by Jody Shields
“Look. How perfect.” A branch and its thin leaves shook as he twisted a peach from its stem and slipped it into her pocket.
The fruit still held warmth from the sun, making a comforting weight against her hip. They fell silent; he was preoccupied, gazing at the trees with a blunted air as she anxiously observed him. She had watched her mother’s unseeing face in a similar way, alert for the slightest foil of expression, which created the same waiting helplessness she now felt with Julian. Only his words or touch could temper the mood between them.
He stopped and put his hands on her shoulders so they looked into each other’s eyes. “I must tell you. They put the mask over my face like settling a crown on my head. It was so cold it seemed to burn my skin.”
To ease his pain, Catherine took the sensation of the frigid metal into herself, like a fire eater, a sword swallower. Nothing could burn her. She pressed his hand against her breast, but even this contact didn’t ease the tightness held in his body.
Catherine began to fear the distance the mask would take him from her. Their happiness would be destroyed before Julian could be transformed or healed. But the blind path was laid.
I’LL MAKE A BOAT for you, a raft, a vessel. To take you away,” crooned Brownlow, crouching at Artis’s bedside. The boy was oblivious, still recovering from surgery, his gauze-bandaged arm swaddled in a thickness of folded towels. Brownlow’s bullet had torn exactly through the center of his palm.
A nurse bustled around the bed, aggressively snugging the blankets close to the boy, making it clear to Brownlow that she was in charge. Her scowling, ruddy face was a coarse contrast against her smooth white cap.
“The boy will recover from his accident. But he isn’t fit for conversation. Don’t be bothering him now.”
“Certainly, Nurse.”
Brownlow unsteadily moved back, colliding with Dr. McCleary. In the hasty glance they exchanged, McCleary thought the other man’s eyes passed scornful judgment on him. Or was it complicity? He was in a state to mistake any gesture for criticism.
Eclipsed by McCleary, the respectful nurse hovered unnoticed as the doctor’s calm hand measured the drowsy boy’s pulse. Artis’s face was slightly pinched with pain, his features seemed closed in, simple as a cartoon, upper lip contorted, brow narrowed.
McCleary smoothed the boy’s forehead where a blue vein twisted across his temple before losing itself under a spike of damp hair. Artis’s lips were only faintly pink; healthy blood hadn’t yet flushed the skin.
“Forgive me. Speak to me,” McCleary whispered, wishing to seize the boy’s consciousness and drag him back into awareness.
Naming the body was a charm against the unexpected nature of a wound, and McCleary recited muscles of the hand from memory: abductor digiti quinti, abductor pollicis longus, extensor carpi radialis brevis, extensor carpi ulnaris.
Visualizing what was inaccessible, he descended into the boy’s hand as smoothly as a glissando, the jagged ends of bone; lean, purposeful striations of muscle neatly secured with silkworm gut and horsehair. The beautiful compactness of the body’s interior.
He sensed healing was progressing satisfactorily, although any injury or medical procedure carried risk, and even a scratch could develop into sepsis, shock, blood poisoning. Dakin’s Solution was commonly used for infection, but it was an unreliable antiseptic. Just to be safe, he would order a nurse to apply oil of balsam, an aromatic and ancient remedy, to Artis’s hand.
The details of the accidental shooting had been explained to another surgeon, and after examining the boy’s wound, he confirmed McCleary’s original diagnosis. But now McCleary realized he’d sought this second opinion to create distance and absolve himself from the shooting and its aftermath.
It was certain that Artis’s dexterity was compromised, and that he would recover only partial use of his injured hand. Holding a spoon, a bayonet, or a scalpel would be difficult. The boy had been delivered from war, but his dream of becoming a surgeon was ruined. This would be explained when Artis was stronger. McCleary would make certain he would have no material needs in the future. His solicitor would draw up the necessary documents.
McCleary leaned closer to Artis, forcing himself to smile. “I will tend you with care. I promise you, young man.”
Artis slipped into deeper sleep.
McCleary shook himself, remembering Artis was a patient among patients. Other sufferers needed his attention too. Suddenly, he was distracted by the unexpected scent of ether.
Unnoticed, Brownlow had quietly re-entered the room. “You’ve lost your apprentice, Doctor,” Brownlow hissed. “But I’m certain he’ll be right as rain.” The pupils of Brownlow’s eyes were unfocused pinpoints, constricting with his pitiless aggression.
McCleary didn’t trust himself to answer.
“I don’t imagine the lad will want your medical tutoring after you arranged his injury, however well-intentioned. But I could train him as an anesthetist. Perfect dexterity isn’t absolutely necessary.” Brownlow licked his lips, his fingers twitching in the pocket of his jacket.
“A profession that doesn’t require steady hands, as you constantly demonstrate.”
“I’m a slab of flint compared to you, Doctor. I don’t weep and wallow over my patients.”
“Please lower your voice. Artis doesn’t have the disposition to work as an anesthetist. And I don’t have the disposition to stand by and watch.” McCleary angrily shifted his weight, and his foot struck something that rolled out from under the bed. An ether bottle. He understood Brownlow’s intent.
Brownlow’s words tumbled out. “I meant no harm. The boy will only wake to suffer. I help him in my way.”
McCleary retrieved the bottle of ether, cold as ice.
“I deliver men into nothingness. But nothing comforts me,” babbled Brownlow, his face fused with anguish.
Brownlow’s loneliness was beyond any solace McCleary could offer, and he waited until the man’s words ebbed into silence. “It is a mistake to believe we can have companions. We’re alone with our work.”
A LONG THE DRIVE lined with shadows, an unfamiliar woman determinedly hurried toward the house, hampered by her skirt, which she repeatedly kicked with her canvas shoes. An orderly stalked close behind her, his feet silent on the grass.
Catherine was a spectator, watching the two figures appearing to be involved in a silent, unfamiliar game.
“Halt!”
The woman ignored the orderly’s shout, and continued without breaking stride.
The man lunged, seized the woman’s arm, sending her hat—a black feathered cartwheel—flying. With a soft cry, she jolted to the ground near her hat.
“Ma’am, you’re not allowed at the hospital. No visitors.” The orderly helped the woman to her feet, her face dazed with disbelief and indignation.
“Here, what are you doing?” Catherine pulled at the orderly’s arm until he released the woman, and she backed away, sobbing into her gloved hands. A bouquet lay crushed on the grass, intended as a gift for the visitor’s sweetheart, son, or husband.
Catherine and the orderly stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. How did this woman get past the gates?
The woman evaded them and bolted up the steps into the house.
“Stop her!”
Inside, the female intruder careened down the corridor, her gaze striking the faces of each bystander in a search for her loved one.
“Richard! Richard!” the woman cried. “Where are you?”
She was possessed by such fierce anguish that the bewildered nurses, doctors, and orderlies stood aside, none of them daring to interfere. The woman shoved a supply trolley out of the way, the tiny orchestra of its glass instruments nervously heralding its collision with the wall.
She plunged into a room, and the patients playing checkers at a table were startled by this gasping intruder, her dark hair unpinned, falling to her shoulders, dress stained green at the knee and hem where it had been crushed against grass. A m
an in a black wire mask stood up. The woman’s eye met his single eye, her mouth opened with astonishment as she saw an injured man up close for the first time, and her scream swept in the outside world, the pitiless, constant judgment all the mutilated would encounter away from the shelter of the hospital.
A young patient with a thickly bandaged head, his eyes slits across two red, swollen circles of skin, angrily tilted the table; the game pieces clattered to the floor, then spun into a silence that obliterated the bustle in the corridor. A crowd gathered around the woman, who had fainted in the doorway.
M CCLEARY TRUDGED PURPOSEFULLY behind Kazanjian, Hunt, and Brownlow along the narrow path, launching the long stalks of the butterfly bushes into trembling motion as he brushed against them, scattering their faded, grainlike, almost phosphorescent gray flowers. To the north, dryness seemed to radiate through the browning stalks of mown grass across the pasture, prickly stubble readied to catch the first frost.
McCleary dismissed the joking conversation that reached him over their shoulders as frivolous and unnecessary. Why couldn’t they enjoy silence, the enormous space of quiet? He increasingly craved solitude. Ten strides later, he was glad of their loud company, as he was again possessed by a heaviness that weighed his legs, stooped his shoulders, dulled his voice and the sympathetic brilliance of his eye. This ill feeling had no internal source that a pathologist, an anatomist, or the uncanny, infallible vision of an X-ray could detect. In truth, the operating theater had become the only place he felt truly secure, where time could be accounted for as a heartbeat, tunneling its rhythm through a stethoscope. Bodies were a safe and familiar landscape, with their subterranean levels of muscle, veins like a river, bones located in flesh like stones unearthed in a field.
The heavy hamper he carried pressed into his palms through his thick deerskin gloves. Although he was always careful of his hands, this discomfort barely registered, as if he had become detached from the troubles of his body.
They reached their destination, an orangerie with panes missing from windows and roof, its metal structure thinned by rust. Inside, a craggy shape in the center was the tumbled remains of a fountain. Huge stone planters that once held tender tropical plants—India jasmine, Bourbon palms, citrons, rare vines from Sidon and Smyrna—had been rolled into corners. Weeds had flourished during the summer, now tangled, fading green spokes protruding from the stone floor. Characteristically ill-tempered, Brownlow stamped them flat.
The men simultaneously removed their jackets, a constricting reminder of service. McCleary dusted a bench with a crumpled newspaper, then cautiously sat down.
The Fortnum and Mason hampers had been a gift to a patient who had subsequently auctioned them in the billiard room to Brownlow, now swiftly unpacking tins of pickles, peas, preserved ham, cheeses, Charbonnel chocolates, a cake with candied fruit. He gloated over a small gleaming tin. “Gentlemen and doctors, we are blessed. We have wild-game paté. Lift your forks.”
“I couldn’t even scrawl an X for my name at this point.” McCleary stretched his cramped and aching hands. He thought to save a delicacy for Artis, perhaps a slice of cake, then guilt overlapped this generous thought.
“A glass of wine won’t be too burdensome.” Brownlow dexterously uncorked a bottle and poured the wine into beakers, their chosen drinking vessels. “A fine Margaux, courtesy of our lady hostess.”
“The fresh air has made you rave, Brownlow.” McCleary held out a beaker to be filled, trying to catch the man’s eye and gauge his condition. Brownlow’s moods had become more mercurial, and he habitually forgot, rather than forgave, those who frequently quarreled with him.
“Brigands with our spoils,” Kazanjian said solemnly.
Hunt giggled. “Like Treasure Island.”
The men hailed the hampers’ former owner and Fortnum’s delivery team, two stout women in the store’s signature green uniforms.
As the glass reached McCleary’s lips, he inhaled the faintest scent of iodine from his stained fingertips, the connection to work always present. The bitter odor was lost as he swallowed wine and was immediately engulfed by its richness, surprised that taste still had the power to command his senses. A memory crackled, an image of ivory light, silver candlesticks, the black shape of a ruffled skirt. He struggled to identify these fractured clues. A restaurant, a dinner with his beloved. What had she whispered to him? Or had she hummed a bar of music? Handel? “Ombra mai fu”? Perhaps an orchestra had been playing.
Swept by a sense of loss, McCleary realized he was staring at Kazanjian, who had the good fortune to find love in this unlikely setting. He studied his friend for signs of transformation, radiance, the blessing of Cupid, but Kazanjian’s stolid face gave nothing away. McCleary smiled, resolving to speak with him and share his pleasure. Or was it best to leave something so private unsaid? He found it difficult to conduct discussion on the intangible, preferring physical objects or a verifiable condition as subjects.
Brownlow and Kazanjian’s conversation about two patients grew louder and impassioned, heated into an argument. Kazanjian briefly touched the other man’s arm to make a point, and the anesthetist shook himself and drew away, unable to bear the contact.
“Even the masks made by Anna Coleman won’t give the patients a life. For all the good it does, they should wear flowerpots over their heads.” Brownlow’s eyes appeared black, huge, unfocused, and his grin challenged anyone to contradict him. No one spoke up, knowing argument was useless, as Brownlow routinely ignored other opinions.
“He isn’t wrong,” muttered Hunt.
“Thank you, sir.” Brownlow snapped a salute in his direction. “I overheard two patients in the ward begging another to make a wish because it was his birthday. Guess what he wished for?” He continued without pause. “The poor blinking sod wished that he would be struck blind, so he would never see anyone’s reaction to his disfigured face. The other patients agreed. I thought to myself, Yes, blindness isn’t so far-fetched for someone with a ravaged mug. Imagine the relief.”
Hunt whistled in astonishment at Brownlow’s disrespect.
McCleary couldn’t let this dismissal of his work stand unchallenged. “There are many routes to a cure. The masks will activate the patients’ own healing.”
“Problem with you, Dr. McCleary, is that you’re always so pious. Like a saint giving blessings to the patients.”
“You’re drunk, Brownlow.”
“No, I’m a bloody visionary. Sober enough to know that in our secret hearts, we rejoice that our faces are whole. Our proud lips can kiss. Our eyes blink. We don’t recognize the damaged men as equals. No, we see them as gargoyles, and this completes the injury the enemy started.”
Brownlow’s words struck a chill in McCleary, which spread and numbed him. There was truth, like something unhealed, in his words. And shame too. He dully realized that the others were looking at him for a response.
McCleary found his voice. “Yet even when a man’s face is damaged beyond recognition, his true identity doesn’t change. Even after death, something remains. Call it what you will, nothing on earth is excluded. Ovid knew this and described it wonderfully.” His fine voice became more resonant as he forgot his surroundings, and the lines floated clear in his memory:
“All things are always changing,
But nothing dies. The spirit comes and goes,
Is housed wherever it wills, shifts residence
From beasts to men, from men to beasts, but always
It keeps on living. As the pliant wax
Is stamped with new designs, and is no longer
What once it was, but changes form, and still
Is pliant wax, so do I teach that spirit
Is evermore the same, though passing always
To ever-changing bodies.”
The others were silent. By a trick of shadow, the narrow metal scaffolding on the roof of the greenhouse appeared to constrict, drawing closer over their heads as if it were a descending net.
“I’m not buying it.” Brownlow clambered unsteadily onto a bench and stood to address them, intense as a preacher. “The only place our spirits pass is inside our own brains. And then lights out. I see proof of this every day on the operating table.”
“Aye. Let him dry out,” said Hunt. “He sees things half the time. Sleepy on his feet from fumes up his nose.”
Roaring, Brownlow leaped from the bench, swinging wildly at Hunt, and they fought across the rough floor, shouts echoing around them.
McCleary had no memory of how he came to pull Brownlow free and wipe the dark thread of blood running from his mouth, his gesture of comfort automatic. He held Brownlow’s arm, and the panting man looked at him wonderingly.
McCleary remembered a night in Heidelberg when he’d slashed an opponent with a saber in a duel and, to his shame, had been unable to stanch the wound with a tourniquet from a torn shirt. Someone had helped him the same way that evening, had taken his arm and led him away, unaware that his own face had been cut. Had violence always been attached to his practice of healing?
McCleary felt the ticking pulse of the saber scar on his face and released Brownlow’s arm with an abruptness that surprised both of them. “That’s enough.”
Brownlow turned away, his face sorrowfully composed for tears.
Chapter Twenty
THE SUPPER SENT to Catherine’s room was cold under its metal covers, the soup in a dented tureen, a greasy cutlet on a thick china dish from the hospital pantry. She stood over a small table to eat, a cloth protectively draped over her gown, but the spoon’s scrape across the bowl, the coarse crumble of bread, the very act of eating, was repulsive. She had no need of food. Her fingers released the spoon, and it clattered on the plate.
A cloak around her shoulders, she hurriedly left the house, dressed to meet Julian. The long grass struck her skirt in rustling, regular waves as if she moved along the water’s edge.