Shannon (50 page)

Evidently an American; the hair, the face, the size, and the sheen told her that. As did the good manners and, at first sound, the accent.

“Ma'am, forgive me.”

“Hello?” Sweetly she held out a hand, in which he could have broken every bone just by clasping it.

“I was traveling through, ma'am, and I heard that a fellow American might just be staying here.”

Ellie smiled again.
The accent— is it American? Well, maybe Boston? Perhaps. Or—Irish?

“Well, of course, come in. And you're right, there is another American here. Come in.”

She turned and led the way to the kitchen. Vincent Patrick Ryan followed— along the same corridor, past the same mysterious closed doors, past
The Falls of Doonass,
across the same round lobby, and into the embracing warmth of the kitchen.

“My goodness,” said Vincent, as he stood in the kitchen. “What a terrific house. And somebody is making lemonade.”

The dog half rose and— uncharacteristically— did not come forward.

Ellie smiled. “You have a good nose. I'm making lemon pie. Now, can I get you a drink or a cup of tea? When did you last eat? What's your name?”

As she fired these questions, she moved to boil water for tea. She also kept looking at him, with a “Don't I know you?” look— which he began to return. He got there first.

“You”—he paused and pointed one of his large fingers—”weren't you … a nurse?”

Ellie put the kettle down on the hearth with a little bang. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You were at Bouresches.”

“I was, ma'am.”

“I met you.”

He recalled it at the same time. “You were very kind to me.”

“No, I wasn't.” She laughed. “I kept trying to find out if you were wounded. Did you ever get as much as a scratch?”

“No, ma'am.”

She put a hand on her hip as she stood there and looked at him. “Well, well, well.”

“I could say the same thing myself, ma'am.”

Ellie said, “I can't remember your name.”

“Nor I yours, ma'am.”

“I'm Nurse Kennedy.”

He smiled his perfect smile. “Vincent Ryan.”

“My name is Ellie,” she said, and turned to put the kettle to boil. When she turned back she said, “Sit down, won't you? Now, how do you happen to be here?”

“Well, I'm on a vacation, ma'am, but I have a purpose. I'm tracing my family, at least on my mother's side.”

She came to the table and stood opposite him, looking into the dark eyes. Her memory moved into overdrive
.

Ellie Kennedy, the battlefield nurse, hadn't yet achieved with Robert the wide conversations she wanted. She had so much that she still needed to ask, to say, to share.

Her postwar good fortune had been her father— who gently, and over time, made her talk about what she had seen. He had died, however, before she felt that her burden had fully lifted. Part of the weeping she had done with Robert came from her own sense of the war's shock. Never clinically affected, she belonged among the millions who came back from that war rattled but not unhinged.

Nurses in war receive perhaps the least attention. In the first place they make themselves invisible; in the First World War they saw that as part of their assignment. They also served, they said, meaning that they stanched the blood, they bound the wounds, they soothed the brows.

The invisible, however, see more; since they don't need to be seen, they can put some of their energy into observation. Part of Ellie's skill and power as a nurse came from the fact that she saw, she observed. All the time. Out of human interest she would have done so anyway, but
close regard
had been part of her training. She had had the good fortune to learn in London under one of the toughest nursing directors in the world— Miss Breen. Miss Breen had hammered the idea into her trainees. “Close regard, nurses, practice close regard. Unless you scrutinize a patient, how can you tell what's wrong with him?”

By nature a conserver, Ellie filled her mind as she stocked her pantry— with goods that she might need someday. Nor did she ever throw anything away, in case it might be useful. As she conserved, she labeled.

In France, she soon learned to categorize. Among the wounded the responses differed from man to man, along a predictable range from the stoic to the tearful. Her training as a military nurse handled most of that, even though nothing had prepared her for the awfulness of the wounds. No manual, for example, contained anything about the burns from a sulfur incendiary, where the fire went on and on beneath the protective crust that the wound had formed.

Over and above her observation of the physically wounded, however, she took a particular interest in the emotions of the men. Among the marines served many who fought the war every day and survived. Some lived with unserious damage, such as flesh wounds from shrapnel. Others suffered no damage of any kind, no bullet holes, no ricochets, no burns, not even the helpless retching cough caused by gas.

When they had returned to camp, from the trenches or the battlefield, Ellie had watched them. A kind of ghastly sport had begun in her head. How much longer will I see him? Or him? Or this fellow— will he be a survivor? How many more nights will that one come back? To her surprise, more than a few returned throughout the entire action— even at Belleau Wood.

They didn't all fight the same battle. Some went straight into the teeth of the enemy fire, and some spent most of their time in the deep slit trenches. Nevertheless, they were all frontline soldiers, they were part of the awfulness, and they saw appalling things. A few, a very few, went forward against the opposing gunners, tried to wipe them out, had some success, then retreated— and went back in again the next day. In the legends of the wheat field, those were the Americans who had literally run straight at the machine-gunners and killed them with their own bayonets. They did this day after day until they took Belleau Wood.

Ellie didn't attend them all. The ridge of the advance ran in a wide semicircle. Some attacked from down in Lucy-le-Bocage, some from Bouresches, and some from the wooded ridge that ran between the two villages. She worked that ridge too, from one village to the other.

These unscathed men, to Ellie's mind, were the most interesting. She divided them into three categories. There were those who strutted. There were those who said nothing, just sat quietly, with the next coffee and cigarette. And after the warriors and the silent ones, there was a third—
very small— group, and whenever she saw them she shuddered. They came in from the field like men coming home from work: just another day at the office, my dear.

Once in a while one of them would need a wrist or an ankle strapped, or a thumb bandage where the firing mechanism of his weapon had burned. He would stand or sit there as though in a local hospital, business as usual. These men chilled her.

Now all her bones told her that one of them was sitting in her kitchen in Ireland, in this peaceful house that at that moment had been turning into some kind of dream.

Her father, when they began to talk, had asked about the men who came home. “What did they get out of it? What was their reward? And what will they be like in the years ahead?”

So far, she had identified no reward. Even the feeling of patriotism became diluted (some told her) when they saw what they were ordered to do on those barbed-wire mud-soaked blood-spattered entrenchments.

She refined her thoughts about her three groups: the swaggering warriors, the silent and weary ones, and the day-at-the-office men.

The warriors, she thought, will never admit to emotional pain; they'll spend a lot of time at the bar, beer ‘n a shot. The silent ones will suffer silently and maybe accept the help of those they love.

As to the third group, the men who saw war as normal— she came to believe that they had enjoyed it; they had at last found identity and fulfillment out there in the killing fields. But she felt sure that they would have the biggest problems of all. Once back on Civilian Street, where would their killing hunger go?

She now remembered that from the first moment she had seen him at Bouresches she had slotted the young marine at her kitchen table into that last— worst— category. Ellie's mind began to churn
.

Footsteps pounded the stairs and then rang in the hall. Robert walked in. Ellie said to Vincent, “Did you know the chaplain, Captain Shannon? Now just plain Father Shannon?”

To which Robert said, “Even plainer— Robert.”

“I believe I've not had the pleasure, sir.”

Vincent stood up and saluted. Then, two feet from each other, they shook hands.

One man, once Lieutenant Ryan, saw a tall ascetic figure with a thoughtful face: a superior officer. He saw him with concealed shock.
What? They've sent me to eliminate an officer and a priest?

The other man, the former Captain Shannon, saw a hefty but elegant man younger than himself, whose gaze never shifted, whose body had the ring of health.
Ah! Wonderful! Do I have a new friend?

The smooth running of Vincent's life depended on clarity. Conflict jangled him. Now, though, he had conflict— in trumps. He reached into himself and tried to keep steady, hold his feelings down, moor himself to his rational side— such as it existed.

He got there— and his rational side, if such it can be called, told him that he was a professional, hired to do a task for His Eminence, Cardinal O'Connell, a man whom he revered from afar, a man of style and power. Yet Vincent knew he needed to think his way through this problem. If he didn't, things would go wrong.

They always did when he was jangled. There was a night when he had cut out the tongue of a building contractor in New Jersey before he killed him. He did so because the man had spoken ill of the Accountant. Vincent lost his temper— and the act was nearly witnessed. Careless.

Now, seeing Robert Shannon at last, the man he had been pursuing, the prey of his every waking moment, Vincent sat down slowly, reaching for the calm he needed. He gripped the sides of his bench.
An officer? And a priest? Let the jangling play itself out. Hold on. First principles. You're a professional. Back to first principles: assess, reconnoiter, complete. But— why? Why should such a man be eliminated?

Like a child with a new playmate, Robert began to pile on the questions. Ellie, gathering and labeling, listened with great care. After the war, said this young soldier Ryan, he had gone back to Boston. Through his family he got a job in an accountancy firm that specialized in property. Now he was executive assistant to the accountant who owned the firm. He gave details; she noted them down in her considerable brain. “A good memory is the sign of a good brain, Kennedy,” Miss Breen had said. “Use it.”

When she worked in Washington, Ellie had been delighted and intrigued
by the telephone— but the entire county of Longford, so far as she knew, had only one telephone. It took two days, she'd heard, to book a call and get it through to the United States. Nonetheless, she filed away every word she heard from the young stranger. Just as she was about to ask how he had found them, he said he had been in a pub.

“Of course,” she said.

She quelled her unease and turned to her cooking— but she heard Robert. “Where are you staying?”

“Can you recommend something? I'm on a bicycle.”

Robert said, “Ellie—?”

Knowing she had no choice, and knowing the wisdom of keeping friends near but enemies nearer, she jumped in. “We have plenty of room. You'll be most welcome.”

Vincent thanked them profusely and went to fetch his bag. Robert waited in the hall, and Ellie, not quite knowing why, stood at the kitchen door and watched.

Upstairs, Vincent pronounced his room wonderful, and they left him to unpack. Ellie set out steak to be cooked, and at last baked the lemon curd pie. Together, after some debate— dining room or garden— Robert declared for the welcoming warmth of the kitchen.

Before dinner, Ellie offered Vincent a drink, which he declined. He asked whether he could help in any way, and politely she turned down his offer. Robert engaged with him again, and they compared notes on people and places back home.

Vincent's quiet ways animated Robert. His speech became livelier and faster. No mention, Ellie noticed, of Belleau Wood or that entire marine presence; and although Vincent clearly wanted to talk about the war, Robert skirted the subject, even when the names of individual officers came up.

For dinner, Robert sat once more at the head of the table, where Ellie had stationed him ever since he came to the house. She had done so because her father had always sat there, and because she hated sitting there on her own. She had also wanted to build Robert's self-esteem, and whether or not she had made the thought conscious, she had also wanted to see whether he fitted there
.

Delicious food, so the men agreed. Robert served. Had Ellie ever seen
him so normal? No hesitation in midsentence. Nor did he pluck at himself, at his sleeve or his hair. Not until now had she seen him so like the man she had known, the chaplain, the hero, whom she had watched in France. The warmth of the previous few days came back to mind.

This is a major worry lifted. They say the shell-shocked mustn't be under emotional pressure. And yet Robert was a virgin, not to mention a priest. Even bridegrooms have been known to suffer breakdowns. My God, how far has he sailed from his own shores? But it seems to help him rather than bother him— another reason to hope. Look at how he has taken to intimacy. And doesn't he seem completely like a husband? He sure acts like one!

For his part, Robert hadn't stopped to question, not even for a second, his departure from celibacy. The new life of his nights— and, indeed, his days— seemed to him a perfectly natural development.

On this matter, Sevovicz would have given Dr. Greenberg the third degree. Isn't this bad for Robert? If it's bad for him morally, how can it be good for him psychologically? And Dr. Greenberg would have made the assessment that, just as this man would never go back to war on account of its devastations, this man might never go back to the Church— on account of its devastations.