"We've mutton stew," she muttered."What else?""Roast beef.""So ... soup de jour, beef, potatoes, a vegetable.""Chablis?""Yes."The farmers settled down noisily to their cards and beer; when Orville finished his meal he felt locked in himself; the fire was dying down; the place had lost its welcome; he talked with the girl as she refilled his glass: he could not return home, he talked about E, about farmers he had known: the girl was about twenty, twenty-two, plain, blonde, her hair in a braided loop on top of her head. Two of her front teeth were missing. But she had a neat span around her waist and nice legs: she was a woman to sleep with."Pastry?" she asked."Later," he said, aware of how soon he would be trapped in the war, a low-flying plane part of that realization.Later ...She waited on the farmers; he had pastry and coffee and drowsed by the sleepy fire; presently, with a scraping of shoes and chairs, the farmers left; a lone customer remained. A man who had the appearance of a doctor, ate at a small table, spooning a bowl of soup, the steam fogging his steel-rimmed glasses; the dog lay beside him as if they were old friends.When Orville stopped at the cash register he counted clumsily, thinking in terms of dollars: he was pleased, as he fumbled with the bills, that Claude had provided him with so much. The waitress noticed his crammed billfold, cupped her chin in one hand, and smiled as if the francs had appreciative eyes."Do you have a room?""For tonight?""Yes, tonight.""I think so ... just a moment, I'll make sure."She spoke to someone at the rear, someone in the kitchen, and bounced back, and grinned a soft, calculating grin."There's one," she said. "I'll show you. Come." And she kicked the dog as she walked away from the register.Orville followed her through a narrow hall. Walls and doors were wood--all painted grey."It's on the top floor. I guess you don't mind.""I don't mind," he said.As she climbed a second flight he admired her legs, no rustic hair, smooth; her loose shoes sucked at her heels, making a pleasant sound. They climbed another flight."Ssss ... it's quite a way," she said, puffing a little. "Here ... here's the room."Jiggling her keys she opened the door: messy luggage cluttered a corner, the bed was unmade, its sheets and cover scrambled. Pointing to the luggage, she said:"The room belongs to a teacher, but he's gone for several days. I'll make up the bed, fix the room, clean it ... I was supposed to have it ready. Shall I fix it for you? It's twenty francs."Rain had stained ceiling and walls. The floor was warped and window frames were warped. The ceiling seemed to dip toward the two windows. Someone had soiled the bedside rug.Orville disliked the room, hated himself."Fix it," he ordered.Perched on a chair, he watched her remove the luggage and change the sheets. She was silent, quick motioned, angry at this late hour job; she was scheming how she could latch onto some of his money by sleeping with him.She spread fresh sheets ..."I washed them yesterday ... they're dry," she said.He said nothing, admiring her as he would admire an animal: bitch spreading sheets and cover."There," she sighed, settling the pillow.As she straightened up, her arm bumped the crucifix on the wall by the bed; it rocked back and forth with a dry sound; with a frown she steadied it, but, as she steadied it, he felt she was waiting for a proposition."I'm with the Maquis," he lied. "I go into Germany tomorrow ... parachute drop ... How about sleeping with me tonight? I'll pay you two hundred francs.""I'll come," she said. "I'll come later on ... I'll sneak you whiskey..." She had a huge smile: two hundred francs, Jesus, the man was crazy!"Okay," he said."There's work to do ... some late customers ... I'll be late.""Okay."Like a drugged man he sat down, unlaced his shoes, lay down, and peered at the wall. He did not bother to take off his jacket. He stretched out on the cover ... and was asleep instantly. Just before he dropped off he felt the bed sink on one side; he reached for the tank controls and heard a shell explode in the distance; he was falling ...The flash of a table lamp woke him and he propped himself on an elbow and tried to recall where he was."What is it?" he managed. "Who is it?""It's me ... Suzanne.""Oh."She was carrying a hooded teapot, cups, a plate of cheese and bread on a tray. She set the tray on the bed and Orville blinked at it. The smell of the cheese helped him wake up. While she was arranging the cups and teapot, he shed his jacket. As she poured his cup, she explained that the whiskey was locked up: It's very late ... I don't have the key."It's about two o'clock," she said, and couldn't think of anything more to say she was so tired. Now she worried that he might refuse to pay her, or pay for the room."You work late," he said."Yes ... but not every night.""Hungry?""Not much ... you fell asleep.""Umm ... I did.""Where are you from? ... You can tell me.""I was born here.""In Ermenonville?""Yes.""Oh."He observed her bloodshot eyes, and remembering that he had been asleep, he put his hand on his billfold: it was there.He appraised Suzanne's body as he gulped the tea, needing the warmth to warm him ...Jeannette was on duty ... the Rondes were in Senlis ... Lena was buried ... he ate a little cheese and finished the cup and pushed the tray away and began yanking off his shirt and trousers, troubled by the buttons and zipper."Have more to eat," he said."A little cheese," she said, hoping tea and cheese would lessen her weariness.Before Suzanne yanked out the lamp plug, she encouraged him to see her nakedness: she placed the food tray on the wash stand; she combed her hair before the bureau mirror: she shook her hair over her shoulders. Her breasts were plump and rosy. She had rose nipples. Her belly was a working woman's belly: she was strong. Standing with her legs tantalizingly apart, fluffing her hair, she dabbed cologne on her shoulders. Not a word.Darkness, and then a small light, a lamppost outside the inn, revealed the wash stand and the brass bedposts--making them unreal.The bed squeaked as Suzanne climbed in, hands and arms ready for him, mouth ready for him, her fatigue momentarily aside. She had difficulty arousing him; she wanted him right away; she was too tired for play; she scolded him and punched him with both knees; she muttered angrily."Come on, come on ... wake up ... I want that money ... you think I'm a slut ... I need money. You..."She kicked him.Disgusted with her, disappointed with himself, angry, he straightened her on the bed, slapped her across the face. Lying on top of her, weighing her down, he fucked her, she was tight, tough, skilled, peasant. Her mouth was slippery--big. He slapped it hard. Then again.As his hate diminished, as he lay there, tired, fighting his sex guilt, he wished he could infect her. If she did not have syphilis he wanted to give it to her. It would leave her something to remember the war by. Then, he realized she could be cured easily, through penicillin. So, it did not matter. If she infected him ... that did not matter. Nothing mattered.All this was worse than masturbation in a stalled tank.His mind returned to the machines: the tanks were crawling through a dense mist, one bus behind the other, guided by a GI flashlight, a green dot, a blinking dot ...In the morning, roosters woke him and he slipped out of bed before Suzanne woke; as soon as he was dressed he pulled out his billfold and left her 220 francs, on the food tray, between cheese and bread ... Suzanne ... farm girl ...She would be pleased to find him gone--everything easy. Standing by the door, he ate a piece of bread: what if she became pregnant, was the thought and the bread tasted sour: and that girl in the hospital, what about her, what about her possible pregnancy?Stealthily, he unlatched and squeezed through the doorway, no one awake: walking through the hall and descending the stairs was like passing through a packing box. As he neared Ermenonville, the sun yellowed the ground. In the Ronde kitchen, Annette was busy, her coffee smelling up the room."Good morning ... You're up early," she said cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?""Good morning ... mind if I have a cup of coffee?""I'll be glad to ... coffee and croissant ... in the dining room?""In the living room, Annette."He had made up his mind: he was leaving by bus: Paris: bus to Moire: then rejoin the Corps. Gulping his coffee he told his future to go to hell. But there was something in the coffee, in the taste and smell of it, that tied in with the antiquity of the room, his past, the Chopin bust that was watching, mistrusting him. A second cup. And the coffee brought to mind the room where he had been born ... voices ... faces. It seemed to him he heard his mother. Smoking a cigarette, he wandered about, annoyed by the fireless fireplaces and their sense of accusation.A copy ofCombatlay on a chair: in a matter of hours life would become combat: soon life would be a thing of the past, like a newspaper, like a comic strip. The cat would jump off the sofa and disappear forever. The skull would revolve round and round inside the tank helmet.He was dressing in his greasy mechanic's clothes when Jean appeared."Orville," she said, scared. "Orville."She had never seen his face so tragic."What's happened?" she asked."I'm leaving ... you know I had to go ... tomorrow anyway.""Claude phoned me ... he said ... why?...""Why," he repeated, without making it an interrogation, and glared at her.She perched on the foot of his bed and her raincoat fell away from her shoulders, pinioning her hands. Her cheeks, flushed by cold and anxiety, were red."Talk to me," she said."There's nothing to talk about. I'm wearing these filthy clothes ... I have my ID ... I'll get to Paris on the bus ... there are fewer checks by the Moire route ... so..." Leaning against his chest-of-drawers, he hunted through his pockets for his lighter: no, it was in his jacket. His fingers touched his jackknife. The feel of it helped. "It's quite simple," he said. "I can't go on with you. I slept with a girl last night at an inn. It's back to the Corps. I'm trapped. I haven't guts enough to desert, so ... at the best ... we had two days..."Jeannette rubbed her face and rubbed her hand over her eyes; she remembered crude things Orville had said; her love for him had died down, then welled up; she held out her lighter as he continued poking-poking through his pockets."Here, Orv..."As he bent over the flame she said:"I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you.""It wasn't that." Or was it?"What was it then?""I ... I have to go ... I...""I love you," she said."But I can't love you," he protested."Are you ill?""Perhaps ... another time ... maybe the war will end ... who knows what is going to happen!" He stifled a desire to say that he had a premonition of tragedy--that was nothing new in his life."You told me you loved me, Orv.""I wasn't lying."She wanted to repeat: but what happened? She knew better than repeat that question; she knew, from those hospitalized victims, from their bitterness, their profanity, their cruelty, their shrivelled minds and bodies, something of what it was that was obsessing Orville. She picked up a shirt, placed it over the back of a chair."Let me fold your things ... let me help.""I'm putting things away ... in my chest-of-drawers ... hanging up things, as they were."She was hopeful he might return; she began to sob; life was being ripped away; her fingers trembled as she laid a folded shirt in a drawer: he was leaving his home, leaving his birthplace, leaving his Ermenonville; she tried to include herself in the picture. Throwing her arms around him she kissed him again and again."I'll try to write to you," he said, each word coming out hard."Letters," she whispered, "letters ... we're not much good at letters ... how can you reach me ... how can I reach you?"Was the fishing line on the two reels still damp?When was it they had gone fishing together--years ago?Crossing France was going to be difficult, contacting the Corps was going to be difficult.His arm around Jeannette, facing the window, he gazed down on the lawn: Annette was entering the house, carrying Lena's angora, René.A door banged, and Claude's voice echoed.* * *5Dennison rejoined his Corps.Their third offensive started during a heavy fog ... the tanks rolled forward slowly ...Something red appeared and then faded almost at once; a rumbling sound was connected with the color and there was something else, some kind of motion.Dennison tried to turn over on his side but pain knocked him out, and then the red flopped on again, floating, jelly-fishing. He tried to speak. Something prevented him. What was happening? Then, the red shaped itself into something, a wedge, a fuzzy glow, then became glass in a stained glass window.Now he realized that he was lying in an ambulance; the window was swaying as the ambulance swayed. He recognized the sound of tires, the sound of a heavy duty motor.Presently, the ambulance came to a stop and a man's voice droned, words confused with other sounds, motors, shouts.Was this a convoy? Were they caught in a stream of traffic? Were they in a town? What caused the light through the window? Was it daylight? He broke into a sweat. How long had he been riding?Inching to one side, he peered at a tiny light bulb, its filament a hairpin of orange between litter-bunks. A man just below had his arm flung out: someone must be fastened to that arm. The ambulance began to creep forward and the wounded man's fingers began to clench ... then pain galled Dennison.He longed for a drink of water more than anything. He was sure that a drink would check the pain and ease the ride.God, he worried, where's my dog tag?Is this a German rig?Have the goddamn Nazis got me?When the ambulance stopped, Dennison was able to distinguish a cross in the window glass: the red cross was pale, old. Did German ambulances have red crosses? Voices sounded outside: German, French, English? Men were snoring in the bunks around him. Pushing himself to the side, he peered down angrily."Where are we?" he demanded.No answer.A bandaged foot protruded across the feebly lit aisle; the bulbous white mass shook, as if trying to reply."Hey, down there! Whose ambulance is this?" he yelled. He tried English, French, German.As though on a crane, the foot lifted, swung onto the litter: a pool of blood trembled on the floor as the ambulance moved on. Dennison beat against the wall and then the ceiling. He was soaked with sweat. The exertion made him shake but he continued beating until his fist stung and his head and arm ached. As he lay there, breathing hard, breathing fast, someone asked:"What can I do for you?""Man, talk to me ... where am I?"The fellow had spoken French: did that mean anything?Dennison peered at a tousled head, a pair of dirty glasses on a beaked nose, a stubbled, dirty face. The dirty face grinned pleasantly. Dennison liked the mottled teeth and purple lips."You're okay. Take it easy, huh? Did you think we was Nazis? Nah! Lie back! Rest. I'll bring you dope ... we'll soon be at the Fournier Hospital, in Rethel ... soon ... do you hear? It's Catholic. Clean. Be there soon. Lie down..."Reassured, Dennison lay back."Just some water ... just some water...""Okay."Things blurred."Now, here, swallow the dope...""Sure ... a little more water ... gotta have water...""Okay."Pain wormed in his arm and shoulder, and he wondered what had occurred. What had become of the tank? What had happened to Zinc and Landel? The last thing he remembered ... pain was burning closer, closer, closer ... Fingering his bandages, he poked at several wooden splints and tried to gauge the extent of his injury. Thinking to push back his hair, he felt a skull bandage; a sling was looped around his neck. His fingers traced the folds of the sling.What the hell did that mean?Both head and arm!So I got hit two ways! God ... dammit!The ambulance was swaying. Huddled under his blankets, Dennison recalled a face, a blonde face, a blonde face beside a chest-of-drawers ... that, that was Ermenonville ... that was ... In London, Jeannette had said ... Zinc had told him that ... and the fog, the heavy river fog and the heavy shelling ... somebody was ...With the ambulance door open, he caught a whiff of fresh air, the air entering like something solid; leaning over, toward the edge of the bunk, he listened:A snarling voice was saying something about the railroad: the railroad had been bombed ... no way to transfer wounded ... trucks were being used ... ambulances ..."Have to get them out ... out of the city ... air raids ... no food. Two men have died in our ambulance. We picked up an American, he speaks French ... Have to find gasoline. On the train we had food..."Windows and plasma and click of wheels, windows and plasma, a doctor bending over, when was this, where? Someone had fed him. The clicking of wheels bugged him.The man with the beaked nose and dirty eyeglasses brought Dennison a glass of pineapple juice--astonishingly good! As the man held the glass and straw the ambulance motor coughed, the juice spilled, the beaked nose swayed and almost fell."What a lousy road!"Dennison tried to raise his right arm ... yes, the right arm, the arm in the sling ... they were moving again.Pain closed in.In mid-morning, Dennison bumped out of the ambulance into a windy sun. Within seconds someone spread additional blankets over him. He was babied by someone tall and grey eyed. Rubber wheels hissed. The sky swayed. Other Sisters-of-Charity appeared: the gurney tilted, the sky tilted: door after door whirled by.Very soon he realized he was inside a room: its all-around whiteness assured him: he shut his eyes, longing for a sense of stability.Morning moved into afternoon.Afternoon moved into pain.The probing of the arm began: two doctors, a surgeon, two nurses--a Sister Blanche attended Orville; his mind screwed up to a pitch and then blacked out. There were x-rays, painful shiftings of the body: his brain shut down again and again: then, the radiologist began talking; he had to have time for his pipe; then Dr. Pierre Phelan, the surgeon, spoke through his gauze mask. In Dennison's eyes Phelan's eyes were the eyes of cruelty, eyes inside a mask. Phelan outlined techniques for the two doctors. Now they were in surgery. Phelan was talking to a British medic. The Britisher was having a miserable time with his French. Egged on by pain, Dennison attacked Phelan, accusing him of carelessness, army bungling, come-easy-victims, goddamn sadism."I've been a surgeon for twenty-odd years, my boy. I've a sort of built-in skill. Not easy to shake that skill. Besides, let's skip that. You see, Dennison, there is no alternative! You've lost nerve ends. The brachi- and pronator teres and humerus are badly damaged...""I want to see my arm," Dennison objected."Lie still.""Get me a mirror!" He was hollering. He tried to control his voice: he was being womanish. "Give me a mirror, damn you ... I want to see my arm.""If I thought it would help you I'd let you see your arm. My boy, you can't tell one bone from another, one muscle from another. Even our radiographs can't help you."The Britisher, a tall young man, a Londoner, was sympathetic: putting his hand on Orville's good arm he begged him to trust Phelan:"Be reasonable ... try to be reasonable. My god, you think we want your smashed arm? What will we do with it? Can we sell it?" Realizing that his humor was crude, he added: "Easy, Orville ... we're looking after you ... believe in us.""It's not your amputation," snarled Dennison.Turning to Sister Blanche, Dr. Phelan ordered her to jot down notes: notations about the skull x-rays, the arm, wrist, and hand radiographs: he dictated in a Midi-voice, a tired, harsh, old voice.Dennison attempted to follow the medical terminology, still unconvinced."What about my head injury?" he asked."You mean, what's wrong?""What happened ... nobody has explained.""It's a combination of severe bruises and a scalp wound ... not serious, Monsieur. Lucky there. We're certain about those injuries. Confident." Phelan clicked his pen against the side of the examination table. "Trust is what you lack ... cover him nurse. Don't you see he's shivering!"Dennison felt himself roll with pain.So the shelling had gotten his arm!It was lying there beside him, and he was powerless to move it: smashed bones, shredded flesh, stinking flesh ... that's how it was! Still he wanted to see his arm and attempted to turn his head, his mind at loose ends: but he was being wheeled on the gurney; he sank into his pillow, moaning."I can't go through life without an arm," he said to the nurse as he rolled through a hallway. "I can't..."Back in his room, he called Sister Blanche to his side."Wait a few days ... give me a chance.""We don't dare wait," she replied."Another day...""That would double the danger.""I don't believe it.""You must believe in us," she said, fixing his covers, adjusting his bed, understanding and love obvious in her face."It's my arm ... mine ... it's mine."Dr. Phelan appeared."We have reviewed the x-rays ... it's conclusive, my boy. It's surgery. Later, when it's all over, I'll do a detailed drawing for you."Later, he rechecked the injury, gauze mask over his face: he probed, hating the stench, examining, re-examining tissue, bone; he checked potential bleeding, planning his surgery.Dennison swore, gutter filth, wild, French, English.The doctor dictated more notes to Blanche--oblivious."Now for the injection," he said to her. "We'll take him as soon as the theater is free."As Dennison began to go under the strong sedative, he heard Sister Blanche talking:"You talk big ... very big ... of course you must talk like that ... it kills some of the pain ... it helps ... I know ... I had two nephews, good at swearing. Dr. Phelan's right ... you know ... you see, I've helped him through the years. Sleep now, my son. Be quiet in your mind, Orville. God will take care of you. You will be all right..."Orville was thinking:I've been longing to be alone ... the war's nearly over ... I'm alone ... for sure ... and what have I got?Waking, he attempted to disregard the pain: curious, how pain warped his shoulder and spread lower, with rod-like jerkings. Strange, how hot that part of his body felt. He wanted to remove the bandages, strip his arm, let it cool. The nurses had applied the bandages too tight. And there was that inner gnawing, in the very marrow: it seemed to pour into the heart valves and scald them. Hand hooked over his face, he tried to remember something that might free him.Free ... Jeannette ... she could free me ... a face ... not morphine ... not ... got to keep myself from cracking up ... Sister Blanche, let me talk to you ... Paris ... yes, when I recover ... no, I was in Paris as a boy, yeah ... yeah, I liked Notre Dame ... I like those flying buttresses ... they're the best part of the church ... you have to contemplate the church from the rear garden ... apse, by the Seine ... those bronze figures walking on the roof-line ... notable ...He complained of more pain and they brought ice packs. He sank into a sweaty dream, a war nightmare, woke, and found Sister Blanche giving an injection. When she had finished she bent over Orville and wiped his face with a linen towel, patting the skin, whispering kindness, encouragement."What?" he murmured. "What is it ... what did you say?""This will help you rest," Sister Blanche said, wanting him well, loving him."Ah," he sighed loudly.Already she had searched his belongings and found his ID: there was little else to go on, just some letters, crumpled letters, love letters. Often Sister Blanche wrote or wired or phoned the patient's connections, knowing what a visit from a loved one or friend could mean. Jeannette's bloodied letters stumped her although she could read a little English; with the help of the British doctor they read Jean's scrawl and made out the address at the hospital. As quickly as possible, Blanche wired Orville's condition. A card from Colonel Ronde gave his Marseilles address: she wrote there.In her room, later on, in a cockroach wing of the hospital, she lay down, her cap and rosary on her bed table. The telegram did not satisfy her. As soon as she could she got up and wrote a detailed letter, writing on a battered leather portfolio that was a treasure of hers.Would the letter reach Jean?Since there was no electric current, the amputation had to be postponed: the emergency generator had no fuel.Dennison's fever was 105° ... he could not eat or assimilate liquids.Blanche's sixty-year-old restlessness forced her into the chapel where she knelt in her favorite pew. She prayed for his recovery and for those under her care: she named names: the list seemed to reach across France: she begged that the war come to an end, that mankind reach a state of harmony: harmony? Harmony, her subconscious asked. With all the wounded, the millions dead?Dennison woke in pain and rang his buzzer.Perspiration soaked his head: he knew his arm was worse: he must have help: in his panic he felt he must contact Jeannette, Uncle Victor, Aunt Therèse, his mother: he did not ask what could come of such a contact: he wanted to hear a familiar voice, wanted to grasp that somebody cared: somebody might know of some way to help!A young nurse bent over him and asked him what he needed: her golden crucifix pointed at the "v" in her throat; her stack of hair was auburn: he knew he had never seen her before: eyeing her intently, his sight now clear, now blurred, he said:"I want you to contact my uncle ... Colonel Victor Ronde ... please write down his name and address."She wrote his name but Orville could not remember his Marseilles address: his mouth was open to tell her the Ermenonville address but he lost consciousness.His fever dropped, increased.Madly, he shuffled through the past, catching at straws: the face of Lena, his mother's face, his dad's photo, Jeannette ... his brain kept repeating his home phone number: 964-1904. Friends were rowing on Lake Cayuga ... it was late afternoon but the crew launched their shell ... the coxswain was sore as a boil as the crew made the water foam ... a lone heron winged over the inlet ... he was climbing a waterfall of ice at Watkins Glen ... it was February ... now it was Easter and he was playing tennis ... no ... no, I'll never play tennis again ...Desperately, he tried to move to relieve the pains in his back: the smell of his own bandages and medication gagged him: he fought to breathe, to swear at Landel ... he wanted to kill him ..."It's your fault, damn you! You ordered us to advance across that bridge ... your fault ... your fault..."Yes, there had been heavy fog at the bridge, sticky fog, clinging to the periscope, the visors ... pain ...Sister Blanche heard him talking, whispering, swearing when she came on duty. At one a.m. the power came on: they removed his arm: two surgeons, four nurses--and Blanche.By seven o'clock that night they had brought him around, through injections, plasma, medication, renewed dressings, ice packs, kindness. To encourage him, Sister Blanche told him she had telegraphed Jeannette ... his brain latched onto Jean ... Jean ... Ermenonville ... he knew that Blanche was on the right track.To comfort him, Blanche sat by him and told him stories about her nephews and days in Brittany, days on the beach, days at sea, sailing, fishing: her voice became a singsong: he hardly listened and yet he assimilated thoughts, flecks in her life. She watched over Dennison for eighteen hours without much relief: she supervised transfusions, bed changes, dressings, medication, dope, liquids: stretched out on a cot by his bed she caught catnaps.A gentle rain woke her, just after dawn, the drops signalling at the window: Blanche called it "our rain:" in her world rain was something angelic: it had always been that way since childhood, since those springtimes along the sea: it was forever promising: and this morning, standing by Dennison's bed, while he slept, it seemed to her that this shower was also promising.In an upstairs office, the rain patterned Dr. Phelan's windows as he sat at his desk, tired, thoughtful: he was hungry and thought of phoning for coffee and rolls and goat cheese (his favorite): he thought of Orville and others: he jotted down the day's routine for Dennison and then picked up a phone.Jeannette had endeavored to phone Phelan but could not make a connection. Claude sat at his phone for a long while. Although it was almost impossible he managed to find gas, fill the tank, adding six extra liters: avoiding main roads he drove Jean to a southern town, as far as he could drive. The usual black taxi was waiting. Kissing Claude, she drove off, until a damp distributor killed the engine. Boarding a crowded bus she travelled deeper into Provence. Where was Rethel? Was it a military base: someone said so. Was it under Nazi domination? Two hours, three hours ... she stopped looking at the time.The driver of a Rethel taxi had no windshield wipers and kept popping his head outside. Huddled in the back, in a chilly corner, under a lap robe, she counted and re-counted her money. Her overnight bag bumped to the floor as the chauffeur braked for cyclists. Did he know where he was going? Was he out for an extra fare?In front of a saloon, they picked up a wounded civilian and his twelve-year-old son; the wounded man was suffering; his son repeated over and over, for his dad's benefit: "We're on the way, we're on the way." Jean was reassured they would soon reach the hospital.What an ugly Provençal town! A crummy Montmartre! Towns were not tacky like this in Wisconsin. The war had deteriorated almost every building. The streets were a series of potholes.There was the Catholic hospital, fronted by many columnar cypress, a neat three-story building, presentably white: its barren flagpole in a small winter garden told its story: the taxi swerved, stopped, and the chauffeur released the door handle. The twelve-year-old helped his father out.Jeannette, grabbing her overnight bag, struggling with her purse, waited for the fare."Mademoiselle, I never ask a nurse to pay ... or the sick ... that man is one of ours...""May I give you something?""No, Mademoiselle ... thank you ... and you, lad, help your father up the stairs; the office is to the right."The blotched and smiling face drove away.She flew up the rainy steps, and into the foyer, a nurse on duty in the office, saying "wait." She shepherded the civilian and his son down a hall. Returning in several minutes, the sad little face, under stiff cornet, said:"You can't see Lieutenant Dennison ... you cannot see him now. I have been requested to inform anyone who comes.""Is his condition very grave?""Yes ... If you care to wait, there's our little chapel." She pointed down the hall. "There are magazines on the bench." She pointed again."I can't read anything ... I can't ... you see he's..."The sad little face regarded a sadder face.Jean left her overnight bag and went outside and stood a while on the steps, the rain a benison: at a nearby baker she bought rolls and drank coffee at the only table in the chilly entry. The china cup warmed her hands: she refused to look ahead: it was something to have arrived at the town, to be close to Orville: a girl of seven or eight asked Jean for a roll or piece of bread: the rain had beaten the already beaten clothes of the child: Jean bought her bread and hot chocolate and they sat at the table together, silent: back at the hospital, a nurse admitted Jean into Orville's room: she saw, at once, that his arm had been amputated. He was unconscious.Hiding in the little chapel she began to sob, handkerchief stuffed over her mouth. There was hardly any light in the room. A bouquet of bedraggled flowers leaned against the base of a plaster statuette of the Virgin. Alone in the chapel, sitting at the end of a pew, Jean cried until there were no more tears.No bomb, exploding during the London blitz, had left her like this: Orville, without his arm, alone: her love had not been able to sustain him: what promises could she offer?She had to wait until mid-afternoon to see him: entering his room warily, afraid, she noticed that the window curtains were nearly closed: his face was in a deep shadow, his head deep in his pillow--a stranger's face. Bearded."Darling," she whispered. "Orv ... darling ... I'm here ... darling ... it's me...""Jean," he responded. "Sister Blanche said that you had come ... I was waiting..." His voice trailed off.She kissed his cheek, stroked his forehead, puzzled by the head bandages; she hoped she was going to react sanely."I'm going to be sick," he said, in a faint voice."I'll help you," she said, and picked up his kidney-shaped pan. "Now," she exclaimed professionally. "See, I'm here to take care of you. See!""It was nothing," he said, breathing jerkily. "Nothing ... if nothing came up, I guess I've cleaned house.""Of course you have," she said."Ah!""Is your pain severe?""Not now ... not bad.""Can I stay? ... I won't stay long. Shall I talk a little? You just lie there and listen, huh? How about that?"In spite of his pain and uneasiness, in spite of the darkened room, he was aware of her beauty, beauty of now and Ermenonville: there was serenity in her voice: he thought: if I could raise my head a bit I could see her better, all of her. He moved and pain got him; her voice went out, her face simply wandered off somewhere, leaving a blouse and skirt, an outstretched hand."Jeannette..."Eyes closed he felt that they had never parted: he knew that Suzanne--was that the woman's name?--was a lie: war could not take Jean away now: they would be okay together: maybe they would visit Paris, maybe they would ...As Jean sat on a chair by his bed, silent, hands in her lap, tears in her eyes, he slept, and, for a while, sagging to one side in her chair, she slept. Sister Blanche woke her, smiling her wrinkled smile, her eyes alight, her cornet in perfect angle."He needs to sleep," she said, bending over both of them."Yes," Jean whispered. "Are you his nurse?""I'm Sister Blanche.""You sent me the telegram! Yes, of course, of course. I'm Jeannette Hitchcock. He's my ... Orville is mine. I guess you know. I guess my letters told you." She wanted to shed her shyness and hug her."I'm so glad you are here. Now, now we'll see. He'll get on his feet again." What a quaint pronunciation: was Jean Canadian, from Quebec? It must be so.Jean was standing, ready to leave."Won't you come outside, so we won't disturb him?""Yes, we should go out."In the hall, Sister Blanche grasped Jeannette's hand and then put her arms around her. Youth, it's such a wondrous thing!"Is his head injury serious?" Jeannette asked. "I didn't know ... tell me about him...""His head injury isn't serious ... multiple lacerations, bruises ... we will be removing the bandages in a few days.""Did gangrene get into his arm?""Yes ... gangrene made the amputation more complex. Of course Dr. Phelan, our head surgeon, tried to save his arm ... all of us tried ... there wasn't a chance.""No chance at all," she repeated."None at all.""I'm afraid he'll take it hard."The hallway of the hospital seemed very cold."Of course he'll take it hard, but he has fight in him ... he'll win out ... now he has you, my dear.""It's not as simple as that.""Not many things are simple in life. But with rest, with love ... and now you, you must get some rest. Go to bed. You can't rest sitting in a chair. You can phone me at any time. Let me give you our number--my extension. You should stay at the Racine Hotel ... the Nazis have cleared out of town, I am told. Let me phone the hotel for you ... come, my dear, I must jot down my number ... come..."Jeannette thought it was a long way to the hotel: her overnight bag was light but the blocks added up when she followed Rue Carot by mistake; she had been told to follow the Rue Carrefour ... in minutes she registered and unpacked in a second floor room; in minutes she was sound asleep, to wake in an hour or so, refreshed.The sun was setting. In front of the hotel a man was polishing his car. She saw no soldiers on the street. She ate in a cafe and found the food better than the food at the hospital in Ermenonville. Rethel, old, walled, citadel shaped, was more interesting without the rain: there were neat shop windows; in the tiny square there were pigeons, benches and a fountain with a boy on a stone pedestal, a sheep by his side. In a corner store, near the Racine, she spotted a dress in the window; with a few alterations it would fit, orlon, bright, bright daffodil, tightly belted, the belt-line high. Buying it, she felt encouraged.It was fun altering it in her room, trying it on, powdering herself, lolling, street lamps coming on, the sky trying to make something of its stars.Carrefour--the street sign read under her window: sitting in a rocker she read the name many times.In the lobby, she bought a morning paper, hoping for good news. In the taxi, spreading the sheets, she read:ALLIES INVADE NORMANDY.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 Therèse 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. Maybepapier mâchéor 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.
"We've mutton stew," she muttered.
"What else?"
"Roast beef."
"So ... soup de jour, beef, potatoes, a vegetable."
"Chablis?"
"Yes."
The farmers settled down noisily to their cards and beer; when Orville finished his meal he felt locked in himself; the fire was dying down; the place had lost its welcome; he talked with the girl as she refilled his glass: he could not return home, he talked about E, about farmers he had known: the girl was about twenty, twenty-two, plain, blonde, her hair in a braided loop on top of her head. Two of her front teeth were missing. But she had a neat span around her waist and nice legs: she was a woman to sleep with.
"Pastry?" she asked.
"Later," he said, aware of how soon he would be trapped in the war, a low-flying plane part of that realization.
Later ...
She waited on the farmers; he had pastry and coffee and drowsed by the sleepy fire; presently, with a scraping of shoes and chairs, the farmers left; a lone customer remained. A man who had the appearance of a doctor, ate at a small table, spooning a bowl of soup, the steam fogging his steel-rimmed glasses; the dog lay beside him as if they were old friends.
When Orville stopped at the cash register he counted clumsily, thinking in terms of dollars: he was pleased, as he fumbled with the bills, that Claude had provided him with so much. The waitress noticed his crammed billfold, cupped her chin in one hand, and smiled as if the francs had appreciative eyes.
"Do you have a room?"
"For tonight?"
"Yes, tonight."
"I think so ... just a moment, I'll make sure."
She spoke to someone at the rear, someone in the kitchen, and bounced back, and grinned a soft, calculating grin.
"There's one," she said. "I'll show you. Come." And she kicked the dog as she walked away from the register.
Orville followed her through a narrow hall. Walls and doors were wood--all painted grey.
"It's on the top floor. I guess you don't mind."
"I don't mind," he said.
As she climbed a second flight he admired her legs, no rustic hair, smooth; her loose shoes sucked at her heels, making a pleasant sound. They climbed another flight.
"Ssss ... it's quite a way," she said, puffing a little. "Here ... here's the room."
Jiggling her keys she opened the door: messy luggage cluttered a corner, the bed was unmade, its sheets and cover scrambled. Pointing to the luggage, she said:
"The room belongs to a teacher, but he's gone for several days. I'll make up the bed, fix the room, clean it ... I was supposed to have it ready. Shall I fix it for you? It's twenty francs."
Rain had stained ceiling and walls. The floor was warped and window frames were warped. The ceiling seemed to dip toward the two windows. Someone had soiled the bedside rug.
Orville disliked the room, hated himself.
"Fix it," he ordered.
Perched on a chair, he watched her remove the luggage and change the sheets. She was silent, quick motioned, angry at this late hour job; she was scheming how she could latch onto some of his money by sleeping with him.
She spread fresh sheets ...
"I washed them yesterday ... they're dry," she said.
He said nothing, admiring her as he would admire an animal: bitch spreading sheets and cover.
"There," she sighed, settling the pillow.
As she straightened up, her arm bumped the crucifix on the wall by the bed; it rocked back and forth with a dry sound; with a frown she steadied it, but, as she steadied it, he felt she was waiting for a proposition.
"I'm with the Maquis," he lied. "I go into Germany tomorrow ... parachute drop ... How about sleeping with me tonight? I'll pay you two hundred francs."
"I'll come," she said. "I'll come later on ... I'll sneak you whiskey..." She had a huge smile: two hundred francs, Jesus, the man was crazy!
"Okay," he said.
"There's work to do ... some late customers ... I'll be late."
"Okay."
Like a drugged man he sat down, unlaced his shoes, lay down, and peered at the wall. He did not bother to take off his jacket. He stretched out on the cover ... and was asleep instantly. Just before he dropped off he felt the bed sink on one side; he reached for the tank controls and heard a shell explode in the distance; he was falling ...
The flash of a table lamp woke him and he propped himself on an elbow and tried to recall where he was.
"What is it?" he managed. "Who is it?"
"It's me ... Suzanne."
"Oh."
She was carrying a hooded teapot, cups, a plate of cheese and bread on a tray. She set the tray on the bed and Orville blinked at it. The smell of the cheese helped him wake up. While she was arranging the cups and teapot, he shed his jacket. As she poured his cup, she explained that the whiskey was locked up: It's very late ... I don't have the key.
"It's about two o'clock," she said, and couldn't think of anything more to say she was so tired. Now she worried that he might refuse to pay her, or pay for the room.
"You work late," he said.
"Yes ... but not every night."
"Hungry?"
"Not much ... you fell asleep."
"Umm ... I did."
"Where are you from? ... You can tell me."
"I was born here."
"In Ermenonville?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
He observed her bloodshot eyes, and remembering that he had been asleep, he put his hand on his billfold: it was there.
He appraised Suzanne's body as he gulped the tea, needing the warmth to warm him ...
Jeannette was on duty ... the Rondes were in Senlis ... Lena was buried ... he ate a little cheese and finished the cup and pushed the tray away and began yanking off his shirt and trousers, troubled by the buttons and zipper.
"Have more to eat," he said.
"A little cheese," she said, hoping tea and cheese would lessen her weariness.
Before Suzanne yanked out the lamp plug, she encouraged him to see her nakedness: she placed the food tray on the wash stand; she combed her hair before the bureau mirror: she shook her hair over her shoulders. Her breasts were plump and rosy. She had rose nipples. Her belly was a working woman's belly: she was strong. Standing with her legs tantalizingly apart, fluffing her hair, she dabbed cologne on her shoulders. Not a word.
Darkness, and then a small light, a lamppost outside the inn, revealed the wash stand and the brass bedposts--making them unreal.
The bed squeaked as Suzanne climbed in, hands and arms ready for him, mouth ready for him, her fatigue momentarily aside. She had difficulty arousing him; she wanted him right away; she was too tired for play; she scolded him and punched him with both knees; she muttered angrily.
"Come on, come on ... wake up ... I want that money ... you think I'm a slut ... I need money. You..."
She kicked him.
Disgusted with her, disappointed with himself, angry, he straightened her on the bed, slapped her across the face. Lying on top of her, weighing her down, he fucked her, she was tight, tough, skilled, peasant. Her mouth was slippery--big. He slapped it hard. Then again.
As his hate diminished, as he lay there, tired, fighting his sex guilt, he wished he could infect her. If she did not have syphilis he wanted to give it to her. It would leave her something to remember the war by. Then, he realized she could be cured easily, through penicillin. So, it did not matter. If she infected him ... that did not matter. Nothing mattered.
All this was worse than masturbation in a stalled tank.
His mind returned to the machines: the tanks were crawling through a dense mist, one bus behind the other, guided by a GI flashlight, a green dot, a blinking dot ...
In the morning, roosters woke him and he slipped out of bed before Suzanne woke; as soon as he was dressed he pulled out his billfold and left her 220 francs, on the food tray, between cheese and bread ... Suzanne ... farm girl ...
She would be pleased to find him gone--everything easy. Standing by the door, he ate a piece of bread: what if she became pregnant, was the thought and the bread tasted sour: and that girl in the hospital, what about her, what about her possible pregnancy?
Stealthily, he unlatched and squeezed through the doorway, no one awake: walking through the hall and descending the stairs was like passing through a packing box. As he neared Ermenonville, the sun yellowed the ground. In the Ronde kitchen, Annette was busy, her coffee smelling up the room.
"Good morning ... You're up early," she said cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"
"Good morning ... mind if I have a cup of coffee?"
"I'll be glad to ... coffee and croissant ... in the dining room?"
"In the living room, Annette."
He had made up his mind: he was leaving by bus: Paris: bus to Moire: then rejoin the Corps. Gulping his coffee he told his future to go to hell. But there was something in the coffee, in the taste and smell of it, that tied in with the antiquity of the room, his past, the Chopin bust that was watching, mistrusting him. A second cup. And the coffee brought to mind the room where he had been born ... voices ... faces. It seemed to him he heard his mother. Smoking a cigarette, he wandered about, annoyed by the fireless fireplaces and their sense of accusation.
A copy ofCombatlay on a chair: in a matter of hours life would become combat: soon life would be a thing of the past, like a newspaper, like a comic strip. The cat would jump off the sofa and disappear forever. The skull would revolve round and round inside the tank helmet.
He was dressing in his greasy mechanic's clothes when Jean appeared.
"Orville," she said, scared. "Orville."
She had never seen his face so tragic.
"What's happened?" she asked.
"I'm leaving ... you know I had to go ... tomorrow anyway."
"Claude phoned me ... he said ... why?..."
"Why," he repeated, without making it an interrogation, and glared at her.
She perched on the foot of his bed and her raincoat fell away from her shoulders, pinioning her hands. Her cheeks, flushed by cold and anxiety, were red.
"Talk to me," she said.
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm wearing these filthy clothes ... I have my ID ... I'll get to Paris on the bus ... there are fewer checks by the Moire route ... so..." Leaning against his chest-of-drawers, he hunted through his pockets for his lighter: no, it was in his jacket. His fingers touched his jackknife. The feel of it helped. "It's quite simple," he said. "I can't go on with you. I slept with a girl last night at an inn. It's back to the Corps. I'm trapped. I haven't guts enough to desert, so ... at the best ... we had two days..."
Jeannette rubbed her face and rubbed her hand over her eyes; she remembered crude things Orville had said; her love for him had died down, then welled up; she held out her lighter as he continued poking-poking through his pockets.
"Here, Orv..."
As he bent over the flame she said:
"I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you."
"It wasn't that." Or was it?
"What was it then?"
"I ... I have to go ... I..."
"I love you," she said.
"But I can't love you," he protested.
"Are you ill?"
"Perhaps ... another time ... maybe the war will end ... who knows what is going to happen!" He stifled a desire to say that he had a premonition of tragedy--that was nothing new in his life.
"You told me you loved me, Orv."
"I wasn't lying."
She wanted to repeat: but what happened? She knew better than repeat that question; she knew, from those hospitalized victims, from their bitterness, their profanity, their cruelty, their shrivelled minds and bodies, something of what it was that was obsessing Orville. She picked up a shirt, placed it over the back of a chair.
"Let me fold your things ... let me help."
"I'm putting things away ... in my chest-of-drawers ... hanging up things, as they were."
She was hopeful he might return; she began to sob; life was being ripped away; her fingers trembled as she laid a folded shirt in a drawer: he was leaving his home, leaving his birthplace, leaving his Ermenonville; she tried to include herself in the picture. Throwing her arms around him she kissed him again and again.
"I'll try to write to you," he said, each word coming out hard.
"Letters," she whispered, "letters ... we're not much good at letters ... how can you reach me ... how can I reach you?"
Was the fishing line on the two reels still damp?
When was it they had gone fishing together--years ago?
Crossing France was going to be difficult, contacting the Corps was going to be difficult.
His arm around Jeannette, facing the window, he gazed down on the lawn: Annette was entering the house, carrying Lena's angora, René.
A door banged, and Claude's voice echoed.
* * *
5
Dennison rejoined his Corps.
Their third offensive started during a heavy fog ... the tanks rolled forward slowly ...
Something red appeared and then faded almost at once; a rumbling sound was connected with the color and there was something else, some kind of motion.
Dennison tried to turn over on his side but pain knocked him out, and then the red flopped on again, floating, jelly-fishing. He tried to speak. Something prevented him. What was happening? Then, the red shaped itself into something, a wedge, a fuzzy glow, then became glass in a stained glass window.
Now he realized that he was lying in an ambulance; the window was swaying as the ambulance swayed. He recognized the sound of tires, the sound of a heavy duty motor.
Presently, the ambulance came to a stop and a man's voice droned, words confused with other sounds, motors, shouts.
Was this a convoy? Were they caught in a stream of traffic? Were they in a town? What caused the light through the window? Was it daylight? He broke into a sweat. How long had he been riding?
Inching to one side, he peered at a tiny light bulb, its filament a hairpin of orange between litter-bunks. A man just below had his arm flung out: someone must be fastened to that arm. The ambulance began to creep forward and the wounded man's fingers began to clench ... then pain galled Dennison.
He longed for a drink of water more than anything. He was sure that a drink would check the pain and ease the ride.
God, he worried, where's my dog tag?
Is this a German rig?
Have the goddamn Nazis got me?
When the ambulance stopped, Dennison was able to distinguish a cross in the window glass: the red cross was pale, old. Did German ambulances have red crosses? Voices sounded outside: German, French, English? Men were snoring in the bunks around him. Pushing himself to the side, he peered down angrily.
"Where are we?" he demanded.
No answer.
A bandaged foot protruded across the feebly lit aisle; the bulbous white mass shook, as if trying to reply.
"Hey, down there! Whose ambulance is this?" he yelled. He tried English, French, German.
As though on a crane, the foot lifted, swung onto the litter: a pool of blood trembled on the floor as the ambulance moved on. Dennison beat against the wall and then the ceiling. He was soaked with sweat. The exertion made him shake but he continued beating until his fist stung and his head and arm ached. As he lay there, breathing hard, breathing fast, someone asked:
"What can I do for you?"
"Man, talk to me ... where am I?"
The fellow had spoken French: did that mean anything?
Dennison peered at a tousled head, a pair of dirty glasses on a beaked nose, a stubbled, dirty face. The dirty face grinned pleasantly. Dennison liked the mottled teeth and purple lips.
"You're okay. Take it easy, huh? Did you think we was Nazis? Nah! Lie back! Rest. I'll bring you dope ... we'll soon be at the Fournier Hospital, in Rethel ... soon ... do you hear? It's Catholic. Clean. Be there soon. Lie down..."
Reassured, Dennison lay back.
"Just some water ... just some water..."
"Okay."
Things blurred.
"Now, here, swallow the dope..."
"Sure ... a little more water ... gotta have water..."
"Okay."
Pain wormed in his arm and shoulder, and he wondered what had occurred. What had become of the tank? What had happened to Zinc and Landel? The last thing he remembered ... pain was burning closer, closer, closer ... Fingering his bandages, he poked at several wooden splints and tried to gauge the extent of his injury. Thinking to push back his hair, he felt a skull bandage; a sling was looped around his neck. His fingers traced the folds of the sling.
What the hell did that mean?
Both head and arm!
So I got hit two ways! God ... dammit!
The ambulance was swaying. Huddled under his blankets, Dennison recalled a face, a blonde face, a blonde face beside a chest-of-drawers ... that, that was Ermenonville ... that was ... In London, Jeannette had said ... Zinc had told him that ... and the fog, the heavy river fog and the heavy shelling ... somebody was ...
With the ambulance door open, he caught a whiff of fresh air, the air entering like something solid; leaning over, toward the edge of the bunk, he listened:
A snarling voice was saying something about the railroad: the railroad had been bombed ... no way to transfer wounded ... trucks were being used ... ambulances ...
"Have to get them out ... out of the city ... air raids ... no food. Two men have died in our ambulance. We picked up an American, he speaks French ... Have to find gasoline. On the train we had food..."
Windows and plasma and click of wheels, windows and plasma, a doctor bending over, when was this, where? Someone had fed him. The clicking of wheels bugged him.
The man with the beaked nose and dirty eyeglasses brought Dennison a glass of pineapple juice--astonishingly good! As the man held the glass and straw the ambulance motor coughed, the juice spilled, the beaked nose swayed and almost fell.
"What a lousy road!"
Dennison tried to raise his right arm ... yes, the right arm, the arm in the sling ... they were moving again.
Pain closed in.
In mid-morning, Dennison bumped out of the ambulance into a windy sun. Within seconds someone spread additional blankets over him. He was babied by someone tall and grey eyed. Rubber wheels hissed. The sky swayed. Other Sisters-of-Charity appeared: the gurney tilted, the sky tilted: door after door whirled by.
Very soon he realized he was inside a room: its all-around whiteness assured him: he shut his eyes, longing for a sense of stability.
Morning moved into afternoon.
Afternoon moved into pain.
The probing of the arm began: two doctors, a surgeon, two nurses--a Sister Blanche attended Orville; his mind screwed up to a pitch and then blacked out. There were x-rays, painful shiftings of the body: his brain shut down again and again: then, the radiologist began talking; he had to have time for his pipe; then Dr. Pierre Phelan, the surgeon, spoke through his gauze mask. In Dennison's eyes Phelan's eyes were the eyes of cruelty, eyes inside a mask. Phelan outlined techniques for the two doctors. Now they were in surgery. Phelan was talking to a British medic. The Britisher was having a miserable time with his French. Egged on by pain, Dennison attacked Phelan, accusing him of carelessness, army bungling, come-easy-victims, goddamn sadism.
"I've been a surgeon for twenty-odd years, my boy. I've a sort of built-in skill. Not easy to shake that skill. Besides, let's skip that. You see, Dennison, there is no alternative! You've lost nerve ends. The brachi- and pronator teres and humerus are badly damaged..."
"I want to see my arm," Dennison objected.
"Lie still."
"Get me a mirror!" He was hollering. He tried to control his voice: he was being womanish. "Give me a mirror, damn you ... I want to see my arm."
"If I thought it would help you I'd let you see your arm. My boy, you can't tell one bone from another, one muscle from another. Even our radiographs can't help you."
The Britisher, a tall young man, a Londoner, was sympathetic: putting his hand on Orville's good arm he begged him to trust Phelan:
"Be reasonable ... try to be reasonable. My god, you think we want your smashed arm? What will we do with it? Can we sell it?" Realizing that his humor was crude, he added: "Easy, Orville ... we're looking after you ... believe in us."
"It's not your amputation," snarled Dennison.
Turning to Sister Blanche, Dr. Phelan ordered her to jot down notes: notations about the skull x-rays, the arm, wrist, and hand radiographs: he dictated in a Midi-voice, a tired, harsh, old voice.
Dennison attempted to follow the medical terminology, still unconvinced.
"What about my head injury?" he asked.
"You mean, what's wrong?"
"What happened ... nobody has explained."
"It's a combination of severe bruises and a scalp wound ... not serious, Monsieur. Lucky there. We're certain about those injuries. Confident." Phelan clicked his pen against the side of the examination table. "Trust is what you lack ... cover him nurse. Don't you see he's shivering!"
Dennison felt himself roll with pain.
So the shelling had gotten his arm!
It was lying there beside him, and he was powerless to move it: smashed bones, shredded flesh, stinking flesh ... that's how it was! Still he wanted to see his arm and attempted to turn his head, his mind at loose ends: but he was being wheeled on the gurney; he sank into his pillow, moaning.
"I can't go through life without an arm," he said to the nurse as he rolled through a hallway. "I can't..."
Back in his room, he called Sister Blanche to his side.
"Wait a few days ... give me a chance."
"We don't dare wait," she replied.
"Another day..."
"That would double the danger."
"I don't believe it."
"You must believe in us," she said, fixing his covers, adjusting his bed, understanding and love obvious in her face.
"It's my arm ... mine ... it's mine."
Dr. Phelan appeared.
"We have reviewed the x-rays ... it's conclusive, my boy. It's surgery. Later, when it's all over, I'll do a detailed drawing for you."
Later, he rechecked the injury, gauze mask over his face: he probed, hating the stench, examining, re-examining tissue, bone; he checked potential bleeding, planning his surgery.
Dennison swore, gutter filth, wild, French, English.
The doctor dictated more notes to Blanche--oblivious.
"Now for the injection," he said to her. "We'll take him as soon as the theater is free."
As Dennison began to go under the strong sedative, he heard Sister Blanche talking:
"You talk big ... very big ... of course you must talk like that ... it kills some of the pain ... it helps ... I know ... I had two nephews, good at swearing. Dr. Phelan's right ... you know ... you see, I've helped him through the years. Sleep now, my son. Be quiet in your mind, Orville. God will take care of you. You will be all right..."
Orville was thinking:
I've been longing to be alone ... the war's nearly over ... I'm alone ... for sure ... and what have I got?
Waking, he attempted to disregard the pain: curious, how pain warped his shoulder and spread lower, with rod-like jerkings. Strange, how hot that part of his body felt. He wanted to remove the bandages, strip his arm, let it cool. The nurses had applied the bandages too tight. And there was that inner gnawing, in the very marrow: it seemed to pour into the heart valves and scald them. Hand hooked over his face, he tried to remember something that might free him.
Free ... Jeannette ... she could free me ... a face ... not morphine ... not ... got to keep myself from cracking up ... Sister Blanche, let me talk to you ... Paris ... yes, when I recover ... no, I was in Paris as a boy, yeah ... yeah, I liked Notre Dame ... I like those flying buttresses ... they're the best part of the church ... you have to contemplate the church from the rear garden ... apse, by the Seine ... those bronze figures walking on the roof-line ... notable ...
He complained of more pain and they brought ice packs. He sank into a sweaty dream, a war nightmare, woke, and found Sister Blanche giving an injection. When she had finished she bent over Orville and wiped his face with a linen towel, patting the skin, whispering kindness, encouragement.
"What?" he murmured. "What is it ... what did you say?"
"This will help you rest," Sister Blanche said, wanting him well, loving him.
"Ah," he sighed loudly.
Already she had searched his belongings and found his ID: there was little else to go on, just some letters, crumpled letters, love letters. Often Sister Blanche wrote or wired or phoned the patient's connections, knowing what a visit from a loved one or friend could mean. Jeannette's bloodied letters stumped her although she could read a little English; with the help of the British doctor they read Jean's scrawl and made out the address at the hospital. As quickly as possible, Blanche wired Orville's condition. A card from Colonel Ronde gave his Marseilles address: she wrote there.
In her room, later on, in a cockroach wing of the hospital, she lay down, her cap and rosary on her bed table. The telegram did not satisfy her. As soon as she could she got up and wrote a detailed letter, writing on a battered leather portfolio that was a treasure of hers.
Would the letter reach Jean?
Since there was no electric current, the amputation had to be postponed: the emergency generator had no fuel.
Dennison's fever was 105° ... he could not eat or assimilate liquids.
Blanche's sixty-year-old restlessness forced her into the chapel where she knelt in her favorite pew. She prayed for his recovery and for those under her care: she named names: the list seemed to reach across France: she begged that the war come to an end, that mankind reach a state of harmony: harmony? Harmony, her subconscious asked. With all the wounded, the millions dead?
Dennison woke in pain and rang his buzzer.
Perspiration soaked his head: he knew his arm was worse: he must have help: in his panic he felt he must contact Jeannette, Uncle Victor, Aunt Therèse, his mother: he did not ask what could come of such a contact: he wanted to hear a familiar voice, wanted to grasp that somebody cared: somebody might know of some way to help!
A young nurse bent over him and asked him what he needed: her golden crucifix pointed at the "v" in her throat; her stack of hair was auburn: he knew he had never seen her before: eyeing her intently, his sight now clear, now blurred, he said:
"I want you to contact my uncle ... Colonel Victor Ronde ... please write down his name and address."
She wrote his name but Orville could not remember his Marseilles address: his mouth was open to tell her the Ermenonville address but he lost consciousness.
His fever dropped, increased.
Madly, he shuffled through the past, catching at straws: the face of Lena, his mother's face, his dad's photo, Jeannette ... his brain kept repeating his home phone number: 964-1904. Friends were rowing on Lake Cayuga ... it was late afternoon but the crew launched their shell ... the coxswain was sore as a boil as the crew made the water foam ... a lone heron winged over the inlet ... he was climbing a waterfall of ice at Watkins Glen ... it was February ... now it was Easter and he was playing tennis ... no ... no, I'll never play tennis again ...
Desperately, he tried to move to relieve the pains in his back: the smell of his own bandages and medication gagged him: he fought to breathe, to swear at Landel ... he wanted to kill him ...
"It's your fault, damn you! You ordered us to advance across that bridge ... your fault ... your fault..."
Yes, there had been heavy fog at the bridge, sticky fog, clinging to the periscope, the visors ... pain ...
Sister Blanche heard him talking, whispering, swearing when she came on duty. At one a.m. the power came on: they removed his arm: two surgeons, four nurses--and Blanche.
By seven o'clock that night they had brought him around, through injections, plasma, medication, renewed dressings, ice packs, kindness. To encourage him, Sister Blanche told him she had telegraphed Jeannette ... his brain latched onto Jean ... Jean ... Ermenonville ... he knew that Blanche was on the right track.
To comfort him, Blanche sat by him and told him stories about her nephews and days in Brittany, days on the beach, days at sea, sailing, fishing: her voice became a singsong: he hardly listened and yet he assimilated thoughts, flecks in her life. She watched over Dennison for eighteen hours without much relief: she supervised transfusions, bed changes, dressings, medication, dope, liquids: stretched out on a cot by his bed she caught catnaps.
A gentle rain woke her, just after dawn, the drops signalling at the window: Blanche called it "our rain:" in her world rain was something angelic: it had always been that way since childhood, since those springtimes along the sea: it was forever promising: and this morning, standing by Dennison's bed, while he slept, it seemed to her that this shower was also promising.
In an upstairs office, the rain patterned Dr. Phelan's windows as he sat at his desk, tired, thoughtful: he was hungry and thought of phoning for coffee and rolls and goat cheese (his favorite): he thought of Orville and others: he jotted down the day's routine for Dennison and then picked up a phone.
Jeannette had endeavored to phone Phelan but could not make a connection. Claude sat at his phone for a long while. Although it was almost impossible he managed to find gas, fill the tank, adding six extra liters: avoiding main roads he drove Jean to a southern town, as far as he could drive. The usual black taxi was waiting. Kissing Claude, she drove off, until a damp distributor killed the engine. Boarding a crowded bus she travelled deeper into Provence. Where was Rethel? Was it a military base: someone said so. Was it under Nazi domination? Two hours, three hours ... she stopped looking at the time.
The driver of a Rethel taxi had no windshield wipers and kept popping his head outside. Huddled in the back, in a chilly corner, under a lap robe, she counted and re-counted her money. Her overnight bag bumped to the floor as the chauffeur braked for cyclists. Did he know where he was going? Was he out for an extra fare?
In front of a saloon, they picked up a wounded civilian and his twelve-year-old son; the wounded man was suffering; his son repeated over and over, for his dad's benefit: "We're on the way, we're on the way." Jean was reassured they would soon reach the hospital.
What an ugly Provençal town! A crummy Montmartre! Towns were not tacky like this in Wisconsin. The war had deteriorated almost every building. The streets were a series of potholes.
There was the Catholic hospital, fronted by many columnar cypress, a neat three-story building, presentably white: its barren flagpole in a small winter garden told its story: the taxi swerved, stopped, and the chauffeur released the door handle. The twelve-year-old helped his father out.
Jeannette, grabbing her overnight bag, struggling with her purse, waited for the fare.
"Mademoiselle, I never ask a nurse to pay ... or the sick ... that man is one of ours..."
"May I give you something?"
"No, Mademoiselle ... thank you ... and you, lad, help your father up the stairs; the office is to the right."
The blotched and smiling face drove away.
She flew up the rainy steps, and into the foyer, a nurse on duty in the office, saying "wait." She shepherded the civilian and his son down a hall. Returning in several minutes, the sad little face, under stiff cornet, said:
"You can't see Lieutenant Dennison ... you cannot see him now. I have been requested to inform anyone who comes."
"Is his condition very grave?"
"Yes ... If you care to wait, there's our little chapel." She pointed down the hall. "There are magazines on the bench." She pointed again.
"I can't read anything ... I can't ... you see he's..."
The sad little face regarded a sadder face.
Jean left her overnight bag and went outside and stood a while on the steps, the rain a benison: at a nearby baker she bought rolls and drank coffee at the only table in the chilly entry. The china cup warmed her hands: she refused to look ahead: it was something to have arrived at the town, to be close to Orville: a girl of seven or eight asked Jean for a roll or piece of bread: the rain had beaten the already beaten clothes of the child: Jean bought her bread and hot chocolate and they sat at the table together, silent: back at the hospital, a nurse admitted Jean into Orville's room: she saw, at once, that his arm had been amputated. He was unconscious.
Hiding in the little chapel she began to sob, handkerchief stuffed over her mouth. There was hardly any light in the room. A bouquet of bedraggled flowers leaned against the base of a plaster statuette of the Virgin. Alone in the chapel, sitting at the end of a pew, Jean cried until there were no more tears.
No bomb, exploding during the London blitz, had left her like this: Orville, without his arm, alone: her love had not been able to sustain him: what promises could she offer?
She had to wait until mid-afternoon to see him: entering his room warily, afraid, she noticed that the window curtains were nearly closed: his face was in a deep shadow, his head deep in his pillow--a stranger's face. Bearded.
"Darling," she whispered. "Orv ... darling ... I'm here ... darling ... it's me..."
"Jean," he responded. "Sister Blanche said that you had come ... I was waiting..." His voice trailed off.
She kissed his cheek, stroked his forehead, puzzled by the head bandages; she hoped she was going to react sanely.
"I'm going to be sick," he said, in a faint voice.
"I'll help you," she said, and picked up his kidney-shaped pan. "Now," she exclaimed professionally. "See, I'm here to take care of you. See!"
"It was nothing," he said, breathing jerkily. "Nothing ... if nothing came up, I guess I've cleaned house."
"Of course you have," she said.
"Ah!"
"Is your pain severe?"
"Not now ... not bad."
"Can I stay? ... I won't stay long. Shall I talk a little? You just lie there and listen, huh? How about that?"
In spite of his pain and uneasiness, in spite of the darkened room, he was aware of her beauty, beauty of now and Ermenonville: there was serenity in her voice: he thought: if I could raise my head a bit I could see her better, all of her. He moved and pain got him; her voice went out, her face simply wandered off somewhere, leaving a blouse and skirt, an outstretched hand.
"Jeannette..."
Eyes closed he felt that they had never parted: he knew that Suzanne--was that the woman's name?--was a lie: war could not take Jean away now: they would be okay together: maybe they would visit Paris, maybe they would ...
As Jean sat on a chair by his bed, silent, hands in her lap, tears in her eyes, he slept, and, for a while, sagging to one side in her chair, she slept. Sister Blanche woke her, smiling her wrinkled smile, her eyes alight, her cornet in perfect angle.
"He needs to sleep," she said, bending over both of them.
"Yes," Jean whispered. "Are you his nurse?"
"I'm Sister Blanche."
"You sent me the telegram! Yes, of course, of course. I'm Jeannette Hitchcock. He's my ... Orville is mine. I guess you know. I guess my letters told you." She wanted to shed her shyness and hug her.
"I'm so glad you are here. Now, now we'll see. He'll get on his feet again." What a quaint pronunciation: was Jean Canadian, from Quebec? It must be so.
Jean was standing, ready to leave.
"Won't you come outside, so we won't disturb him?"
"Yes, we should go out."
In the hall, Sister Blanche grasped Jeannette's hand and then put her arms around her. Youth, it's such a wondrous thing!
"Is his head injury serious?" Jeannette asked. "I didn't know ... tell me about him..."
"His head injury isn't serious ... multiple lacerations, bruises ... we will be removing the bandages in a few days."
"Did gangrene get into his arm?"
"Yes ... gangrene made the amputation more complex. Of course Dr. Phelan, our head surgeon, tried to save his arm ... all of us tried ... there wasn't a chance."
"No chance at all," she repeated.
"None at all."
"I'm afraid he'll take it hard."
The hallway of the hospital seemed very cold.
"Of course he'll take it hard, but he has fight in him ... he'll win out ... now he has you, my dear."
"It's not as simple as that."
"Not many things are simple in life. But with rest, with love ... and now you, you must get some rest. Go to bed. You can't rest sitting in a chair. You can phone me at any time. Let me give you our number--my extension. You should stay at the Racine Hotel ... the Nazis have cleared out of town, I am told. Let me phone the hotel for you ... come, my dear, I must jot down my number ... come..."
Jeannette thought it was a long way to the hotel: her overnight bag was light but the blocks added up when she followed Rue Carot by mistake; she had been told to follow the Rue Carrefour ... in minutes she registered and unpacked in a second floor room; in minutes she was sound asleep, to wake in an hour or so, refreshed.
The sun was setting. In front of the hotel a man was polishing his car. She saw no soldiers on the street. She ate in a cafe and found the food better than the food at the hospital in Ermenonville. Rethel, old, walled, citadel shaped, was more interesting without the rain: there were neat shop windows; in the tiny square there were pigeons, benches and a fountain with a boy on a stone pedestal, a sheep by his side. In a corner store, near the Racine, she spotted a dress in the window; with a few alterations it would fit, orlon, bright, bright daffodil, tightly belted, the belt-line high. Buying it, she felt encouraged.
It was fun altering it in her room, trying it on, powdering herself, lolling, street lamps coming on, the sky trying to make something of its stars.
Carrefour--the street sign read under her window: sitting in a rocker she read the name many times.
In the lobby, she bought a morning paper, hoping for good news. In the taxi, spreading the sheets, she read:
ALLIES INVADE NORMANDY.
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 Therèse 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. Maybepapier mâchéor 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.