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288 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2014
He relaxed, leaned against the boards of the old barn and closed his good eye. His right hand made a sign, a word. A finger to his lips and back to his chest. Tell, it seemed to be saying, but the word was directed at himself. It was his private communication: Tell.
And now in his Deseronto house, every inch of which he'd explored with his good eye opened and his good eye closed, he wondered if he had invented the memories of more than three and a half years of war. Memories of staring up into night skies, expecting the stars to explode. Waking up with dew dampening his uniform, puttees tightening around his lower legs. Standing in wisps of fog that rolled low along the ground in the mornings, so that in every direction, only heads and torsos could be seen above the mist, while legless men called back and forth to one another as they shaved and laughed and groused and swore, and prepared to fill their mess tins for breakfast.
He might have invented those memories, but he had not invented the war.
Perhaps the encounter had never taken place. No, Maggie was certain it had.
Memory. It whipped him around in all directions. And who was he to say whether his memories were accurate or not? He never knew what would be laid bare.