Nazis are retreating.
End of war near.
Jeannette wanted to shout the news to the driver but his face was so
grim she felt he might be a collaborationist. Anyhow, he might have
heard the news over the radio. What would Orville say? Should I tell
him at once?
She went on reading, reading an editorial about the sixty million people
who had already died during the conflict.
On the phone a nurse had requested that she wait till eleven ... a
little before eleven someone beckoned. By that time she had become
troubled; in Orville's room she had to fake gaiety. "Look, darling, I've
bought a new dress ... for you."
She held out her arms to him.
"For your one-armed hero," he said.
"Don't say that!"
"It's quite true. Perhaps you hadn't noticed! You'd better take a good
look at what's happened to me!"
Hypnotized for an instant, the loss of his arm appalled her again: she
couldn't take her eyes off the bandages: so, he would never be able to
throw his arms around her or lie on top of her: would he have to buy a
mechanical arm? A mechanical hand? Uncertain of herself, sick in her
stomach, she stepped to the window to watch people passing below, along
the street, the pine tree above roof tops suggesting utter loneliness.
"Turn around," he commanded. "I won't hurt you. It's a nice dress.
Don't be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," she said, but she could not turn around, thinking of
his bandaged head, how it made a clown of him.
"What's wrong then? Don't hate me ... that won't help us."
She was trembling.
How could he speak to her that way! His coarse voice, belligerent
voice. Would he continue to have intercourse with other women? Would
he become a homo?
"Are you going to stand there, like that, with your back toward me?"
Squeezing her hand around her throat, she managed:
"Just let me tell you the news ... the allies have invaded Normandy ...
it's in the paper ... I have the paper here." This was her momentary
defense.
Facing him, biting her lip, she held out the paper, hoping he would be
encouraged by the promised cessation of hostilities.
"Let's hope for luck," was all that he could say.
"Sister Blanche has communicated with your uncle ... perhaps he can come
... he has phoned..." She could not continue.
"Let me see the paper."
"Yes ... yes ... I sent you some carnations. Haven't they come? A boy
promised to deliver them ... he..."
"One of the Sisters is fixing them."
"The paper?"
"Yes..."
He reached out for it and then pain slapped him, a rough spasm, cramping
his fingers, shutting off his speech: staring at Jeannette, he waited,
hoping he could make it back.
Sensing his anguish and bewilderment, she spoke lovingly, bent over him,
kissed his bearded face.
"It'll go away ... it will go away ... be patient ... dear, Orv ...
patience ... Orv ... lie back against your pillow ... patience..."
"I can't see anything. Can't..."
"I'm right beside you ... shut your eyes ... wait ... that's it ...
think how nice it was when you went canoeing ... remember those long
hikes in the Adirondacks ... how about that time you camped with your
mom ... how about that?"
As pain diminished, he imagined a glossy photograph on the wall of his
Ithaca office: it was a photo of his first apartment building: three
floors, brick, slate roof: maybe it was imitative but so what! Outside,
on the street, pedestrians were walking in the snow, shoes crunching:
the campus chimes were ringing: I'll be able to do a lot of walking,
skiing ...
She kissed him, her mouth lingering on his.
"Don't pity me ... don't!"
The pain was gone.
Later he said:
"Better throw me out ... just chuck me ... suppose I'm impotent. Do you
want an impotent man around? I'm not sure I'll be impotent ... I
feel..."
His unshaven face continued to bother her, she tried to see him as he
was when they cycled along the Nonette, his smooth cheeks ... his smile
as the trout hooked his fly.
"Hush ... don't imagine things," she objected.
"Give me a drink, Jean ... a glass of water ... my Pershing arm is
thirsty."
"Yes, Orv, yes."
What if he committed suicide like Chuck?
He slept fitfully, through war dreams and serious pain, travelling that
route for several days and nights, gaining little, losing a little,
angry, difficult, at times abnormally calm. He began to enjoy his food.
He began to look ahead. Began to avoid self-induced fabrications. He
knew he must learn to write with his left hand. How long would it take
to become proficient? He would have to learn by himself. Certainly he
would have to learn to sketch--with a reasonable amount of skill.
How would Jeannette bear up under his problems ... would she be an
outsider? When he made love to her would she resent him, his
armlessness a continual influence? In his probings he understood more
and more that she symbolized hope. Stealing glimpses of sanity through
pain, he knew they had become a pair in London ... together they might
fly home, sail home.
He wanted to phone Aunt Therese and Uncle Victor but the physical task
of phoning was beyond him; there was no room extension; he asked
Jeannette to talk to them. He had her write to his mother: he tried to
dictate the letter but bogged down completely. With the help of Sister
Blanche he informed the army of his condition; the Red Cross sent
information; Dr. Phelan telephoned; official forms were forthcoming.
Orville did his best to keep from sweating out these problems.
Drugged sleep settled many things.
Was sleep another deception?
Maybe sleep was a second floor or attic. Basement?
Memory--he scudded through his memory, testing it: King Francis ruled at
the time of da Vinci; Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812; Haley's Comet
same year ... King Cyprus knew the name of every soldier in his army;
Mithridates spoke twenty-two languages ... if memory could be so
dependable then it must be equally possible to forget--erase horrors.
In a wheelchair, outside French doors that opened into the hospital's
walled garden, he enjoyed a Sister scattering seeds for the winter
birds: what a whir of wings, flash of beady eyes, about her skirt and
cornet! He wished he could walk the garden, the brick paths so trim,
the flowers in angular beds, medieval statues in hedge corners. What
were those red-leafed shrubs? As he sat, dreaming, wrapped in blankets,
Jeannette placed both hands over his eyes.
"Here you are, up again, and outdoors. How lovely!"
She swished in front of him and peered at him.
"It's getting so I have to hunt around for you. Gee, you look lots
better," she enthused, kissing him, amused by his Airedale-colored
bathrobe and mousy slippers under his blanket. "Somebody shaved you ...
you're my old Orville!"
He was delighted to see her but could not crawl from beneath his serious
mood: he wanted to shake himself: a loving and grateful smile was all he
could offer: she sensed that he was fighting a mood or was in pain and
waited, chatting with a nurse, enjoying the birds, ready to fit into his
world.
It had been a stand-up ride on the local bus, and she sat on a bench,
after rolling his chair close by.
"Sister Blanche brought me some letters from E," he said. He patted a
pocket in his robe. "I heard from Isaac Jacobs ... Zinc. Quite a scrawl
from him."
"Oh," she exclaimed, at a loss, worried about Orville's reactions. "How
is he ... any news?"
"He's been discharged ... hernia ... bacillary dysentery. He's
returning to Ohio. Landel has disappeared. Zinc says our Corps has
been disbanded ... not enough survivors."
Every word, every thought about the war, disgusted him.
He glared malevolently at Jeannette, blaming her for the loss of his arm
... Could he borrow one of Robinson's arms? How about Chuck? He didn't
need his arms any more. One might fit.
"Does it seem a long time ... a long time ago that you were with Zinc?"
she asked, trying to feel her way.
"Let's go inside!" he replied, and shoved at his skull bandage, its
awkwardness annoying him.
In the hospital corridor, peering at his sliced off shoulder, seeing
himself in a hall mirror, he said:
"Only fools return to the country that does this kind of thing to them!
Only the craziest of fools."
"Orv, let's not talk like that. It will get us nowhere."
As she wheeled him toward his room, he said:
"When I have gotten hold of a Woolworth arm, let's get married."
"Please don't joke," she said, afraid of his humor, afraid that she
could not bear up.
He said nothing more until they were inside his room.
She offered him his medication but he pushed it away.
"The war news is encouraging. No doubt Germany's beaten. I can make a
try at things back home. A try at living. I'm serious, Jean. Listen
to me. Sit down and listen ...
"I want to marry you. Will it be all right? Just don't pity
me--understand! We can get married in, in Rethel, if you wish. You can
decide where. Will you? I love you ... Let's try to make a go of it.
Shall we?" He asked, and yet he knew how little he had to offer. As a
swimmer, he recognized, he was far from shore.
Her face softened and became very beautiful. Bending over him, she
kissed him lovingly, and then laughed, laughed sadly, agreeing: we'll
likely make out pretty well.
"All right ... it's okay ... we'll get married in Rethel."
"As soon as I can ... soon as you wish."
"I'm glad, darling."
A red barn and lots of snow, she thought. I'll be able to aid him, in
Wisconsin, in New York.
"Please help me into bed ... I'll do my best ... I have to say it ... it
won't be easy!"
Settled under the covers, he lay motionless, stiff, tired, his fingers
in hers, the undercurrent of doubt coursing through him: too soon they
would be aware of daily dilemmas and responsibilities: plugging through
life alone might be more difficult; together they might knock down a few
hazards.
Probably a B-29 would fly them to New York; on back pay they might
honeymoon in the Adirondacks; then, by train--the Black Diamond--to
Ithaca; they would rent an apartment overlooking Cayuga. Sometimes he
would see his mother. He would obtain architectural jobs. There must
be clever ways to produce models. Maybe _papier mache_ or wood.
He remembered his dad ... remembered the island of poplars, shadows on
the island, swans, the carved white tomb reflected in the Petit Lac ...
he remembered a fire in a Caen stone fireplace, Jeannette on her bike,
her hair streaming in the wind.
* * * * *