The Secret of Raven Point: A Novel

by Jennifer Vanderbes

  “Well, I’m eager to get hold of Private Barnaby’s medical records. From his first admission.”

  “I could look for them this afternoon,” Juliet offered, realizing this might confirm when, exactly, Barnaby had been in Sergeant McKnight’s unit.

  “How long was he here?”

  “Two crazy weeks!” Glenda chirped. “A lot of patients you forget, but not Christopher Barnaby. There was something different about him, something gentle. He was sweet, polite, smart, clean. He’d make his own bed for the nurses, and you never forget that. But he was frightened, frightened more than you usually see. He didn’t want to talk to the other patients, didn’t even want to look at them. He kept to himself. His neighbor had a banjo and everyone would sing, but Barnaby wouldn’t even hum. . . .” Dr. Willard pulled out a notebook, and at the realization that he was documenting what she said, Glenda became even more loquacious, detailing the meals Barnaby had eaten, the magazines he had read, and how she had nursed him with unparalleled skill and tenderness.

  When Dr. Willard finally closed his notebook, Juliet asked, “So, Barnaby’s condition . . . is it caused by some event, some trigger, or are certain people predisposed to it? And how soon will he come out of it?”

  “That’s precisely the nail I’m trying to hit on the head. Battle fatigue has been around for ages but wasn’t really studied until the last war. Those trenches at Verdun and the Somme rendered thousands mute, sometimes paralyzed. But war neurosis goes back centuries. Herodotus wrote about Epictetus, who in the midst of the Battle of Marathon went blind though he wasn’t struck or injured.”

  “Psychosomatic illnesses,” Juliet offered.

  Dr. Willard smiled with surprise. “Indeed.”

  Glenda yawned, her fingertips patting her outstretched mouth. “It sounds like you’ll be staying for a while, then? Examining the men and whatnot?”

  “I’ll be here as long as it takes. The army wants the field hospitals better equipped to diagnose and treat battle fatigue. Of course, now I’m interested in Private Barnaby. He’s the first known attempted battlefield suicide in this campaign. We had two suicides last year in North Africa. But those men succeeded. If we can figure out what drives a man to that kind of an act, we might be able to prevent these breakages in the mind. Self-preservation is man’s strongest instinct, so when that cracks, you want to take a good long look.”

  “Well, Eisenhower says this whole mess’ll be done by Christmas,” said Glenda. “If it goes beyond that, I think I might crack!”

  “We can always hope for a swift end, but I am temperamentally inclined to prepare for the worst,” said Willard, spooning the last bit of food into his mouth. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  They watched him carry his tray to the far side of the tent and plunge his mess kit into the steaming barrel of soapy water. Glenda rolled her eyes. “Herodotus? Epiwhatever? Have you ever met such a Sergeant Boring!”

  “You seemed quite interested,” said Juliet, surprised by the accusation in her voice.

  “That’s how I behave with all men, sugar. Frankly, I thought you seemed interested. ‘I’ll get you those records, Doctor, just as soon as I slip into something more comfortable. . . .’ ”

  Juliet nervously looked away. “His work is interesting. And Barnaby is my patient.”

  “Sugar, he’s a head doctor. Never, and I mean never, trust a man who can understand what you’re thinking.”

  After lunch Juliet returned to the recovery ward, where Barnaby lay quietly gurgling in his sleep. His arms, covered with a fine layer of chestnut hair, were crossed at his chest—a coffin pose. Had someone placed them that way or had he done it in his sleep? Juliet looked around, but none of the nearby patients seemed to be paying him any attention. His head had been shaved and his face was practically mummified except for his mouth and his one good eye. Since the surgery, though, his eye hadn’t opened; he seemed to be in some sort of coma.

  Snipping the thick layers of gauze from his head, she cleaned the blackened blood from his face and smoothed in sulfonamide ointment before redressing his wounds. She wheeled two screens around his bed and, holding her breath (Juliet could do this for exactly thirty-seven seconds, long enough to flip, clean, and change a patient and carry a soiled diaper to the garbage), turned him on his side, removed his diaper, and sponged him clean. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. She laid down a new diaper, rolled him once again onto his back, and taped closed the sides. Thirty-four, thirty-five.

  “All better,” she huffed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, his Saint Christopher medal nestled just below his Adam’s apple. From the neck down he looked entirely normal. He was tall—over six feet, she guessed—and a bit lanky. He looked perfectly healthy. Perfectly young. She wondered where he came from, what he’d done before the war. She recalled what Glenda had said—There was something different about him, something gentle. . . . But he was frightened.

  Settling on the floor behind one of the screens, out of view of the ward, Juliet pulled out the thick envelope. Once again, she studied the photo of the young woman, this time noticing the sign behind her: Betty’s Beauty Shop. She had a hunch this wasn’t Betty; this woman looked too glamourless to be running a beauty shop.

  Of the dozens of letters, Juliet removed one that had been folded, like an accordion, many times; she had to pry apart the pages, gray with fingerprints.

  Dear Christopher,

  The days are long and the news keeps saying this isn’t going to be over anytime soon. I’m having a hard time. When I wake each morning I just hold my breath and count the squares on the bed quilt until I get to one hundred. I’m afraid this war is determined to steal everything I care about. I wish so much you were back home.

  I make a point of reading the paper every day, top of the front page to the bottom of the last, but it makes me sad to know it wasn’t you setting the type.

  I write down the words I don’t know, just like you, and get out the Webster’s and look them up. Anything to stay busy.

  I’ve been sick a good deal, but I don’t know if it’s from nerves or the baby or flu. But I’m still on my feet, working every day.

  I asked Betty about the raise and she said until more folks come home and need haircuts, there isn’t any extra money to be giving away. I know she’s right. Most of the gals don’t even bother getting their hair done since the men are gone. Pinching pennies. I think it’d be pretty funny if all the men just showed up home one day. Boy would they be in for a surprise! All the girls with mussed-up hair and not a hint of makeup. Eyes puffy from not sleeping and crying. The houses needing dusting. Dishes needing washing. Betty said, “Well, them’s the blues, Tina. It’s the blues makes you not want to do the things you usually do.” And then she said, “Tina, just like you’re not doing good with the sweeping up. Look at the floor.” She handed me the broom and said, “Go on, it’ll help clear your blues.” Betty is still Betty.

  I’d really like to get one of the factory jobs, be a real Rosie the Riveter. The mill is hiring girls, but those jobs aren’t safe for girls in the way like me, so for now I’m stuck.

  I know I’m supposed to be proud of what you’re doing, and I am. But I’m scared for you, Christopher.

  Be safe and write soon.

  Love, as always,

  Tina

  PS: I put some cocoa mix in this time for you, the kind that doesn’t need milk. It’s the best I could do.

  Juliet slid the letter back in the envelope.

  So his wife was pregnant; this made everything exponentially worse. Hopefully the woman wouldn’t get a heartless army telegram informing her of his suicide attempt. What was the protocol with this kind of injury? With a man who was alive but couldn’t put a pen to paper or even dictate a letter? With a man whose injury was considered desertion?

  Juliet looked at the date—April 23. Just two months earlier. Even in the most dire of situations, wouldn’t Private Barnaby have tried to make it back to his wife and child? Had
he just aimed at his foot, he’d have been shipped home—with charges, maybe, but he’d be alive; he’d be a husband and a father. It made no sense. She thought about what Dr. Willard had said to Captain Brilling: The mind can bleed. Perhaps. But had his reason and love and sense of duty hemorrhaged entirely away? What could do that to a person?

  She took his hand, warm and soft, and pressed it to her cheek. “What happened to you, Christopher?”

  CHAPTER 6

  AS THE AMBULANCE bucked and bumped along the rutted dirt road, Juliet held tightly to a beam beside her to avoid swaying into Dr. Willard. The back of the vehicle had been designed to hold six litters, with three folding racks suspended on either side of the narrow space. Having fastened the racks to the walls, the group on furlough sat on the floor, cross-legged, in the cool shade of the metal enclosure. The vehicle groaned as it tackled each steep incline through the hills, and whenever the road curved sharply, Glenda Texas flung herself laughingly against Bernice. When they finally entered the valley and the road lay flat and wide, Juliet pulled herself up and stood looking out the two small glass windows of the back door. It was thrilling to travel through that strange land; despite the war, despite the pressing mystery of what had happened to Tuck, the simple pleasure of seeing new parts of the world intoxicated her.

  “How are we doing back there?” Dr. Lovelace called from the driver’s seat.

  “Impressive driving,” said Glenda.

  “Rodeo-style,” yelped Lovelace, leaning his head out the window, the wind in his curls.

  “I don’t think army insurance covers road accidents on leave,” Bernice said.

  “Don’t worry, Bernice,” said Glenda, “you’ve got a surgical team right here. We’ll fix you up for free.”

  Before the Division’s next push forward, some of the hospital staff had been issued twelve-hour leaves. The day promised to be hot and bright, so at breakfast they voted to ride to Lago di Vico to take a last swim before the hospital moved north. Dr. Lovelace borrowed a map from a division commander who charted a route for them. The lake was about twenty miles from the Tyrrhenian coast; the commander assured them the area had been swept for mines.

  Beneath a cloudless sky, the road behind them lay like a ribbon of dirt. In the bright morning light, an abandoned olive grove cast beautiful tangled shadows across the road. In the distance, there was a line of what Juliet thought were oak trees, but they looked smashed and frayed. On the broken branches birds had gathered thickly, as though in sympathy. At points in the road the earth had been entirely disgorged; beside these pockets of darkness lay an unsettling array of items: a broken wheelbarrow, a boot, a mutilated suitcase. She noticed an abandoned farmhouse fronted by a dozen corpses—cattle and horses, withered and blackened. The sight jolted her, but through the small windows it all had the faraway feel of a movie scene, the images clouded by the thick worn glass, bounded and circumscribed by the dark metal of the door.

  Juliet returned to the floor of the ambulance, where Glenda and Bernice were intently playing a hand of poker. Bernice was a wizard at cards and played only for money; between the women lay a pile of tattered lire. Hoping to learn a thing or two, Juliet settled in beside Bernice. At the front end of the compartment Dr. Willard presided, having repositioned himself so that he could stretch his legs. The ambulance groaned once again as it tackled an incline, and Juliet felt the rumble of tires through the floorboard. Bernice was gleefully winning her fifth hand of poker when the vehicle slowly ground to a halt and Lovelace called, “Ta-daaa.”

  The lake was stunning. Sunlight skipped along the vast surface like a thousand tossed stones. A line of dense forest surrounded the water, a border of green velvet against the sky. They stood silently beside the ambulance, finally muttering, “Jesus” and “Amen” and “It’s like a fucking postcard” before making their way to the bright crescent of sand.

  Juliet spread out a hospital blanket, and they all began to excitedly unlace their boots.

  Dr. Lovelace, stripping down to a pair of red swim trunks, called over to Dr. Willard: “Shall we scare away the lake monsters for the ladies?” Without awaiting an answer, Lovelace dove in. Juliet watched as Dr. Willard hesitantly followed, pausing at the lake’s edge to study the horizon.

  Glenda stood, unbuttoning her shirt with a languor that suggested she was accustomed to an audience. Juliet instead wrestled off her shirt and pants while sitting on the blanket. In their swimsuits they eagerly made for the water, leaving Bernice fully clothed on the grass, gleefully counting her poker winnings.

  Juliet shuddered as the icy water bit at her calves, but forced herself farther in. Glenda paused waist deep, her face to the sun, a gold bobby pin in her teeth, arranging her curls. Her hair finally fastened, she flung both arms behind her, puffed out her chest, and threw herself in, up to her chest, with a whoo-eeee.

  Dr. Lovelace emerged on the shore after a spectacular and noisy circuit of aquatics; his beard dripping, he inflated a rainbow beach ball, tossed it straight up, and caught it with a thwack. “Now, ladies,” he called as he strode back in, “I realize this may look like child’s play, but this is actually an advanced exercise in hand-eye coordination. Heads up, Texas. . . .” Dr. Lovelace tossed the ball so that it splashed just in front of Glenda.

  “Clifford.”

  Glenda had been assisting Dr. Lovelace for a year, and Juliet thought she was sweet on him, though Glenda seemed sweet on most men. Lovelace was easily twenty years her senior and had a wife and three teenage children back in California. Juliet suspected it was a flirtation to pass the grueling time, something to take the edge off sawing gangrenous limbs all day long. Who could blame them?

  Pawing the ball toward herself, Glenda turned to Juliet. “Sugar, why don’t you show the boys a thing or two?” The ball sailed through the air and Juliet caught it securely, just as Tuck had tried to teach her hundreds of times but which she’d never quite mastered. Delighted with her feat, she excitedly threw the ball to Dr. Willard, who, taken by surprise, swatted it away.

  “I did not miss my calling,” he said, staring dolefully at the drifting ball. “Nurse Dufresne, on the other hand, should go pro.”

  He turned to Juliet with a dazzled smile, and Juliet’s stomach fluttered. Without thinking, she flipped onto her back, scissor-kicking hard through the black and icy water. He made her nervous, the psychiatrist. Far from the group, she lifted her head and looked back. Willard had thankfully turned his attention elsewhere, so Juliet eased into a slow, measured sidestroke.

  Gliding alongside the overgrown shore, her body passed through unexpected patches of warm water in the cold. Shallow spots, she thought. In the distance, a procession of ducks slid along noiselessly. And what she believed to be a cormorant studied her from the perch of a mossy rock. The shimmering sprawl of the lake, the primeval elegance of the birds—the panorama tightened her chest: here was the most beautiful landscape she’d seen in years, and she couldn’t help but think, Tuck would love this.

  It was a thought that did not come often these days, so it had the power to disorient her; once again, Juliet had to remind herself of the telegram, of Tuck’s mysterious last letter; she had to acknowledge that the person with whom she had shared almost every experience of her childhood, the person she assumed she would speak to for the rest of her life, had simply vanished.

  He’s gone, Juliet told herself. You can’t talk to him, you can’t write to him, you can’t tell him about this beautiful lake. You’re alone now.

  The feeling moved through her sharply, and Juliet dove under the water and swam. Holding her breath in the darkness, she counted—one, two, three, four. She imagined fetching a bedpan, carrying it to the washroom. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. . . . She wanted to break thirty-seven seconds; she wanted her lungs to burst.

  “Ahoy!” Dr. Lovelace called when she shot up, gasping for air. “We thought you were trying to swim to Switzerland!” He and Glenda were wading in the shallows, tossing the ball back and fo
rth. On the beach beyond, Bernice was doing calisthenics: squatting and standing, squatting and standing. Dr. Willard lay nearby with a book propped before his face.

  “Let’s see you jump for it, Cliff,” Glenda called, and the ball sailed in a vast arc over Dr. Lovelace and past Juliet, disappearing into the woods. “Whoops, sugar, can you grab that?”

  As Juliet swam toward the ball, Dr. Lovelace called, “Willard, can you give the girl a hand?” Dr. Willard set down his book, tugged on his boots, and knotted a towel around his waist, heading dutifully toward the woods.

  A thicket of leafy birch trees shaded the area, and twigs blanketed the ground. As Juliet pulled herself onto the mossy shore, she could hear the crunch of Willard’s approaching footsteps. She straightened her bathing suit straps and quickly thumbed the bottom into place. But when she turned to face Dr. Willard, he was staring at the ground. She followed his gaze to the curled-up body of a soldier, the face blackened with dried blood, a swollen blue tongue protruding from the mouth. A German, it seemed, from the uniform, which was oddly pristine. The man’s hands, however, had been pecked and gnawed, and a curious cormorant now poked its beak at the pulpy remainder of one thumb. Juliet shooed it away and dropped to her knees beside the body, gently touching its shoulder: “Oh, God, the poor thing.”

  Willard looked at her quizzically. “It looks like one shot to the temple,” he said. “I doubt he suffered much.”

  Juliet shook her head. That wasn’t the matter at all.

  She looked at the boy, or the man, and all she could think was, Here is someone who went missing. Surely his squad hadn’t seen him shot, hadn’t just left him to die in the woods—even Germans weren’t that disloyal. Burial mattered; the ritual, the ceremonial good-bye, meant something to everyone in the world. The Neanderthals had buried their dead. No one just left the dead to rot in the woods. But as far as the world was concerned, here was a young man who had, like Tuck, simply vanished. And so what Juliet wanted desperately to do at that moment was to carry the body out of the woods and find out who he had been and who he belonged to, so that those people—his mother, his wife, his sister—could say good-bye and find some peace. But she knew that was impossible, and certainly irrational and impractical enough to prompt the concern of a psychiatrist if she voiced the thought. So she gathered some branches and laid them over the corpse, then gestured to the towel around Dr. Willard’s waist. “We need a shroud,” she said matter-of-factly.