The Secret of Raven Point: A Novel

by Jennifer Vanderbes

  “A girl should never waste her pink parts.”

  Juliet vigorously soaped her arms and chest and waist—but avoided her thighs. Shrugging, Glenda yanked a bedsheet from the nail and loosely knotted it at her chest. Juliet doused the suds from her body and reached for her own towel. Taking in the last glimpse of Juliet’s nakedness, Glenda grinned.

  “You know, sugar, if you won’t touch it, who else will?”

  Juliet sat on her helmet on the ground amid a circle of nurses and doctors; the sky was black, the first night stars punching through the darkness. Her hair still wet, the air cool, Juliet clutched a blanket over her shoulders and sipped slowly at her “moose milk,” a pungent cocktail of medical alcohol and canned grapefruit juice. It surged through her head and tickled her scalp, but she was afraid to drink water since she loathed the makeshift latrine—a bucket encircled by a shower curtain. She’d been avoiding fluids all day, hoping to wait out the construction of the outhouse.

  In the center, where a campfire should have been, sat a small radio. Dr. Lovelace crouched over it, fiddling with the dial. His shirtsleeves were rolled above his broad forearms. His wristwatch gleamed in the moonlight. He was trying to tune in to Blind Dates, a show in which women read letters to their sons overseas. Meanwhile everyone drank and stared at the sky, debating the names of obscure constellations. Another nurse, Avis, asked Juliet how she had survived the decampment; Avis swore Juliet would be able to single-handedly pitch a tent within weeks. Everyone talked to her, asked how she was settling in.

  Almost all of the doctors except Dr. Willard were there; Juliet wondered if he was working, or if he didn’t like socializing.

  The smoke from their cigarettes drifted toward the green tents beyond. Juliet was amazed by how closely this encampment resembled the previous one.

  The radio suddenly blared as it picked up the end of Radio London, reporting on the landings at Normandy. Juliet and Avis leaned in, and then the broadcast cut to noisy static.

  Lovelace checked his watch. “It’s only our gal Sally now.”

  “Turn that crap off,” said Major Decker. Major Decker had carried a chair from his tent and presided over the group in a kingly fashion.

  “But she plays the best tunes,” said Avis.

  “I ditto Major Decker,” said Mother Hen, swigging a bottle of beer. “Morale is in the ditches.”

  Juliet leaned toward Avis. “Who’s Sally?”

  “An American who broadcasts for Radio Berlin.”

  “She’s our enemy on the airwaves,” added Lovelace. “The nastiest, most pessimistic siren that ever spoke—with exquisite taste in music.” He turned the dial, and a woman’s voice, deep and smoky, crackled from the radio:

  Well, fellas, this is Axis Sally talking to you Yanks in Italy. Why are ya here? We know why. You do, too. To fight for those Jewish bankers and Wall Street stockbrokers. That’s what for. To make a little money. You’re gonna die out here for that, ya know? Now that’s a silly thing for you to do, Yank, but you’re in a war for them now and you won’t make it one inch farther. But we’ll play a nice song for you now and listen to some of your favorite music. Remember those nights you sat in the evening with your girlfriend, those summer nights, she’d be in your arms and she’d say “I love you” and you’d say “I love you, too.” And you’ll never see her again. You’ll die here.

  Then “Good Night Sweetheart” came on.

  “The troops listen to this?” asked Brother Reardon.

  “They can practically recite it,” said Lovelace, drawing Glenda up into the middle of the grass. Glenda kicked off her shoes and rose to her toes and began sidestepping and twirling with sensual grace. Her hair was wet and loose, her mouth shimmering with lipstick. As “In the Mood” came on, and others got up to dance, she sashayed into Dr. Mallick’s arms. Juliet watched her move from man to man, eventually dancing happily alone at the edges of the circle, eyes closed, chin to the moon. Juliet slid back to make room for the dancers and quietly sipped her cocktail, tapping her foot to the song.

  “It’s a sin to leave a beautiful young lady without a dance partner.”

  Before Juliet could respond, Brother Reardon set her drink on the ground and drew her into the circle. An inch shorter than she was, he placed his arm stiffly around her waist. He moved almost athletically to the music, his feet shuffling out two to three steps for every beat. Juliet tried her best to follow; when she faltered, he pulled her close and loudly counted out his steps. She had never danced with a man before; she had never, in fact, been so close to a man for that length of time. It was nice. Just my luck, Juliet thought laughingly. The chaplain!

  They’d barely spoken since their first meeting. But she had watched him dart endlessly between patients; crouched at their bedsides, a Bible in his lap, he held their hands and anointed their wounds. Behind screens, he “specialed” men through their dying hours, and he spent several evenings with Barnaby, reading aloud psalms. She learned from the other nurses that he belonged to a Benedictine archabbey in Pennsylvania. He had been a monk for only one year before volunteering for the war effort. Was this dance just another act of charity? Although Juliet loathed the idea of being pitied, she was glad not to be left on the sidelines.

  He swirled her through the crowd, bumping the other dancers, laughing. At the song’s end, he dramatically dipped her, and her wet braids swept the grass. “Sorry, I’m out of practice.”

  “It’s all right,” she laughed. “I’ve never been in practice.” She stepped back so that he knew his responsibility was over.

  How’d ya like that one, boys? Did it make you miss your gal back home? I hope you got a nice moment in, because it will, sadly, be one of your last. We’re getting ready for you on the coast of France. Yup. We know all about your secret little landing. And we’re ready for you in the Italian mountains. It’s a shame you have to march your way into certain death, but our spies amongst you are doing a swell job of letting us know exactly what you’re up to. We’ll try to be nice and kill you quickly.

  This is Axis Sally, signing off.

  “They really have spies?” asked Juliet, picking up her drink.

  Glenda drew up close. “When you think about it, it’s kind of heartbreaking. Spies are the best actors in the world, and nobody ever knows their talents.”

  “Spies don’t have talents,” said Avis. “They’re just spineless.”

  “Soulless,” said Brother Reardon.

  “Okay, okay, we don’t need to write a treatise on treachery,” Major Decker bellowed, gnawing on his cigar. “There are no spies. That’s exactly why this crap shouldn’t be playing.” He switched off the radio. “Don’t you people have work to do? I’m ordering you all on duty right now.”

  “But, Major,” said Dr. Lovelace, “we’ve been drinking.”

  “Then try not to cut anyone open. And you, Nurse . . .”

  “Dufresne.”

  “Dufresne, go check on your patient. You can babble to him about spies.”

  Major Decker set the radio at the foot of his chair and propped his boots on it. Closing his eyes, he smoked into the night.

  Juliet found Dr. Willard in the recovery ward, seated beside Barnaby’s bed, an open notebook in his lap and a cup of coffee on the floor. An oil lamp cast a soft glow on Willard’s face. The nearby beds were empty.

  “You missed the dancing,” said Juliet.

  “Bum legs make for bad dancers.”

  She wandered close and looked down at Barnaby.

  “How are you?” Willard asked. “I’m sure meeting those Germans last night was a fright.”

  “I’ve had better nights’ sleep, but I’m all right.” She wanted to thank him for saving them but worried it would sound melodramatic; Glenda and Bernice had taken the ordeal in stride, and Juliet aimed to do the same. “You speak German,” Juliet said.

  “And French and Latin, though they’re of less use here.”

  “Wow.”

  Seemingly uncomfortable with her
admiration, he began to peel back a portion of the gauze over Barnaby’s chin. “See how well he’s healing? He’ll be missing the one eye, but other than that, there may not be anything physically wrong with him.”

  “Except that he won’t come out of his coma.” Juliet felt light-headed. She gripped the end of Barnaby’s bed and settled herself, Indian-style, on the ground. She pressed her hands to her cheeks; they felt hot.

  “Well, there are many types of comas. It’s more of a continuum than a dichotomy. Watch.” Willard clapped his hands, and Barnaby flinched. “Auditory startle. Auditory startle is excellent. And if I scratch his foot, his leg moves. With proper stimulation, he can open his eye and track an object. Visual pursuit is extremely promising. But it’s more than his reflexes. He can actually hear us. His heart rate changes, depending on what I say to him; he just doesn’t seem to want to open his eye.”

  “So he knows what’s going on around him?”

  “Not like you or I do. It’s a neurological limbo. His mind absorbs information; it’s just that it doesn’t necessarily process it fully. I’ve talked to some patients after they’ve emerged from these states who claim vague memories. Most, however, recall nothing.”

  “I’ve been trying to say nice things to him, just in case.” She rubbed Barnaby’s foot. “Nurse flirting.” She giggled and exhaled quite loudly, swaying backward for a moment. “Sorry, I’m a little drunk.”

  “Yes, I can tell.” Willard returned his attention to his notebook, turning several pages in search of something.

  Juliet straightened her posture. “So what do you do in the meantime? Until he wakes up?”

  “I train the staff in the treatment of battle fatigue. And I help the other men who come in.”

  She gestured at his notebook. “What’s in there?”

  “Thoughts, impressions, ideas.” Willard slid on his glasses and lifted the book. “For example.”

  When the furious struggle of the present war has been decided, each one of the victorious fighters will return home joyfully to his wife and children, unchecked and undisturbed by thoughts of the enemies he has killed whether at close quarters or long range. It is worthy of note that the primitive races which still survive in the world, and are undoubtedly closer than we are to primaeval man, act differently in this respect, or did until they came under the influence of our civilization. Savages . . . are far from being remorseless murderers; when they return victorious from the war-path they may not set foot in their villages or touch their wives till they have atoned for the murders they committed in war by penances which are often long and tedious. It is easy, of course, to attribute this to their superstition: the savage still goes in fear of the avenging spirits of the slain. But the spirits of his slain enemy are nothing but the expression of his bad conscience about his blood-guilt; behind this superstition there lies concealed a vein of ethical sensitiveness which has been lost by us civilized men.

  “Any idea who said that?” he asked.

  “Dr. Henry Willard?”

  “Ah, how I wish. I must, however, cede the honor to the great Sigmund Freud, writing in 1915 about the First World War. Of course, none of those men returned home joyfully. But we expected them to; people still expect them to. Unchecked and undisturbed.”

  He removed his glasses. His eyes were intricately threaded with green and gold and brown. They were thoughtful eyes, beautiful eyes. Juliet felt momentarily speechless. He looked at her as though awaiting her response, then closed his notebook firmly.

  “Well, if he can hear, I wonder . . . I mean maybe . . .” Juliet stammered, rifling beneath the cot for one of Barnaby’s letters. “Maybe if you read this to him? It’s from his wife. Would that help?”

  Without glancing at the letter, Willard pressed it back at her. Juliet felt a momentary dejection, which must have been evident, because he shook his head. “No, no, I only meant it needs a woman’s touch. Please. Go ahead. You.”

  Juliet flattened the pages on her thigh, and Willard parted the V of Barnaby’s hospital gown and arranged the stethoscope.

  Juliet cleared her throat:

  Dear Christopher,

  I got the money you sent, and thank you as always for that as I was able to pay the bank on time and didn’t have to get another one of Otis Rattmeyer’s huffy telephone calls. That man has lungs so big I swear on my socks you can probably hear his mean old clattering all the way where you are. Though I don’t know where that is, Christopher. It’s killing me. I know they won’t let you say anything but it hurts to think of you and not know where to put you. I’m not used to it. So I imagine you all the way in Africa, because Betty says that’s the most exotic place for a soldier to be. When I picture you, just for fun, I have you sitting on a camel.

  I take all the vitamins, big as gobstoppers, each morning gulping one down with my coffee. Then I rest for a minute since that’s the time of day my stomach starts tumbling. You don’t have to worry because I’m taking everything real slow. I’m getting fat and lazy and loving every minute of it.

  “See?” Juliet interjected. “Your wife is taking good care of herself.”

  I only go from the house to Betty’s and then stop at the grocery on the way back, and little Billy Sudner (remember him?) walks right beside me and carries the bag home so I don’t put a strain on my back. People are being nice. I guess everyone feels sorry for me, and since there are no men around everyone’s pitching in best they can. Betty told me that Eunice Cartwright came over last week to fix that Chevrolet of hers. Who knew Eunice was so mechanically inclined?! But Betty said Eunice marched right up to the car, popped open the hood, then went crawling and squirming underneath the whole thing, fiddled with some pipes, and poof: a working Chevrolet! I told Betty how I was worrying about you, and she said, “Tina, you call me on the telephone if you need someone to talk to.” But the telephone is pricey, and I know if I got just one word out I’d keep going all night, so I’m just going to pretend like Betty never said it. I’m getting used to the silence. Instead, I pull out my paper and pens and get to writing you a letter like you insisted I do.

  Juliet rubbed Barnaby’s hand, kneading the knuckled warmth of his long fingers, hoping for some small response, but his eye remained closed. “Tina misses you. Remember Tina?” Finally, she folded the letter and shoved it back in the envelope—had she really thought she’d be able to rouse him?

  “Well,” she said shyly, “it beats changing bedpans.”

  Dr. Willard removed the stethoscope and lifted his notebook. “Come on, let’s give him a little room.”

  “I guess that was silly,” Juliet said as they exited the tent.

  “Hell, if I thought it would help, I’d tap-dance. Here, it’s chilly.” Willard took off his jacket and placed it over Juliet’s shoulders. He pulled back her braids so they fell above the collar.

  “I’ve never met a psychiatrist before,” Juliet said as they walked along the darkened hospital grounds.

  “Now, that seems the precursor to an observation about my profession.”

  She wanted to say something clever, but she felt uncertain of herself, and the awkwardness that had always plagued her tangled her thoughts. “Complicated,” she mustered. “Interesting. I think it’s really complicated and interesting, what you do.”

  “Interesting enough for you to want to assist me?” Willard stopped and turned to her. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re no Lana Turner with those letters. But I like your instincts. You were right—it is the kind of thing that can help bring someone back. I found some other things in his musette bag: good-luck charms, talismans. Barnaby will need a lot more reminders of his real life. And you have a good rapport with him. Well”—he flashed a grin—“as much as one can with a man who doesn’t speak.”

  Juliet thought about Tuck, and all the things she wanted to ask Barnaby if he ever regained consciousness. She thought about working closely with Dr. Willard.

  “You’re smiling, young lady. Is that an affirmative?”

/>   CHAPTER 7

  RAIN FELL IN thick sheets the next evening, hitting the mud so forcefully, the ground seemed alive. Juliet met Dr. Willard in the Recovery Tent, where they lifted Barnaby onto a litter and draped him with a poncho before carrying him through the rain to the Isolation Ward. The tent was small and dark and smelled so fiercely of bleach that Juliet coughed. She stared at the rectangular shadow of the single bed, empty since Private Blakely had succumbed to pneumonia that morning. This was her least favorite area of the hospital; this was where people came to die.

  They set the litter atop the bed, and Dr. Willard lit a kerosene lamp. In the corner sat a glass-covered contraption the size of a typewriter. It was plugged into the tent’s sole electrical cord. Juliet toweled the rainwater from her face and studied the machine.

  “That,” Willard explained, “is so that we don’t have to rely on memory.” He sifted through his black bag and extracted a syringe. From a small, velvet-lined box he took a glass vial labeled XR-529 and handed it to her. Willard had explained little to Juliet ahead of time about the nature of what they would be doing with Barnaby, and she now felt entirely bewildered. She had assumed they were going to be reading him more letters. She didn’t want to reveal her utter inexperience, but she also didn’t want to make a mistake. Not with a patient and a dosage.

  “We inject him with this XR-529?” she asked, studying the vial. “Five milliliters?”

  “Sodium Pentothal. You’ve seen it used for anesthesia, but in large doses. Five milliliters will slow his respiration and pulse just enough to make him suggestible. I want to start with a low dose to see how he handles it, so we may have only fifteen minutes. You monitor his vitals; I record and take notes of what he says.”

  “What he says?” She studied the vial. “This will wake him from his coma?”

  “If I’m right, that we’re not just witnessing the effects of a brain injury, but that much of this coma is actually a psychosomatically induced withdrawal—and let’s hope I’m right—then the Pentothal will temporarily ease him out of that withdrawal and allow him to talk. That will begin the process of rousing him from his coma. Imagine it this way: His mind has hundreds of doors, doors to all kinds of memories and experiences. Right now, many of those doors are locked. But when we ask him questions, slowly, one by one, some of those doors will come unlocked. Our questions are like keys. We don’t know, of course, which door is the real problem, the largest door, the one sealed so firmly that even he can’t will it open. But by process of elimination we may find it, and can then concentrate our efforts. . . . After the Pentothal wears off, he won’t even know we were looking. Now, let’s get him upright.”