don’t belong here. Somebody take me back to where I belong.
“But like it or not, I was there, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Finally my turn came to be lifted out of the bus. One of the nurses was holding an umbrella over the door, but she couldn’t keep out the cold and the rain. I looked up at the faces around me. A priest was there. I could tell by his collar he was a priest. He came up to my stretcher, and he leaned over me and said, ‘Seth, you’re safe now. You’re in Germany.’ And I remember thinking it was too late. There was no use pretending I was safe and that everything was all right. It was far too late for that.
“Then, just as they started to take me away, the priest raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over me. He was wearing the same kind of rubber gloves the medical people were wearing, like not even the priest could touch us with his bare hands or he’d catch our bad luck or something.” Seth paused and sniffed out a laugh. “So I watched his hand making the sign of the cross over me, and for the first time in my life I thought, ‘Maybe it’s all a lie. Maybe everything I ever believed is a lie.’”
Jane was beside his wheelchair now, gazing down at him. She wondered at his sudden calm. His expressionless eyes refused to meet hers but stared dully up at the ceiling. They looked like two round patches of frozen earth. Jane leaned down and pressed her cheek against his. “I’m so sorry, Seth,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. But I promise you, we’re going to be all right. We’re going to make it all work somehow.”
She pulled back and waited for him to meet her gaze. But he went on staring at the ceiling, as though she weren’t there.
9
O n the first floor of the VA Medical Center, just beyond the lobby, was a small canteen called The Bistro . Vending machines lined the back wall. A dozen tables with corresponding chairs were bolted to the floor. The wall between the corridor and the canteen was full of windows so that one couldn’t pass The Bistro without being enticed to stop and have a snack.
Jane stopped, but not because she was hungry. She stopped because she saw Truman Rockaway, alone at one of the tables, drinking from a pint carton of chocolate milk.
He raised a hand toward her, beckoning her in. She entered the canteen and sat down across from him. They were the only two people in the room.
“Got milk?” he asked, lifting the cardboard carton.
He smiled. She smiled in return. “I haven’t drunk chocolate milk since I was a kid.”
“We ought to remedy that. My treat.”
“Well . . .”
“I insist. After all, chocolate is a natural antidepressant, you know.”
She looked at him, chewed her lower lip. “Is it that apparent?”
“It doesn’t have to be apparent. It can be deduced. You’re in a hospital visiting your fiancé who is upstairs in the spinal cord unit unable to move from the neck down.” He rose and rummaged around in the pocket of his slacks while he walked to one of the machines. He dropped a series of coins into the slot and pushed a button. A carton of milk nose-dived off the shelf behind the glass and landed with a thud in the lip of the machine. Truman retrieved it and set it on the table in front of Jane. “Drink up, young lady,” he said.
“Thank you, Truman.”
He settled himself back down at the table as she bent back the spout. She took a long drink and nodded. “Tastes good.”
“I drink it every day.”
“You go straight for the hard stuff to drown your sorrows?”
He laughed. “I guess I do.”
They were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts, downing their chocolate milk. Finally Jane asked, “Where are you from, Truman?”
“Here and there,” he said. “But originally? I’m from Travelers Rest, South Carolina.”
“Oh yeah? I used to know someone from there. She was one of our cooks.”
“What was her name?”
“Laney
“But like it or not, I was there, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Finally my turn came to be lifted out of the bus. One of the nurses was holding an umbrella over the door, but she couldn’t keep out the cold and the rain. I looked up at the faces around me. A priest was there. I could tell by his collar he was a priest. He came up to my stretcher, and he leaned over me and said, ‘Seth, you’re safe now. You’re in Germany.’ And I remember thinking it was too late. There was no use pretending I was safe and that everything was all right. It was far too late for that.
“Then, just as they started to take me away, the priest raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over me. He was wearing the same kind of rubber gloves the medical people were wearing, like not even the priest could touch us with his bare hands or he’d catch our bad luck or something.” Seth paused and sniffed out a laugh. “So I watched his hand making the sign of the cross over me, and for the first time in my life I thought, ‘Maybe it’s all a lie. Maybe everything I ever believed is a lie.’”
Jane was beside his wheelchair now, gazing down at him. She wondered at his sudden calm. His expressionless eyes refused to meet hers but stared dully up at the ceiling. They looked like two round patches of frozen earth. Jane leaned down and pressed her cheek against his. “I’m so sorry, Seth,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. But I promise you, we’re going to be all right. We’re going to make it all work somehow.”
She pulled back and waited for him to meet her gaze. But he went on staring at the ceiling, as though she weren’t there.
9
O n the first floor of the VA Medical Center, just beyond the lobby, was a small canteen called The Bistro . Vending machines lined the back wall. A dozen tables with corresponding chairs were bolted to the floor. The wall between the corridor and the canteen was full of windows so that one couldn’t pass The Bistro without being enticed to stop and have a snack.
Jane stopped, but not because she was hungry. She stopped because she saw Truman Rockaway, alone at one of the tables, drinking from a pint carton of chocolate milk.
He raised a hand toward her, beckoning her in. She entered the canteen and sat down across from him. They were the only two people in the room.
“Got milk?” he asked, lifting the cardboard carton.
He smiled. She smiled in return. “I haven’t drunk chocolate milk since I was a kid.”
“We ought to remedy that. My treat.”
“Well . . .”
“I insist. After all, chocolate is a natural antidepressant, you know.”
She looked at him, chewed her lower lip. “Is it that apparent?”
“It doesn’t have to be apparent. It can be deduced. You’re in a hospital visiting your fiancé who is upstairs in the spinal cord unit unable to move from the neck down.” He rose and rummaged around in the pocket of his slacks while he walked to one of the machines. He dropped a series of coins into the slot and pushed a button. A carton of milk nose-dived off the shelf behind the glass and landed with a thud in the lip of the machine. Truman retrieved it and set it on the table in front of Jane. “Drink up, young lady,” he said.
“Thank you, Truman.”
He settled himself back down at the table as she bent back the spout. She took a long drink and nodded. “Tastes good.”
“I drink it every day.”
“You go straight for the hard stuff to drown your sorrows?”
He laughed. “I guess I do.”
They were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts, downing their chocolate milk. Finally Jane asked, “Where are you from, Truman?”
“Here and there,” he said. “But originally? I’m from Travelers Rest, South Carolina.”
“Oh yeah? I used to know someone from there. She was one of our cooks.”
“What was her name?”
“Laney
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