can come back later on your own dime.”
“Think maybe I will,” he said. “Think I just might will.”
Chapter 4
M ore days spent in a haze of hallucination and humiliation.
Crazed. Confused.
A delirium of drug-induced dreams. Lauren dying over and over again. A Japanese Hitler with a woman’s body in a nurses uniform prodding and shocking me over and over again while reading newsreel stories in his best James Cagney. Then Clip walks up behind him and shoots him in the head, but as the gun goes off it’s Lauren, and I watch her die, her frail frame crumpling as she collapses onto the floor beside my hospital bed.
After what seemed like years, I finally managed to force my eyes open and keep them that way for a few seconds at a time.
I looked around the dim room.
Small and simple, the modest room was filled with a walnut waterfall-style bedroom set that I could barely make out beneath the pale, narrow beam of the Wabash blackout bulb.
I knew I was at Ruth Ann’s because she had been the angel hovering over me with meals, medications, and ministrations in the moments when the fog lifted enough for me to make her out, but until now I hadn’t realized I was in her bedroom.
Perfumes and powders, jewelry and makeup lined the mirrored dressing table, the mauve covered stool of which was well worn and faded. A lavender nightgown and matching housecoat hung on the doors of the armoire. I could see myself in the circular mirror on either side of them—an experience as unfortunate as it was unpleasant that confirmed I looked as good as I felt.
Like the footboard of the double bed I was on, the walnut wood of the other furniture I could see was scuffed and scarred.
Ruth Ann’s leg was propped in the corner between the dressing table and the armoire.
Far better than the only one I’d ever seen her wear, the prosthetic propped in the corner made the one she regularly used resemble a couple of sticks and an old leather strap. Certain there was a story behind it, I made a mental note to mention it to her sometime. Maybe I’d finally get the real report on who stole the limb in the first place.
The opportunity to ask presented itself almost immediately as the door opened and she sidled in on her crutches.
“Well hiya, soldier,” she said, her voice morning fresh and filled with sunshine. “Welcome back. We missed you.”
I tried to say something but nothing came out.
She was wearing a blue-and-white-striped cotton playsuit with large white buttons running the length of it and a dress-up bow tied at the waist, a To Hell with Hitler button on her lapel.
“Here,” she said, propping herself and her crutches on the side of the bed and retrieving a glass of water from the bedside table. “Wet your whistle.”
I did.
“Thanks for all you’ve done,” I said.
Even in my diminished state I knew the food and medication and treatment she had given me had cost her plenty. The only way she could’ve managed it with all the rationing going on, all the shortages taking place, was to both break the rules and sacrifice her own needs. The thought of either bothered me but good. And I didn’t know which one did worse—her not taking care of herself or stealing meds from wounded servicemen who really needed them.
She shook her head, her blond hair whipping about, and gave me an expression like it was nothing.
“And you shouldn’t’a put me in your room.”
“Sure, soldier, I should put you on the sofa and let you take your chances.”
“Well, I’m better now,” I said, “so I’ll swap ya.”
“Tell you what—I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”
I laughed. “How long I been out?”
“Let’s see. Long enough for the war to end, Hitler to take office, and everyone to learn German.”
“Glad I haven’t missed much.”
We were quiet a moment and I could tell she was trying to work her way into saying something. I knew the dark fabric covering the windows was required for the blackout at night, but I
“Think maybe I will,” he said. “Think I just might will.”
Chapter 4
M ore days spent in a haze of hallucination and humiliation.
Crazed. Confused.
A delirium of drug-induced dreams. Lauren dying over and over again. A Japanese Hitler with a woman’s body in a nurses uniform prodding and shocking me over and over again while reading newsreel stories in his best James Cagney. Then Clip walks up behind him and shoots him in the head, but as the gun goes off it’s Lauren, and I watch her die, her frail frame crumpling as she collapses onto the floor beside my hospital bed.
After what seemed like years, I finally managed to force my eyes open and keep them that way for a few seconds at a time.
I looked around the dim room.
Small and simple, the modest room was filled with a walnut waterfall-style bedroom set that I could barely make out beneath the pale, narrow beam of the Wabash blackout bulb.
I knew I was at Ruth Ann’s because she had been the angel hovering over me with meals, medications, and ministrations in the moments when the fog lifted enough for me to make her out, but until now I hadn’t realized I was in her bedroom.
Perfumes and powders, jewelry and makeup lined the mirrored dressing table, the mauve covered stool of which was well worn and faded. A lavender nightgown and matching housecoat hung on the doors of the armoire. I could see myself in the circular mirror on either side of them—an experience as unfortunate as it was unpleasant that confirmed I looked as good as I felt.
Like the footboard of the double bed I was on, the walnut wood of the other furniture I could see was scuffed and scarred.
Ruth Ann’s leg was propped in the corner between the dressing table and the armoire.
Far better than the only one I’d ever seen her wear, the prosthetic propped in the corner made the one she regularly used resemble a couple of sticks and an old leather strap. Certain there was a story behind it, I made a mental note to mention it to her sometime. Maybe I’d finally get the real report on who stole the limb in the first place.
The opportunity to ask presented itself almost immediately as the door opened and she sidled in on her crutches.
“Well hiya, soldier,” she said, her voice morning fresh and filled with sunshine. “Welcome back. We missed you.”
I tried to say something but nothing came out.
She was wearing a blue-and-white-striped cotton playsuit with large white buttons running the length of it and a dress-up bow tied at the waist, a To Hell with Hitler button on her lapel.
“Here,” she said, propping herself and her crutches on the side of the bed and retrieving a glass of water from the bedside table. “Wet your whistle.”
I did.
“Thanks for all you’ve done,” I said.
Even in my diminished state I knew the food and medication and treatment she had given me had cost her plenty. The only way she could’ve managed it with all the rationing going on, all the shortages taking place, was to both break the rules and sacrifice her own needs. The thought of either bothered me but good. And I didn’t know which one did worse—her not taking care of herself or stealing meds from wounded servicemen who really needed them.
She shook her head, her blond hair whipping about, and gave me an expression like it was nothing.
“And you shouldn’t’a put me in your room.”
“Sure, soldier, I should put you on the sofa and let you take your chances.”
“Well, I’m better now,” I said, “so I’ll swap ya.”
“Tell you what—I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”
I laughed. “How long I been out?”
“Let’s see. Long enough for the war to end, Hitler to take office, and everyone to learn German.”
“Glad I haven’t missed much.”
We were quiet a moment and I could tell she was trying to work her way into saying something. I knew the dark fabric covering the windows was required for the blackout at night, but I
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