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368 pages, Paperback
First published August 16, 2005
He shouldn't have hooked up with Harris and Anstey in that bar, the two of them drunk and no real idea what England was or the army or where they'd end up. If one useless bastard in Halifax had given him sensible directions to the enlistment office. He shouldn't have listened to Hiram and run off to Halifax in the first place. If he hadn't hauled Hardy down the stairs, none of this. If he hadn't knelt to say the rosary over poor drowned Aubrey Parsons. Hadn't chased after a Protestant girl whose mother would never have him. He shouldn't have hooked up with Hiram at all, was the truth of it, shouldn't have left Renfrews.
He lay awake through hours of this kind of suffering at night while the camp was quiet and Harris and Anstley slept or lay silently running over their own lists. There was a sickening sense of inevitability to the rain of incidence and circumstance when Wish looked back on it. He started to feel even the subtlest shift -- if he'd woken earlier on the day he first saw Mercedes, if he'd drunk one beer more or less in the Halifax bar -- even the most inconsequential change would have been enough to alter the chain of events and his life now would be completely different. God's hand was there in the details, Lilly always said, turning you left or right. And there was some vague comfort in thinking God was to blame.
"I'll tell you what I thought at the time. I thought the Americans were the only ones in the world had the guts to drop those bombs and God bless them. I prayed for more, is the truth of it. Even after I saw what it did…
"I'll tell you what I think now, Isabella," he said. He spoke without raising his voice. "There isn’t another country in the world could have dropped those bombs and then carried on claiming love is the cure for all that ails the world. What a feat that is. Hallmark and Disneyland and Hollywood and whatever else makes you believe such bullshit. What a feat," he said again.