The Guineveres (40 page)

But we didn't. At that moment, as Win drove silently with her mother down the highway, Gwen and I could not see the land. We could not even imagine it. We peeled Win's photos off the wall, and we sat hip-to-hip on Win's bunk, too despondent to talk. Win hadn't even said good-bye.

Years later, I'd learn from Win that she had wanted to say good-bye, but she wasn't allowed. Her few belongings were already packed, including her grandfather's old trunk, and Sister Fran had told her that it'd be “best for all of us” if she just left quietly, out the side door that led through the courtyard.

She and her mother went to live in a small apartment over a bakery that wafted cinnamon smells up through the vents. She enjoyed it there, in a place of her own with a window and a view. She'd take long walks alone in the city, and the bakery owner, an older gentleman with a granddaughter Win's age, gave her scones and strudel cakes whenever she passed by. Win started at a new school, eventually. Made new friends and lost some of her toughness. But as the months wore on, her mother gradually slipped into her old self again. She began drinking, began wearing her housecoat all day long, began looking at Win with those eyes of disgust.

Then one day, her mother left—disappeared, just like that. When Win arrived home from school, she found a note on the kitchen table that simply read,
I'm sorry.
Win was sorry, too, but she was okay. She was almost eighteen, and so the bakery owner hired her, despite the fact that Win never liked to cook. Baking was different, she claimed, more exact. Win continued to live in the apartment until she moved out on the day she was supposed to get married, taking only her grandfather's old trunk with her.

But she didn't get married. She said she couldn't go through with it, that she didn't love the man who'd asked to marry her, that he made her world feel small again, made her feel like she lived on an island, feel like she did those years at the convent. Instead, she dragged the old trunk to the train station, and in her nicest dress she had intended to marry in, she boarded a train that sent her west. She didn't look back.

“I never loved My Boy,” she admitted to me years later over the phone. She told me she still had his wooden paddle toy, though. It'd been hidden in her waistband the day her mother came for her, and now she kept it on her mantel. It's funny how we keep such reminders close to us, even if they hurt a little. Maybe that's just what nostalgia is: a willingness to embrace the pain of the past. Win and I spoke often then. She used to call me every other Sunday, until life got too busy. Now we only talk from time to time. But frequency does not determine the depth of friendship. I'm glad for that. No one can ever know you like those with whom you've shared the pangs of your youth.

“I know,” I said. Well, I did and I didn't. I wanted to believe we all loved Our Boys with the same ferocity. “But why'd you pretend?”

The line went still for a moment; then she spoke again. “Because I loved The Guineveres,” she said. “Besides, weren't we all pretending?”

“Not me,” I said.

Win never had any children. I don't know if she wanted them or not. I never asked, and she never told me. She's happy now, and that's the important part.

“Do you still have that old trunk?” I asked.

“I keep it in my bedroom,” she told me. By then she was living with Lorraine; the two of them had opened a bakery and built a life together. I've never met Lorraine, but I know she loves Win more than anything, and I know Win loves her, too. But even so, there are things Win can't share with her, not like she can with me. “Lorraine begs me to move it so we can make space for a shoe rack.”

“Why don't you?”

“I don't know,” she said. She paused, and I could hear her playing with the phone cord, which sounded like the kicking of gravel, a noise I instinctively associate with those uphill marches toward the church. “Because I like it there. Sometimes I sit on it and think.” I tried to imagine Win, now grown, lying on that trunk, her long legs right angles at the knees. “Everyone needs a place like that,” she said.

I understood what she meant. We cling to the most painful reminders of our youth, our memories or our injuries, perhaps so we can look back to our former selves, console them, and say: Keep going. I know how the story ends.

 

The Feast of Saints Peter and Paul

Without Ginny and Win, The Guineveres fell into a state of quiet despair. We prayed to God for strength during Morning Prayer—and somehow, by grace or divine inspiration, we remained vigilant and prudent, devout and discreet. While we waited for a response from our letters to the Veterans Administration, we cared for Our Boys as best we could. We looked after Win's boy, too, making sure he was comfortable, his pillow fluffed and his sheets properly tucked. We felt guilty if our eyes strayed over his body for too long, or if we grazed his bare skin as we pulled the blankets to his chest. He wasn't Our Boy, after all.

At the next Penance Service, Gwen and I sat with Reggie wedged between us. As the music played, the girls lined up to give confession. Even with Win gone, nothing had changed. Reggie gesticulated with her hands as she confessed; Lottie closed her eyes per usual; the priests raised their polyester sleeves over the heads of girls to deliver blessings. As I gave confession, I watched Gwen slump forward, her head resting on the pew in front of her. When she got up to give her penance, she slipped out of line, walked a lap around the chapel, then circled back to her seat, and kneeled down again.

“I told the priest that sometimes during Morning Instruction, when Sister Fran brings Pretty, I imagine plucking its feathers off,” I reported to Gwen that evening. She was lying on her stomach on the floor, her arms pinned beneath her, so she looked like a fish that had been swept to the shore. “What did you confess?” I asked, even though I knew she hadn't.

“I don't feel well,” Gwen said. Her body vibrated lightly, as if she were crying, but she wasn't.

“That's not a sin,” I said. “But now you're absolved of it.”

“I don't feel well,” she said again, and I stroked her back the way my mother used to do when I was small.

Gwen seemed different after that, distant. Though we still sat together at lunch and in chapel, and though I still watched her brush her hair one hundred times in the Wash Room mirror before Lights Out, she turned inward, further away from me than she ever had been. I thought it was something I had done or said, so I tried even harder.

“Want some?” I asked, opening my hand to reveal a pat of butter I had hidden up my sleeve at dinner. Gwen wiped half the square from my hand, but she didn't say thank you or talk about the necessity of good grooming. In fact, she didn't utter a word, just worked the butter through her hair with her fingertips, one strand at a time.

After Tuesday's Morning Instruction, and before we lined up for lunch, Sister Fran readied her burlap sack for Mail Distribution. I looked back toward Gwen, but she was writing in her notebook, not even paying attention as Sister Fran marched the aisles, slapping mail down on the desks of those lucky enough to receive some. I distracted myself by reading over the notes I had taken. During morality lessons, Sister Fran explained to us that the more we give of ourselves, the more we have to give. Our love's like a factory, she said, humming with activity to meet the demand of the orders received. If more love was needed, more was produced. Simple as that. She'd brought Ugly into the classroom for the occasion, and she tried to get the parrot to say “Love in action,” but it came out sounding like “Love's a fraction,” and the other girls laughed, but not me. I read through my notes, struggling to understand the day's lesson. It didn't make sense, because sometimes it felt like I gave and gave and gave, and soon nothing would be left of me. No love. No action. No factory governed by the simple laws of supply and demand. Nothing but a hollowed-out body.

Sister Fran neared my desk, and for a moment I was certain she had read my mind. I slid down in my chair until my neck rested on the seatback, but Sister Fran clicked her tongue and motioned for me to sit up straight. “A letter for you today,” she said. Her sternness diminished, replaced by a grin that revealed her tiny teeth. She laid the envelope down on my desk, as though it contained something fragile, then squeezed my shoulder as she continued down the row. I turned the envelope in my hands to scan the return address, typed in all capital letters. The Veterans Administration.

I swiveled toward Gwen to get her attention. This time she looked up at me, waving a long, rectangular envelope identical to mine. Our eyes gaped in disbelief, our mouths, too. My fingers couldn't work fast enough to peel away the lip of the envelope. I unfolded the letter and flattened it against the surface of my desk. The note was typed on letterhead, a circular seal stamped at the top. I ran my fingers over the indentation in the paper. The letter addressed me as “Miss.” I'd never seen that before, not associated with my name, anyhow. It seemed so formal. I took a deep breath and I read:

Thank you so much for your recent letter to the Veterans Administration. We appreciate the time you took to write. Your inquiry regarding soldier 1097-3845-43-22 has been referred to me for reply.

We are deeply grateful for the noble sacrifices of all our veterans, in particular soldier 1097-3845-43-22, who fought valiantly to preserve the freedom we value so dearly. To this date, however, the Veterans Administration has not been able to locate the information you requested.

Please be assured that we are actively trying to identify soldier 1097-3845-43-22. In fact, our top priority is to account for all of our men. We sincerely appreciate your support of our veterans, and we will notify you immediately of any changes to the status of your inquiry.

Sincerely,

Specialist Weatherbee

My heart must have stopped, because the room came to a standstill. They say at the time of our death, life flashes before our eyes and we see scenes of all the moments we've lived and the people we've lived them with. However, I can attest that at this moment, my
future
flashed before me, and this is how I knew I wasn't dying, that maybe, instead, I was being given a second chance. In my future, I see My Boy, his family. We are sitting on a patio drinking lemonade and listening to the radio. I am wearing a gingham dress. The sky is clear. Something warm and heavy squirms on my lap. My Boy laughs loudly, and when he does I can feel his breath on my skin.

I scanned the letter again, scrutinizing every word for any detail I might have missed, any clue. I counted the number of paragraphs: three; the number of sentences: seven, both symbols of perfection in the Bible.
Actively trying. Top priority.
Those were the phrases I kept returning to again and again. My pulse thumped in my temples so it felt like an earthquake had gone through my body. The whole world was shaking. Sister Fran blew her whistle for us to line up for lunch, and I ran to meet Gwen in the back of the room.

“Can you believe it? They wrote back,” I said. I spoke quickly, breathlessly. “Our Boys are their top priority. They're going to notify us immediately.”

Gwen snapped my letter away from me and handed me her own. I watched as she skimmed the first few lines, her eyelids fluttering, her jaw pulsing. Then I looked down at Gwen's letter that I held in my hands. They addressed her as “Miss,” too.

Thank you so much for your recent letter to the Veterans Administration. We appreciate the time you took to write. Your inquiry regarding soldier 1097-5467-78-63 has been referred to me for reply.

We are deeply grateful for the noble sacrifices of all our veterans, in particular soldier 1097-5467-78-63, who fought valiantly to preserve the freedom we value so dearly. To this date, however, the Veterans Administration has not been able to locate the information you requested.

Please be assured that we are actively trying to identify soldier 1097-5467-78-63. In fact, our top priority is to account for all of our men. We sincerely appreciate your support of our veterans, and we will notify you immediately of any changes to the status of your inquiry.

The letter was signed by Specialist Weatherbee, just like mine.

Gwen and I finished reading at the same moment, then looked up at each other, squinting as if we'd just crawled out from the dark. She handed my letter to me and took back her own, which she crumpled and threw into the wastebasket.

“They're going to notify us,” I said.

Gwen let out a hiss of air. “They didn't even bother to change the wording, Vere. It's a form letter. They don't actually care about Our Boys.”

“But he's a specialist,” I said, and then I stopped myself. I knew she was right, yet how could I explain that the letter I held in my hands was all the hope I had? That it was the only physical proof that connected me to someone beyond the convent? I was afraid someday I'd disappear completely, not like the saints did, up to heaven. I'd done nothing good. I'd be gone, just gone, vapor floating on clouds. Or worse than that because at least vapor produced rain. That was some sort of future. I, on the other hand, had none.

I folded my letter and shoved it into my shirt pocket. We filed through the cool stone hallways of the convent. We hardly said a word at lunch. Later that night, before Lights Out, I read and reread the letter, a hundred times over, closely, convinced with each reading that the message might be different, convinced I could still find my way home. I fell asleep with it in my hand.

*   *   *

We snuck into the Sick Ward one final time after that, not knowing it'd be our last. Gwen and I walked through the third-floor corridor toward the Catacombs that Ginny had discovered all those months ago. We didn't talk, didn't say much to each other. We held hands as we walked the corridor, two girls who loved Our Boys, two girls who missed our friends, two girls who clung to hope, no matter how futile. We wanted to act as though nothing had changed; we wanted to believe that everything would be okay. Sometimes you have to believe in what you can't see—that's called faith, and we had it still; at least, I think we had it still at that moment as we descended the narrow staircase almost entirely enveloped in dark. When we neared the Sick Ward door, Gwen didn't move, just stood in the blackness not saying a word.