There stood the last picture of Miriam ever taken. The two of them looked handsome together. Henry was smiling. Miriam was not.
Miriam had not wanted to marry Henry. If he had asked her a few days before, she would have said no. As it was, she did not have the strength to refuse, and refusing Henry always took a lot of strength. It was a few hours after she left the Underground when he asked. She had visited her farm, and was wandering about the streets of London aimlessly. He found her in the burned out husk of the canteen where they met. She was sitting at a table as if waiting for a singer to walk onto the stage. Her eyes were distant.
He said how worried he had been. He was afraid she had been killed. She made no reaction. He said he refused to go through that again. He swore he would protect her. He insisted that they had to marry right away. Then he smiled.
Miriam looked up. She thought about Henry, not as a person, but as an American. Americans meant stability and safety. Americans were lucky and did not have to worry about invasions. As a wife of an American, Miriam would be protected and could raise her children in a land unravaged by war. Henry was still standing there, smiling, insisting she become Mrs. Curtis.
So she did.
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