Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (29 page)

“No. How does that make a man feel?”

She said nothing.

“Come on. You know the answer to this one.”

“Angry,” she said slowly. “It makes him feel angry.”

“Angry at whom?”

“At me, of course.”

“Wrong. He loved you.”

Kathryn looked at him. “Where are you going with this?”

“You spurned Jim McAllister for another man, Mrs. Guilford. What do you suppose Jimmy told himself—that you didn’t love him or that you loved another man more? Jim McAllister had every reason to resent your husband, even hate him. He had everything to gain if your husband was removed from the picture.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Who was the last one to see your husband alive, Mrs. Guilford? Odds are it was someone on the battlefield—someone in his unit. Why is it that Jim McAllister could never bring himself to
talk about what happened in the Gulf? Sounds like a man wrestling with his conscience to me.”

“Stop it!” she shouted. “You didn’t know Jimmy or Andy, and you have no idea what they felt or what they might have done! You have no right to accuse Jimmy this way! I am not hiring you to investigate the death of my husband!”

They drove on in silence. It was several minutes before Nick glanced over at her again.

“Like I said,” he whispered. “It’s nothing you haven’t thought of before.”

What can we do for you, Mr …?”

“Call me Nick. And this is my wife, Darlene.”

Kathryn glared at Nick as hard as she dared, then turned and smiled at the man and woman before them.

“Nick, Darlene—welcome to the Specialized Care Program.”

Kathryn sat beside Nick in a comfortable reception room on Ward 64 of the Main Hospital at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The man across the desk from her was the program administrator, a pleasant-looking man in his midfifties, himself a veteran of over thirty years in the infantry who traded in his uniform for a pair of comfortable khakis and a navy button-down. The trim woman who leaned against the desk to his right was the social worker, who said she always sat in on the initial interviews.

“Exactly what kind of information are you looking for?” the man asked, folding his hands before him.

“I heard about this program from a friend, another Gulf War vet. He came here a couple of times, and he said it did him a world of good. He said I should check into it myself, so here we are.”

“You really should have made an appointment, Nick. To tell you the truth, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, but the receptionist said you were very … persistent.”

“I appreciate that, I really do,” Nick nodded. “It was a lastminute thing—call it a whim. The little woman dragged me up here to see the Gowns of the First Ladies exhibit over at the American History Museum, so I said what the hey! It’s just a stone’s throw to Walter Reed. Might as well drop by.”

He smiled at Kathryn and put his hand on her knee. She smiled back, lifted his hand, and put it in hers while the social worker watched.

“I need to ask you for a last name, Nick, and what branch of the service you were in. We need to verify that you are in fact a Gulf War veteran. Just a formality.”

“Well now, that’s the thing,” Nick said uneasily. “I’d rather not say. Not just yet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my job. I’ve been calling in sick a lot at the factory, and people are starting to wonder. I get these joint pains and headaches, and I’m tired all the time. And I have trouble remembering things. If word gets back to them that I have some kind of ‘syndrome’ or something, it could be bad for me.”

“Nick—your employer cannot legally discriminate against you just because you have Gulf War Syndrome.”

“Not legally—but you and I know it happens in other ways. They forget to ask you if you want overtime, you get passed over for a promotion, whatever. There’s always some other explanation, but you know why.”

The social worker stepped in. “Nick, you mentioned pain and fatigue and memory loss. Are there any other symptoms?” She glanced at Kathryn. “What about your relationship with Darlene?”

Nick looked forlorn. “I don’t mind telling you it’s not what it used to be. I mean, Darlene used to be a regular ball of fire … you know. But lately—”

“We don’t like to talk about it,” Kathryn cut in abruptly. “It’s very personal.”

“But we need to talk about it, Darlene,” Nick implored. “If we can’t talk to these nice people, who can we talk to?”

Kathryn glowered at him hard, since it was appropriate to the part she played, hoping that her deeper meaning would come through. But it was obvious that Nick was enjoying his little game and that he was not about to give it up for something as insignificant as her dignity.

“Perhaps some general information about the program would be helpful,” the administrator offered, sliding an information packet across the desk. “The Specialized Care Program serves Gulf War veterans of all branches of the military. It’s a three-week outpatient program that runs continuously throughout the year. At any given time there are from seven to ten personnel joining us—spouses are welcome too.” He smiled at Kathryn.

“On the first day we take the group on a tour of the hospital. After that they’re introduced to the program staff. Each patient works closely with an internist and our staff psychologist. The rest of the team includes myself, Mrs. Andino here, a physiatrist, an occupational therapist, a physical therapist, a fitness trainer, a wellness coordinator, and a nutritionist. We meet Monday through Friday, 7:30 to 4:30.”

“How long has your psychologist been here?” Kathryn asked.

“Ten or eleven years. I assure you, Darlene, he’s very experienced.”

“I’m sure all conversations with your psychologist are confidential,” Nick said with emphasis, glancing over at Kathryn.

“Absolutely. All of our clinical records are confidential. You need have no fears about that.”

“Tell me more about the group,” Nick said. “I imagine they get to know each other pretty well after three weeks together.”

“They become very close,” the social worker said warmly. “They spend a lot of time discussing their experiences in the Gulf, the impact of their symptoms, areas of personal struggle—what we call ‘life stressors.’ ”

“Do you find that some of them stay in touch after the program has ended?”

“Some of them become lifelong friends.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “What if three weeks doesn’t do it? Can I come back?”

“As many times as you like,” the administrator said. “We teach
vets how to manage a chronic illness. Some of them have returned several times over the years.”

“Do groups ever return—together, I mean?”

“We’ve never had a whole group return. But we sometimes find that two or three group members become so close that they agree to return together from time to time to sort of renew their friendship.”

Nick leaned forward. “That friend,” he said quietly, “the one who told me I should check you out? The last time he came here he met some other fellows—well, they really hit it off. He never stopped talking about them, and the more he talked the more I realized those are just the kind of guys I’d like to get together with.”

“I’m sure you’ll have just as much luck with the group you’re assigned to, Nick.” The social worker smiled reassuringly.

“I don’t put much faith in luck,” Nick said. “What I want to know is, can I meet with those fellows? Can you put me in touch with any of them so I can see if they’d like to meet together?”

The administrator shook his head. “Can’t do that, Nick. It’s a privacy issue—you understand. I can’t reveal the names of any past members of our program. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Suppose I gave you my number and you passed it on to the fellows in that group. All you’d have to do is say, ‘If you’re interested, give Nick a call.’ ”

“Sorry, Nick. The groups are formed randomly, and we facilitate no outside meetings between group members. That’s our policy.”

Kathryn squeezed Nick’s hand hard. She knew they had reached a dead end; if Nick pushed any harder it would only generate suspicion.

“You said the day ends at 4:30. What do people do in the evenings?”

“Whatever they wish. Some of them take the Metro downtown and see the Capitol. Most of them just hang around the Mologne House and talk further.”

“The Mologne House?”

“We have a wonderful hotel right here on the base,” the social worker beamed. “The Mologne House is open to all military personnel, active and retired, and to their extended family as well.”

“That’s where all the group members stay?”

“Unless they live close enough to commute from home. If you’d like to check it out, it’s just a five-minute walk from here—just past the Institute of Research on Fourteenth Street.”

“We don’t have accommodations for tonight yet—any chance of us getting a room there?”

“I can call over for you and find out,” the administrator said. He reached for the phone while the social worker turned to Kathryn.

“Our couples often use the evening hours to work on their relationships.” She winked, and Kathryn managed a faint smile in return. “Do you two have children?”

Kathryn shook her head, “No,” while Nick nodded, “Yes.”

There was a pause.

“None at home,” Nick explained. “Military school.”

“Then you should have an uninterrupted evening.” The social worker winked again. “Trust me, Darlene—that can make a world of difference.”

“I’m not sure we’re ready for that,” Kathryn said. “I’m not sure Nick is ready—if you know what I mean.” Two can play at this game.

The administrator interrupted. “They have one room left with a queen-sized bed.”

“No!” Kathryn shouted.

There was an awkward silence from all parties. Nick turned to Kathryn and took both her hands.

“You know how I feel about you, Darlene—and I know how you feel about me. If we just had this one night—at the Mologne House—I think it could make a big difference for us. A big difference …”

Kathryn flashed her most compassionate smile and dug her fingernails into the back of Nick’s hand.

“We’ll take it,” she smiled to the administrator.

“They want to know how you’ll be paying.”

“She’ll be paying in cash,” Nick said.

The Mologne House was a four-story structure of the same Georgian brick and stone that comprised all the original buildings at Walter Reed. Off the main lobby was a restaurant—the Rose Room—and there Nick and Kathryn sat at a table in the exact center of the room.

“I could move you to a nice booth,” the waitress offered, “if this is a little too public for you.”

“This is perfect,” Nick replied. “Do you have any kind of buffet? Something where you have to get up and get your own food?”

“Don’t you army boys ever get tired of the chow line?”

“What makes you think I’m an army boy?”

The waitress rolled her eyes and pointed her pencil at his gray 82d Airborne T-shirt.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Forgot I had that on.”

Kathryn ordered a dinner salad, and the waitress left them alone. A handful of other couples filled most of the booths while servicemen in twos and threes dotted the rest of the room.

“Did you have fun back there?” Kathryn asked with more than a little sarcasm.

“I did. I enjoyed myself very much. But,” he said as he leaned forward and put his left hand on hers, “the night is still young, Darlene.”

Kathryn tapped his ring finger, now bearing Andy’s gold wedding band. “Lose this and you die.”

“Lose it? It’s like part of my hand.”

Kathryn paused. “Ever wear one before?”

“Briefly,” he said.

“You seem to have lost that one.”

Now it was Nick’s turn to hesitate. “I lost her.”

“Different species?”

“That’s as good a way as any to explain it.”

“Don’t tell me she was from the South!”

“Be reasonable, Mrs. Guilford. We were both from Pittsburgh. I grew up in a hill town on the north side called Tarentum. She was from across the river in New Kensington.”

He ended the sentence as though the story was finished, but Kathryn’s insistent gaze told him she was not yet satisfied. He took a deep breath and continued.

“Where I grew up you went to high school, you got a job, you got married, you had babies—not always in that order.”