in Augie’s direction. Augie knew that if he didn’t intervene, Grover could easily get carried away with his movie references—especially when it came to Titanic, Grover’s favorite film. Augie took the waving of his hand to mean Grover would move on.
“For you, Mr. Tooley, it’s all about money, power, and fame. You could give a rat’s ass about the history. Tell me, do you have any idea what the coat Lucy’s wearing in that picture smelled like? Or what the note said that Franklin, that dog, slipped in the pocket of her coat that day? You just want to disgrace her.”
“I’m not as interested in Lucy Mercer as I am—“
“Oh, I have not a problem with you hanging that dog out to dry,” Grover spat. “But it will hurt Lucy. It will hurt her family, and I can’t have that.”
“What about you, Mr. Peterson? What about the hurt Ms. Mercer caused you? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Augie tried to catch Mr. Tooley’s eye—to send him some sort of warning not to go down that road. Augie had been down it many, many of times. Augie had read all of the letters Lucy Mercer had sent Grover when he was out on the front lines. Letters that expressed a yearning and desire for his company, his hand, his warm embrace. Letters that described long hours spent curled in an arm chair staring aimlessly out the front window, consumed with too much pain and worry to move from that spot until she saw her Grover walk safely up their front steps, breeze in, and whisk her up the stairs to their bedroom where she imagined he would spend many more long hours healing her broken heart.
Letters full of lies. Because while Grover was away, fighting for his country, his lovely wife Lucy Mercer was spending long hours in bed with—
“Mr. Colwell, it was your wife who took the photograph, is that right?” Mr. Tooley was asking.
“He doesn’t talk. I’m beginning to think you’re the retarded one.”
“Now Mr. Peterson, there is no need to be rude.”
After a long pause, Grover sighed. “Yes, it was Mr. Colwell’s wife who took the photograph. She sent it to Augie. He waited to give it to me until the war ended and we were on our way home.”
Augie felt a pang in his jaw, right in the spot where Grover had punched him that day. Augie didn’t swing back. Not once did he put up his arms to block the blows that continued to come. Augie let his best friend of 22 years hit him in the face, the chest, and then the stomach until Grover was too tired to do anything but sink his knees in the dirt and sob.
Because Augie had just survived a war. What were a few angry punches compared to bombs and bullets?
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