Heroes by Robert Cormier

Author:Robert Cormier [Cormier, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Violence
ISBN: 9780307530813
Google: 6y9k4r9fwGoC
Amazon: B001PSEQE2
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

Arthur Rivier is slumped against the brick building at the entrance of Pee Alley, and I know instantly that he is drunk. The streetlight catches his open mouth and the dribbles of saliva on his lips and chin.

Almost midnight and Third Street deserted. Restless in the tenement, I decided to walk the streets, telling myself that it was possible for Larry LaSalle to show up in Frenchtown at night as well as during the day.

Arthur Rivier blinks as he sees me approaching. “You okay?” I ask, even though I know he is not okay.

He regards me with bloodshot eyes, his lips turned downward like the mask of tragedy high above the stage at the Plymouth.

“Nobody talks about the war,” he mutters, trying to focus his eyes and finally finding the focus and now his eyes drill into mine, the bleariness gone. “They talk about GI bills and going to college and getting married and joining the cops or the firemen but they don’t talk about the war …”

I place my arm around his shoulder to support him as his body threatens to slide down the wall, a ridiculous gesture because he outweights me by at least fifty pounds.

He lifts his head to the night. “I want to talk about it, my war,” he cries. “And your war, too, Francis. Everybody’s war. The war nobody wants to talk about …”

“What war is that?” I ask, having to say something, having to respond to the sorrow in his voice. But not expecting an answer.

“The scared war,” he says, closing his eyes. “God, but I was scared, Francis. I messed my pants. One day, running across an open field, so scared I shit my pants, bullets at my feet and everything let go …” Opening his eyes, he asks: “Weren’t you scared?”

I remember the village and our advancing platoon and Eddie Richards saying: “What are we doing here, anyway?” And the smell of diarrhea.

“Everybody was scared,” I tell him.

“Heroes,” he scoffs, his voice sharp and bitter, all signs of drunkenness gone. “We weren’t heroes. The Strangler and his scrapbook. No heroes in that scrapbook, Francis. Only us, the boys of Frenchtown. Scared and homesick and cramps in the stomach and vomit. Nothing glamorous like the write-ups in the papers or the newsreels. We weren’t heroes. We were only there …”

Closing his eyes, he again slumps against the wall, as if the words he has spoken have used up all his energy.

Shadows loom in the alley’s entrance and I look up to see Armand and Joe silhouetted against the lights of Third Street.

“Poor Arthur,” Armand murmurs, coming forward, placing his arm around him, touching his face lightly. A deep snore flares Arthur’s nostrils, flutters his lips.

Poor all of us, I think as I watch them lurching away with Arthur Rivier between them. A cold wind buffets the buildings and sends me hurrying back to Mrs. Belander’s tenement.

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