Part 14

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 deg. ... 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 Therese, 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 Provencal 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 Therese and Uncle Victor but the physical task of phoning was beyond him; there was no room extension; he asked Jeannette to talk to them. He had her write to his mother: he tried to dictate the letter but bogged down completely. With the help of Sister Blanche he informed the army of his condition; the Red Cross sent information; Dr. Phelan telephoned; official forms were forthcoming. Orville did his best to keep from sweating out these problems.

Drugged sleep settled many things.

Was sleep another deception?

Maybe sleep was a second floor or attic. Basement?

Memory--he scudded through his memory, testing it: King Francis ruled at the time of da Vinci; Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812; Haley's Comet same year ... King Cyprus knew the name of every soldier in his army; Mithridates spoke twenty-two languages ... if memory could be so dependable then it must be equally possible to forget--erase horrors.

In a wheelchair, outside French doors that opened into the hospital's walled garden, he enjoyed a Sister scattering seeds for the winter birds: what a whir of wings, flash of beady eyes, about her skirt and cornet! He wished he could walk the garden, the brick paths so trim, the flowers in angular beds, medieval statues in hedge corners. What were those red-leafed shrubs? As he sat, dreaming, wrapped in blankets, Jeannette placed both hands over his eyes.

"Here you are, up again, and outdoors. How lovely!"

She swished in front of him and peered at him.

"It's getting so I have to hunt around for you. Gee, you look lots better," she enthused, kissing him, amused by his Airedale-colored bathrobe and mousy slippers under his blanket. "Somebody shaved you ... you're my old Orville!"

He was delighted to see her but could not crawl from beneath his serious mood: he wanted to shake himself: a loving and grateful smile was all he could offer: she sensed that he was fighting a mood or was in pain and waited, chatting with a nurse, enjoying the birds, ready to fit into his world.

It had been a stand-up ride on the local bus, and she sat on a bench, after rolling his chair close by.

"Sister Blanche brought me some letters from E," he said. He patted a pocket in his robe. "I heard from Isaac Jacobs ... Zinc. Quite a scrawl from him."

"Oh," she exclaimed, at a loss, worried about Orville's reactions. "How is he ... any news?"

"He's been discharged ... hernia ... bacillary dysentery. He's returning to Ohio. Landel has disappeared. Zinc says our Corps has been disbanded ... not enough survivors."

Every word, every thought about the war, disgusted him.

He glared malevolently at Jeannette, blaming her for the loss of his arm ... Could he borrow one of Robinson's arms? How about Chuck? He didn't need his arms any more. One might fit.

"Does it seem a long time ... a long time ago that you were with Zinc?" she asked, trying to feel her way.