Nostalgia (31 page)

“It
is
a reasonable course,” says Dr. Dinkle, clasping Drum by the elbow—evidently intending to rein him in even while supporting his cause.

“I’ll take it under consideration,” says Dr. Bliss, with a conclusive tone.

Dr. Dinkle thanks Dr. Bliss and against some noticeable resistance escorts Dr. Drum away.

The captain, seeing the party break up without his having contributed, faces the surgeon in chief and stands very tall. “I wonder if it has occurred to you, Major Bliss, that you might be harboring a deserter.”

The surgeon smiles impassively and says, “I wonder if it has occurred to you that you might be impugning a hero.”

Hayes, neither a deserter nor a hero, suppresses an urge to laugh—
it suddenly strikes him as comical, his being fought over this way; likewise, in equal parts absurd and fitting, his name tag, which reads
UNKNOWN
.

“We want that bed,” says the captain, narrowing his eyes at the surgeon. “I don’t need to tell you what we’ve got landing at our doors daily … landing daily and by the hundreds.”

“No, Captain Gracie,” says Dr. Bliss, “you don’t need to tell me.”

“If you won’t let him go to Philadelphia, at least there’s the asylum. Surely—”

“Yes, Captain,” says Dr. Bliss. “Thank you very much.”

Thus dismissed, the captain pauses for a moment and takes a last look at Hayes. “This safety in silence is temporary,” he says. “And not very safe. The commission will be coming back through in a few days. I reckon they’ll do some sensible culling where it’s called for. They’ll have this one sorted out fast enough, one way or another.”

“No doubt,” says Dr. Bliss. “No doubt.”

As soon as the captain is gone, Walt says, “
What
commission?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen them, not knowing what they were,” answers the doctor. “A concoction of surgeons and line officers, touring the hospitals sporadically … altogether softheaded in my view. Routinely they send a score of patients back to the front before their wounds have sufficiently healed … or while they’re still too sick to fight. And a good portion of my convalescent helpers as well.”

“And you have no say in the matter?”

“Oh, yes, I have a say. Only I don’t have final say.”

Walt, who has released Hayes’s hand, now takes out his handkerchief and wipes his own brow; he lets out a long sigh and shifts in his chair, agitated and indignant. “Do you not outrank that man, that insufferable Captain Gracie?”

“Of course I do, Walt,” answers Dr. Bliss, “but rank isn’t everything. One has to maintain relations. The men in these beds are patients
and
soldiers. I can’t be drawn into constant squabbles over who’s in charge of them.”

“But you won’t give our friend over to that nippent little Drum, will you, and let him be carted off to Philadelphia? And surely you won’t send him to the asylum?”

Dr. Bliss pulls on his whiskers thoughtfully and looks at Hayes. “I’m not certain I can prevent it,” he says. “He can’t stay here indefinitely.”

“But he won’t stay indefinitely,” says Walt. “After all, the war will end. If it’s a case of not knowing what to do with him—which I believe it is—why can’t we leave him be for now? If we don’t yet have our answer, let’s wait for it to come clear. Things often do, you know … come clear with ample time and tolerance.”

“I’m beginning to see the nature of your attraction to this young man,” says Dr. Bliss. “It’s philosophical.”

“Not at all,” says Walt, and looks out the window. “He attracts me the same way they all do—which is to say, affectively. How can I fail to be attracted when my feelings are so thoroughly and permanently absorbed?”

He looks back at the doctor and says, “If it’s merely the question of a bed, I can bring him to my own rooms and give him one.”

“Now
that
would be irregular,” says Dr. Bliss. “Look, Walt, I want you to go home, and I don’t mean back to your rooms. I mean for you to get back to Brooklyn, at least for a few months. Otherwise, you’re bound for a full collapse.”

Walt closes his eyes for a moment and bows his head. “I’ll not deny that I’m sleeping less than first-rate,” he says softly. “And more and more I feel I must have an intermission. But I won’t be going tonight. Nor tomorrow. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”

Bliss moves between the beds and puts a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Well,
he’s
not going anywhere tonight or tomorrow either,” he says. “I’ll do what I can for him, Walt. A direct opposition’s not always the best strategy. Have you never said yes and meant no?”

“Probably,” says Walt, “once or twice.” He laughs and adds, “But not nearly so often as I’ve said no and meant yes.”

“I want you to go to your rooms,” says the surgeon, after a moment. “Have yourself a good supper and bath and a good night’s rest. Don’t return to the hospital this evening.”

“But evening’s when I enjoy myself most,” says Walt. “In the absence of Matron’s incessant looming and casting me the evil eye.”

“You needn’t worry about Matron,” says Dr. Bliss. “I’ve done for her what I’ll have to do for you in the end—I’ve sent her home. I
admire the woman’s perseverance, but her illness has finally got the best of her … and begun to affect her mind.”

“What, no more Matron?” says Walt. He looks at Hayes with mock dejection and adds, “Now I suppose I shall miss her.”

For another moment, the two men seem to ponder Hayes—the surgeon with his hand still resting on Walt’s shoulder, and Walt with cloudy eyes. At last Dr. Bliss says, “Don’t you think you might write your name for us now, son? There’s no physical reason why you shouldn’t.”

Walt bends, reaches into his bag, pulls out first a large orange and a pair of suspenders, both of which he lays aside, and then his scrapbook and a pencil. He offers these last two to Hayes, one in each hand.

Hayes, shocked to be addressed so suddenly, believes he can in fact write his name, and might do it, despite his ambivalence about revealing his identity. But as he looks at the scrapbook and the pencil, the two hands holding them are horribly charred, tumid with great watery blisters, and he shudders and draws his knees toward his chest. A burnt and sickening sweet smell invades his nostrils. He rolls onto his side and puts his back to the men.

“Did you see the blood leave his face?” he hears Walt say, somewhere behind him, far away. “He’s terrified. Never mind, dear boy, never mind.”

Hayes doesn’t move, willing his limbs to stay frozen, despite a sharp sting of boots smacking his ribs. He fears his shrapnel wounds have started to bleed. Soon he hears Dr. Bliss ask, “Does that man in the next bed look like Lincoln?”

“The very spit,” answers Walt. “The poor creature … He sleeps, only sleeps … and when he opens his eyes, they gleam with rage. He refuses my smallest gifts and won’t even talk to me.”

“Swap places with him,” says Dr. Bliss. “Would you feel like chatting?”

Walt doesn’t respond for a few seconds—Hayes imagines him doing mentally what the surgeon has suggested—and then he says, “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

There’s a lull in the babel and clatter of the ward, and Hayes’s
breath starts to come more easily. He believes he hears out the darkening window a rumble of thunder, but he can never be sure he’s not somehow still hearing the war.

He thinks,
I’m told he suffers delusions to boot
, and encounters a peculiar puzzlement over the word
boot
.

Back to the front
, he thinks, an absurd yet fascinating phrase.

He thinks,
I mean for you to get back to Brooklyn
, and envisions himself seated alongside Walt in a railcar, Walt patting him on the knee, and saying with his curious compound of maternal maleness, “We’re almost home, my dear.”

“Now, Walt,” says Dr. Bliss. “Here’s a thorny question: should we wish for our young friend to gain back his speech, or wish for him not to?”

“Ah, yes,” says Walt. “Down one road waits a Gracie, down the other a Drum. Scylla and Charybdis. I wonder … have you seen this thing before—what you call nostalgia—and coupled with loss of speech?”

“Twice before,” answers the doctor. “Each suffered temporary loss of hearing as well … symptoms associated with a shell exploding close-by. But I’ve heard of others—soldiers released from Confederate prisons, for example—who’d simply gone mute in the face of unspeakable horror.”

“Unspeakable horror?” says Walt. “If that’s the case, I’m surprised you don’t see more of them.”

“We very well might,” says the doctor, “if more of them survived.”

“Oh, of course,” says Walt, “they would have to survive, wouldn’t they?”

After a long pause, Walt adds, “Maybe it’s not so bad, losing the so-called art of speech. Most of life gives language the slip anyway, I find. Look at me: I rattle all day long and into the night and say only a fraction of what I feel, a fraction of what I know in my heart.”

“Well,” says Dr. Bliss, “maybe some men’s fractions are better than other men’s sums.”

“Ha!” says Walt. “Let me assure you—for each of my fractions, there are worlds and worlds and worlds of uncertainties. It’s almost enough to make me wish I’d been a doctor.”

L
ONG AFTER DARK
, a dozen or more new arrivals straggle into the ward, ragged and muddy, bloody, staggering, pale, and desolate. The female nurses fetch basins, blocks of soap, and fresh shirts, then set about bathing the men from the waist up, after which the male nurses and attendants take over, finish with the washing, and find them beds. The ward surgeon and a number of stewards soon appear, and Hayes, observing from a distance, notes the noise and fuss that arise from the staff while the soldiers stay entirely quiet.

Casper—awakened, sweat-drenched, and yellowish—sits up and starts rocking and raving: “My stomach hurts, my chest hurts, bring my medicine, God help me, the virus eats me alive, I hurt and I’m cold and I want my Joanie …”

Anne comes over with a basin and places it on the table. She hushes Casper, helps him drink from his cup, and soon gets him settled back onto his pillow. She starts to wash his face, but Casper takes hold of her wrist. “Give me more of that punch,” he says.

“You’ve had the limit for today,” she says calmly, “but I’ll have more for you tomorrow.”

“Then fetch me a pill.”

“You’ve already had your pill, too.”

“I need another!” he shouts.

Anne hushes him again and says, “Casper, you’re hurting my arm.”

“I’m sorry,” he cries, releasing her wrist. A whimpering scolded child, he adds, “Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anybody.”

“Thank you,” says Anne, “I forgive you. Now, I’ll go and see Dr. Dinkle about getting you more medicine … and more punch … if you promise me you’ll wait here quietly. Can you do that? Can you wait here quietly?”

“Oh, yes,” says Casper. “I promise. I’ll wait. I won’t make a peep.”

“Good,” says Anne and starts to move away with Casper’s cup.

“But hurry!” he calls as she goes.

Now he rolls his head to the side and looks dazed, ashamed, and glassy-eyed at Hayes. “I was dreaming about my old bloodhound
Scruggs,” he says. “He was racing around and barking like mad, and I was trying to get him to keep still, but he was in too much of a fluster … all wet from the rain and yelping … determined to get me into a tussle with the landlord.”

Anne returns in a minute and satisfies Casper’s orders: another opium pill and more of the brandy punch. She gets him settled for the night and tidies the bedcovers, then turns her attentions businesslike to Hayes. She takes a clean towel from her apron, wets and wrings it in the basin, and as she bathes Hayes’s face and arms, she works without her usual smile and without speaking. He inhales the scent of her lavender water. He hears music coming from the next ward, not far away, a melodeon, male and female voices, a plaintive folk hymn. Anne begins to hum along with the tune, and when Hayes looks up, he sees that her cheeks glow with tears. As he meets her eye she is not at all timid but radiates the quiet composure of a long-abiding friend. Silently, she tells him not to worry, it’s late, she’s tired and overwrought, but she’ll be all right. Silently, he tells her he’s never been one to take tears too sharply.

There was a time, back in Brooklyn, when his sister had tilted her head ever so slightly and given him a look that seemed to say,
Who are you?
Now Anne tilts her head similarly but looks at him with bone-deep empathy. Astonishing him, she scrapes with one bare knuckle the tears from her cheeks and rubs them onto his.

“War paint,” she whispers, drawing a wet line straight down beneath each of his eyes.

Next she coaxes him forward so she can wash the nape of his neck. She remarks on how long his hair has grown, pulls down his shirt collar, and spreads it wide, then resumes bathing him, softly singing along with the music from the next ward, “ ‘I’ll march to Canaan’s land, I’ll land on Canaan’s shore, / Where pleasures never end, and troubles come no more. / Farewell, farewell, farewell, my loving friends, farewell.’ ”

W
HEN THE MOSQUITO CURTAINS
are lowered over the beds in the dim gaslight, they resemble broad tree trunks with pale-golden bark—
bark so tissuelike that Hayes, who lives inside one of the trees, can look through it into the dreamy orchard. During the night, he sees Walt, sitting close to Casper and writing in one of his scrapbooks as he so often does. Sometime later, Walt has gone, but Babb is kneeling by Raugh’s bed and sliding his arms beneath Raugh’s pillow. What Babb doesn’t understand is that Raugh sleeps most of the day and lies awake, eyes closed, most of the night. One large powerful hand shoots out and clamps Babb by the neck. With supernatural strength, Raugh lifts him from the floor and thrusts him choking and gagging into a distant part of the orchard. Still later, Matron stops by, dressed for travel and looking, as they say, not quite right in the upper story. Gazing intently at Hayes, eyes bulging, she laughs softly and says, “I have Graves’ disease, you see, and must go to my mother’s house in Maryland.” She slips something beneath Hayes’s pillow, adding, “This might be useful to you,” and disappears. Soon somebody climbs inside the tree with Hayes and snuggles next to him. Hayes, sitting up quickly, smells brandy and sickness, and then a hatless and tremulous Casper, sweating profusely, lays his head on Hayes’s chest, his bandaged stump resting heavily against Hayes’s belly. “You’re the best chum a fellow could ever have, Mr. X,” says Casper, loud, and Hayes hushes him.