The Guineveres (23 page)

“Have you ever met a Guinevere who wasn't?” he said.

“Well, some are prettier than others,” added Gwen.

“Not in the eyes of God,” he said, winking at the rest of us. “Now back to the convent, or Sister Fran will serve my head on a platter for supper.”

Our feet felt far away as we walked downhill toward the convent. We didn't feel the chill of the day anymore, only the sun beating down on our backs, warming us like the wine had. The convent appeared oddly beautiful before us, like a dream. Ginny began to cry a little at the sight, and I put my arm around her. The four of us glided down the hill; our toes never seemed to touch the ground.

And I can tell you this: The wine opened up something inside of us, as though new blood had been transfused into our buoyant veins. We changed. I can't say how, exactly, but we changed. A sense of calm washed over us. A sense of purpose, too.

The wind whipped our bare legs, but we hardly noticed it. We walked four across as we neared the bottom of the hill, our fingers intertwined. It was as though this warmth—another's fingers tucked between our knuckles—protected us from cold, if we could just focus on it. Much of happiness, we'd been taught, was really about where we chose to place our attention, and that's where we chose to put our attention, in each other's hands. When we arrived at the grand foyer, and that last burst of wind zipped inside, we didn't even hesitate when we turned toward the Sick Ward instead of toward the cafeteria and the other girls.

The wine had only emboldened us. We felt overwhelmed with the urge to touch Our Boys, squeeze their warm hands, and whisper to them how we knew what it felt like to be sent to a strange place, away from one's family and friends. We wanted to sit on the beds next to them and tell them things only they would understand: We felt alone. We felt afraid. We felt let down. But not with them. With them, we felt—something. Safe. Needed. If only we could figure out who they were. If only they'd wake up.

A small Christmas tree stood in the Front Room of the Sick Ward, decorated with ornaments that we'd made during Morning Instruction the previous week: angels, wise men, stars, and snowflakes. Sister Fran had given us patterns, the felt fabric, and cotton balls, and she taught us how to sew even stitches. “It is my duty to instill useful domestic skills in each and every one of you,” Sister Fran announced, walking up and down the even rows of desks. “You'll need such skills out there in the world, and you'll look back at your convent days as ones of leisure.” She handed us each a spool of thread.

Mr. Macker and Miss Oatley were playing a game of checkers at a table near the window. “Oh, oh!” Mr. Macker said as we passed them. “Girls, girls!” he said.

We stopped and turned toward him, but our heads felt detached from our bodies, as though our minds were no longer housed there, but somewhere outside ourselves. Sister Magda came into the room holding a tray of paper cups full of pills. “Need something, girls?” she asked.

“Mr. Macker wants to show us his magic trick,” Gwen said, looping her arm around Mr. Macker and bending over his shoulder. Drunk, she was a creature who craved the comfort of touch. “Right, Mr. Macker?”

“We promised him we'd come see his magic trick—didn't we, Mr. Macker?” Win added.

“Very well,” said Sister Magda, and she proceeded on her way. “But make it quick. You're not scheduled to be in here, you know. Not without Sister Fran's approval.”

Mr. Macker beamed with a squinted face. He smelled like mildew, the way some of the old folks smelled because they sweated through their nightclothes. “These are my girlfriends,” he said to Miss Oatley. Mr. Macker couldn't fully round out his
r
's, an effect of age or illness, we weren't sure. When he spoke he sounded like a child with a speech impediment. “All four of them.”

“A little young, if you ask me,” Miss Oatley said. Her lips puckered, and she made her move on the checkerboard.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” he said. Mr. Macker showed us the coin he held in his hand: gold around the edges, silver in the middle, like a bull's-eye, unlike any kind of coin we recognized. “Now everyone, put out your hands,” he said, and he demonstrated, holding his palm up and out, visibly shaking. We did as he said. He touched each of our hands, pressing his thumb into the middle of our palms. Mr. Macker showed us the coin again as he closed his fist around it and appeared to squeeze. He instructed us to close our hands into fists, too. Sister Magda returned from the Back Room and stood over our shoulders. The Guineveres did our best to suck in our breath so she wouldn't smell the alcohol.

Mr. Macker unfolded his hand again to show he was no longer holding the coin. “Who's taken my coin?” he asked. “Was it you?” He motioned to Gwen, and she opened her fists. Nothing. “You?” he said, and pointed to Win. She opened her palms. Nothing. “Could it be you?” he said, and Ginny's fists sprang open to nothing but air. “Then you must have it,” he said to me, and I slowly opened up my hands to reveal the tarnished coin in the center of my left palm. I never even suspected it could have been me since I was never chosen for anything.

“Very good,” Sister Magda said from behind us, clapping. Mr. Macker's gummy smile looked like an infant's in the way that infants sometimes look like old men.

“Sister Magda,” Gwen said, turning on her toes like a ballerina, “can we go visit with the other patients? It's almost Christmas, and we'd like to spread some holiday cheer.”

“Why, that'd be lovely, girls,” Sister Madga said. “But we're expecting some visitors today.”

“Visitors?” we asked, but Sister Magda didn't have the time to answer. Just at that moment, Sister Connie entered the side door, leading in from the cold two weary-looking guests. They were husband and wife, we surmised, by the way they stood so close together as though hewn from the same skin, the way the man touched the small of her back as the woman stepped inside. The husband wore glasses on the tip of his nose. His hairline receded, and he kept nervously touching his bald spot. His wife wore no makeup; her lips were the color of putty. Sister Connie looked somber, serious. “This way,” she said, and she led them to the Back Room.

“Are they here to visit a relative?” Win asked.

“They're here for the soldiers,” Sister Magda said. Our hearts quickened. Sister Magda crossed herself. “They're hoping one might be their son.” Blood drained from The Guineveres. Our buzzes wore off immediately. Sister Madga walked ahead, and Ginny began to hyperventilate.

Years later, when we recalled this moment, Ginny and I discussed our conflicting emotions. By coincidence, it was Gaudete Sunday. We were on the telephone, and I could hear her daughter playing in the background. Ginny told me that once you become a mother, it's like you've been permanently wounded, your insides are always raw. She couldn't imagine what those poor parents must have felt searching for their son. Older now, Ginny admitted to feeling so vulnerable that sometimes she looked at her daughter and physically ached. She said she'd give her life for her little girl, do anything to protect her, which is why having children only brought back the old wounds from her girlhood, made her question everything. I understood this by then. I really did. However, there, in the moment, as we stabilized Ginny and walked to the edge of the Back Room where Our Boys slept, we didn't know how to feel.

For this moment was the culmination of our greatest hope, a chance for one of us to prove herself to be a valuable nurse, a chance for one of us to go home. We watched the man and woman walk slowly through the room. Some of the old folks sat up in their beds. Sister Connie picked up a clipboard. The couple stopped at the foot of Ginny's Boy's bed, examining Her Boy. They shook their heads. Ginny hunched forward, bracing herself on her knees. She steadied her breathing. She fanned herself with her hands. The couple continued. Sister Connie then led them to Gwen's Boy. His face was bandaged, so they couldn't see what he looked like, but the woman pressed her lips to his forehead and stayed in that pose for a moment.

“What's she doing?” Gwen said. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of my upper arm.

“Motherly intuition, I guess,” Win said.

The woman stayed in that pose for a moment too long to be comfortable, and we thought she was stuck, as if her lips had frozen to a flagpole. But after a while she stepped back and shook her head.

“Intuition is a pathetic excuse to kiss him,” Gwen whispered.

Sister Connie led the couple farther into the room, to the bed of Win's Boy and then to the bed of mine. The woman and her husband took their time—or maybe they were just tired. Their spines curved as though they had twin cases of scoliosis. Eventually they shook their heads. Not their son. Not their boy.

We lowered our heads as they walked past us to avoid looking at them again. I'd like to say it was out of respect, but that would be untrue. The Guineveres were both crestfallen and relieved. Here we were, girls who would have given anything to be saved from life in the convent. And yet we weren't ready to let each other go. Not like this. There was no commandment governing the confusion of teenage girls nor the tempest of emotions that raged inside us at that moment. Sister Connie and Sister Magda followed the couple outside. The Guineveres unlinked our arms and listened to the beeps and coughs and silence of the Sick Ward.

And that's when we took our opportunity to baptize Our Boys. We snuck into the Back Room, and we filled small pill cups with water, and we carried them to the beds of Our Boys. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” we said, pausing at each turn to spill a bit of water on their heads. Their hair dampened, and droplets ran down the sides of their faces like tears. Or maybe they really were crying, like us. We wiped our own wet faces, and we smudged damp crosses on their foreheads with our tears. Our Boys were beginning anew again, not like the Ouroboros, that pagan serpent symbol, but like good faithful gentlemen who believed in the cross and the wise men and following stars and the birth of a baby in a manger far away. A baby who would save the world someday. It was almost Christmas. We loved Our Boys more than ever. We were sad, but we rejoiced. We still had hope.

And then we draped our small bodies across their chests. I could feel the breath of My Boy hit the back of my neck with soft bounces. His slumbering noises—the soft, rhythmic in-breath and the hint of a whistle on the out-breath—sang to me a love song. My skin felt hot where his touched mine, and I noticed a light thumping between my legs that would have embarrassed me if not for the remnants of alcohol. I understood why they called it the devil's drink, because if he had been awake, there's no telling what I might have done. I squashed my breasts against him, and I closed my eyes, breathing with My Boy, in and out, until Gwen snapped, “Rise and shine, lovebirds.”

I lifted myself slowly from his chest, and at that moment, I saw it again: The bed was tented, right where his groin should have been, standing at attention. Gwen looked at me, and I looked back at her. She said nothing. We stayed trapped in each other's glance for a moment—her with her half-crooked grin, me with eyes of shame for My Boy.

“Don't tell anyone,” I whispered. It wasn't his fault, My poor Boy—his body wasn't his.

Gwen stepped closer, tilted her head, and grinned so big I glanced over at Win and Ginny, both prostrated over the beds of Their Boys. I could see her pink gums, the ridged beds of her teeth. “Tell anyone what?” she said. She ran her fingers along the footboard, not taking her eyes off My Boy. But then she did. She locked glances with me. “Tell you what. I won't tell anyone if…” She paused, then somehow her smile got wider. “If you touch it.”

“Just go away.”

“Touch it. Once. We'll consider it practice. Just tap it with the tip of your finger. Then I'll believe you really love him.”

“I do love him,” I said. At the moment, I felt sick with love. Heavy with it. Nauseous, in fact.

“Well…”

I turned toward the bed, toward My Boy. Toward … it. I lifted my finger. I took a deep breath. But my hand wouldn't budge, my fingers held back by some invisible force—maybe it was the Holy Spirit. I couldn't do it. I loved My Boy, but I couldn't do it. I felt a heat rising in me, up from my feet to my head. I then began to cry, quiet tears that wobbled down my cheeks.

“Oh, stop it,” Gwen said. “Don't be so sensitive. I was just trying to help.”

“Don't tell anyone,” I said, wiping my eyes dry.

“I won't.”

“Promise?”

“I won't tell a soul.”

Win hollered, “Let's go!” from where she now stood at the door to the Front Room, and I followed The Guineveres through the Sick Ward, and down the shaded corridor that led back to the other girls, and we blended in with the rest of them.

Years later, when I spoke to Win on the phone, she would admit from her place out west that Gwen had told her what had happened that day we first got drunk and baptized Our Boys, how I looked at My Boy with a cringed, contorted face. How I cried.

“I didn't believe her,” Win said gently, all those years later. Her voice had aged from time and from smoking and from drinking too much until she realized she was turning into her mother and so she quit. “You couldn't trust her,” she said. “Even though you wanted to.”

Win never married, never had kids of her own, but she seemed the most maternal to me. The years had softened her, given her the kind of wisdom and insight you gain only from loss. Maybe this was the same kind of vulnerability that Ginny had described. And maybe you don't have to have a child of your own to feel that.

“But we were The Guineveres,” she said. “What choice did we have?”

“Not much, I suppose, but still,” I said. I was embarrassed all these years later, ashamed for My Boy, how his body betrayed him.