by Helen Wells
That ice-cream parlor came to have unpleasant associations for Cherry. Particularly after what happened to Jim there, a little later on.
Jim had mastered the crutches. He could now swing along the corridors at a surprisingly rapid pace. Cherry, with the doctor’s permission, took him for several walks around the hospital grounds, too. Jim could now navigate by himself—his only difficulty with the crutches was that the other guys hid them. He was eager to go to the village all by himself. Finally he had wangled the doctor’s approval and a pass.
Cherry was out in the corridor for a moment, this afternoon, with Sal. She had talked with Sal about this patient of hers whose morale was slower to mend than the other men’s.
“And now,” said Cherry, “he’s off to the village for the afternoon. It certainly means a lot to him—sort of his personal declaration of independence.”
“Hmm,” said Sal. “I’ve seen the men meet this—well, this crisis so often. The guys are in wonderful spirits so long as they’re together in the hospital. Cheer each other up, share their losses together. But give the public a chance to work on them and—crash!”
“I know,” Cherry said soberly. “My fingers are crossed. I just wish Jim weren’t so oversensitive.”
“See what you can say to arm him in advance.” Sal advised.
Cherry tried to warn Jim not to take any little slip-ups too seriously. But Jim was so elated, sprucing up in his khaki jacket, that he only said:
“How can you be so gloomy on a day like this? Why, I’m all right. What do I care what anyone says? I’ll be fine, of course I will. Is my cap on straight? Any shopping you want me to do for you?”
When Jim returned two hours later, he no longer was the smiling fellow who had started out. His face was drawn and white. Even the tapping of his crutches on the corridor floor sounded slow, dragging. Cherry ran out to meet him. She drew him onto a couch in the hall, away from the other fellows’ questions.
“Here, Miss Cherry.” He handed her a little bunch of violets.
“Why, thank you! They’re lovely. Oh, Jim—”
He set his crutches aside and flicked a hand at his empty trouser leg. His eyes were burning.
“I’m your nurse, you can tell me.”
“All right. I’ve got to talk or I’ll—I’ll explode or bawl or yell at somebody.”
When Jim got on the bus, a man tried to help him up the step. Jim took a seat by himself. But the man sat down next to him and asked, “How’d you get it, bud?”
“I told him it was none of his business,” Jim said angrily. “But then I was sucker enough to explain it was in a tank. Awful hard not to answer. I wish they wouldn’t ask.”
He had a stroll around the village. He felt a few eyes staring at him but managed to calm down. Then, standing at a street corner waiting to cross, two elderly women came up behind him. They whispered, what a shame, and wasn’t it too bad it was hopeless, and such a young man to go through life like that. Of course Jim heard them.
“Made me feel like an outcast. And then I went into that miserable candy store. Never again! There were some high school kids fooling around at the soda fountain. The moment I came in, they all stopped talking. You could have cut the silence with a knife. They—they looked at me. The way they looked! You’d think I was a freak.”
Cherry said fiercely, “They’re fools, people like that! They aren’t worth taking seriously.”
“Oh, that’s not all! I ordered a soda and started to unbutton my jacket and a woman rushes over to unbutton it for me. For heaven’s sake, couldn’t she see I have two hands—even if I only have one leg!”
Cherry muttered that the women probably had only meant to be sympathetic and kind.
“Well, I don’t want their pity! Yes, Miss Cherry, it is pity!” His vehemence suddenly dropped into melancholy. “Oh, I guess they’re right. A one-legged man, unable to do his old work, is an object of pity.” Jim studied his hands. He said very low, “And I almost believed I’d be all right again. I was kidding myself. Just kidding myself all the time.”
“Jim! Look at the other guys.” Cherry argued with him, fought with him, to bolster his crushed confidence.
She pointed out how jittery Ralph was—even aggressive, sturdy Ralph—about going home to Chicago this week end. She reminded him that Hy, who could laugh over anything, was making a trip to St. Joe this Saturday and Sunday only by forcing himself to go.
“Yes, but,” Jim countered, “they have their families. Families at least try to be understanding. Look at George Blumenthal’s wife—writing him she married a man, not a hand! That’s what makes a fellow feel good.”
Cherry put her hand on Jim’s forehead. He was running a temperature as a result of this afternoon’s misadventure. She thought a moment. Jim had no one except his mother far off in Oregon. All the other boys here had their homes or at least some relative within traveling distance of Graham Hospital. The Army tried to assign men to the appropriate Army hospital nearest their homes. But in Jim’s case, there was no orthopedic hospital near his home. Even the Texas boy had a sister coming down tomorrow from Chicago to see him. Even the Orphan, Cherry thought, had friends to visit over the week end in Evanston.
“Listen, Jim,” Cherry said. “I’m taking you home with me. Pin these violets on my collar, will you?”
CHAPTER VIII
Week End
JIM WAS TO HAVE HAD CHARLIE’S ROOM, FOR OVER Saturday night. But the stairs were a long winding flight, too much for Jim to manage yet on crutches. The downstairs bedroom, seldom used, was hastily made ready. Mr. Ames showed Jim his room.
Mrs. Ames took Cherry aside in the living room and whispered:
“What does Jim like to do?”
Cherry remembered the woodworking. “He likes to make and fix things. Any chores around the house, lady?”
“And what does Jim like to eat?”
“Anything—and lots of it.”
Mrs. Ames looked relieved. “Then my only problem is Velva. Velva!” she called. “Velva has been serving us our meals as if we were all going to a fire,” Mrs. Ames explained to Cherry. “To call us to dinner, she simply yells. I must ask her not to be so strenuous, with a convalescent around.”
Velva hulked in the dining-room doorway, tied into an apron. She seemed even bigger and brawnier than Cherry remembered her—quite capable of tossing the dining-room table out the window if they did not like the way she served. Cherry said hello, and Mrs. Ames explained that a little less nerve-racking manner would be appreciated.
“For instance,” Mrs. Ames suggested gently, “when dinner is ready, just come to the door and say, ‘Dinner is served.’”
Velva snorted. “That’s too fancy for me. I ain’t no sissy Easterner.”
“Very well, then say ‘Dinner is ready.’”
“If you see me comin’, you know dinner is ready!”
Mrs. Ames pleaded. “Couldn’t you just say ‘Dinner’?”
Velva looked grumpy. “What’s the matter with me shoutin’ ‘Chow!’” She yelled “Chow!” so loudly that Cherry held on to the arm of her chair. Mr. Ames and Jim coming into the living room looked startled.
“Velva, this is Sergeant Jim Travers. He’ll be here tonight and Sunday.”
Jim smiled and Velva clucked at him, “Just exactly like my own kid brother only he’s dark and you’re medium, and he’s short and you’re tall, and he’s a corporal and—”
“—and the sergeant is hungry,” Cherry interrupted, laughing.
Velva looked sternly at Cherry and smiled at Jim. “Down to Turkey Run, we know all about boys being hungry.” She withdrew.
“Turkey Run?” Jim said, easing himself into a chair. “Is that a real name?” He was much more at home here than Cherry had dared hope for. She looked gratefully at her father.
“Certainly it’s a real name, and a real place,” said Mr. Ames. “We get all our poultry from there. Speaking of funny names, we have here in town a Justice Stifler—a Dr. Slau
ghter—a dentist named Grind—”
“—the Realistic Beauty Shoppe,” Mrs. Ames supplied.
“And that lunch counter,” Cherry put in, “with the sign, ‘Eat here before we both starve!’”
Jim grinned. “In my town, there’s a dog and cat hospital with a butcher shop right next door.”
Cherry groaned and sang under her breath, “Put another dog in the sau-sage ma-chine …”
“Cherry! Jim!” Mrs. Ames had turned slightly green. “Considering that we have hot dogs in the kitchen—Good ones, too, that I bought at the Grab It.”
“At the what, ma’am?” Jim asked incredulously.
“A grocery named Grab It Here,” Mrs. Ames said. “And underneath it says ‘Where Ma Saves Pa’s Dough.’ We’ll drive you past it.”
Suddenly Velva’s voice boomed, way out in the kitchen. They all were startled. Mrs. Ames started to rush out there, when Velva marched to the doorway.
“Chow! Come ’n’ git it!” she shouted, and beamed at them.
Jim was sweating at the uproar.
“Thunderation, I forgot,” she said. “You wanted me to do it quiet and nice.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ames weakly. “If you will. But wait!—wait a minute—”
But Velva had gone out and now re-entered. She opened her mouth and stole a glance at Mrs. Ames.
“It’s on the table!” she sang out. “Grab yourself a plate, folks!”
They went in to dinner, advising Mrs. Ames that she was being very competently spoofed.
After dinner, they drove through Hilton and out past the farms for a few miles. The evening fields were sweet and green. But Mr. Ames said there were “too many Saturday night drivers” reckless on the road. They settled instead for a movie. Jim won, of all things, a soup tureen, which he presented to Mrs. Ames. Then a round of chocolate sodas, brought out to the car so Jim would not have to get out, wound up their evening.
They made their good nights in the hall. Cherry said:
“Pretty tame, I’m afraid, Jim.”
“Nothing of the sort, Miss Cherry! It’s what I’ve been missing—being home.”
“Well, good night— Dad turned the lamps on in your room—”
“Sleep late!” Mrs. Ames called. “Breakfast whenever you get up!”
“Yes,” said Jim happily. “‘Night.” He hobbled off with a detective novel in his hand and contentment on his face.
No one slept late next morning, for at seven-thirty the phone rang. It rang long and loud before Cherry could stumble down the stairs and seize the raucous thing. It was Midge.
“I called to ask you and your guest over to dinner,” Midge’s voice squeaked over the wire. “Answer yes or no right away. I have to have plenty of time to get ready.”
Cherry’s answer was what she thought of people who woke up sleeping households early on Sunday morning. “Besides, I have to ask the others. I’ll call you back.”
“I’ll cook you a dinner such as you never ate before,” came out of the receiver. “With music and flowers, too.”
Cherry shuddered. “The idea is to cure this boy, not kill him off,” she stated, and hung up. She recalled what uproar Midge could wreak with mere flowers and music. She also remembered Dr. Joe’s description of Midge’s cooking—“a catastrophe. You have to have a cast-iron stomach.”
The phone promptly rang again.
“If you decide to come,” Midge squeaked, “you’d better come over and help me.”
“Go away! Stop phoning! You awful child!”
Cherry was halfway up the stairs, yawning, when the phone rang a third time.
“I’m sorry,” said Midge, and hung up without delay.
There was no sound from the others. Cherry went back to bed, asleep again before her head touched the pillow.
When she awoke, the sun was pouring into her room as if it were ten o’clock. It was, in fact, ten o’clock. She jumped out of bed.
“Poor Midge, waiting all this time for a reply!” Cherry thought guiltily. She showered and dressed in haste, and fled downstairs. Only her mother was still at the breakfast table, pretty and fresh in a blue dress.
“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Ames said. “The masculine contingent is out in the garage. Midge has been over here asking us to dinner.”
“The only entertainment Midge can ever think of is food,” Cherry observed. “How does she fill in the time between meals?”
“She sustains herself with snacks.” Mrs. Ames’s brown eyes danced. “Do you think Midge would survive the disappointment if we turned her down?”
“Do you think we’d survive her cooking?” Cherry thoughtfully sipped some coffee. “I’ll go take a vote.”
She left her mother with the voluminous Sunday paper and went out through the back porch, to the back yard and the garage.
Mr. Ames and Jim were in the garage tinkering around with the car. They were both smudged with grease and deep in a discussion. Cherry came and sat down on the running board. She liked the rich smell of gasoline, the pungent smell of the rubber tires.
“Hello,” she said again, having been ignored the first time. “Jim, how do you like our Nellie? The car, I mean. We always name our cars.”
Mr. Ames patted the fender. “This one’s named Nellie because she’s slow, dumpy, and comfortable.”
Jim said, “Mine’s called Joe. Not elegant but he gets me there. My first little jalopy, when I was in high school, I named Leopold. Because he sat up so high and comical on his little wheels, and looked so oldfogey.”
“My brother’s ambition,” Cherry said, “is to own a car worthy of the name of The Duke. Big, black, dignified, and fast.”
Jim confided, “I’ve named my crutches. Never told you in the hospital. They’re Ike and Mike. Mike is a little slower than Ike, because I’m not as deft with my left hand as with my right one.”
“Of course, Ike and Mike won’t be with you long,” she reminded Jim. “You are going to abandon them without a pang, for a nice new leg.”
“Of course I am,” Jim said confidently.
Mr. Ames looked suddenly sober but kept on poking in the engine. Cherry brought up the question of Midge’s invitation. She supplied, for Jim, a description of the Fortune household and added, “At your own risk.”
Jim hemmed and hawed politely, and finally admitted he would like to go. “But first,” he said very eagerly, “your mother told me there’s a door and a bureau drawer that stick. And your father gave me a fine piece of bird’s-eye maple. Do you suppose I could—”
“In that tone of voice, you certainly could.” Cherry laughed. “Plenty of time to get over to the Fortunes’. And I am not going to go over and worm Midge out of her Midge-made messes. I gave her a whole Sunday recently, and that’s enough. She’ll have to battle the burners and pitch pots and pans on her own.”
So Jim happily hammered and whittled, while Cherry grubbed for early violets along the side fence. Then they went for a little walk up and down Cherry’s tree-shaded block. Some of the neighbors were already sitting out on their front porches, although in warm coats. They called hello to Cherry and Jim, and Mrs. Pritchard came down her steps to give them a crock of cookies she had made. Jim blossomed at being accepted so readily.
Lunch was late and peaceful because Velva was not there. Cherry washed dishes and Jim, sitting on the kitchen ladder, dried them. Cherry noticed again the sweetness in his face. Sunday afternoon dragged along. They were leisurely getting ready to drive over to the Fortunes’, about five o’clock, when the doorbell rang.
“Please let me in,” said Dr. Joe rather desperately. “My own house isn’t fit to live in.”
He wandered into the living room, shaking his gray head, and sat down with his overcoat still on.
“What’s happened?” the Ameses asked, while Jim stayed modestly in the background.
Dr. Joe thought, then replied methodically, “First, the stove caught on fire. Second, Midge perfumed the house with onions. I abhor onions. Th
ird, she played that fool record all day. I believe my love of music has come to an end. Fourth, I had no lunch. Fifth, Midge used my best crucible to mash Roquefort cheese in. And sixth, the roast we were to have had for dinner burned to a crisp and Midge wept copiously. Seventh—Seventh— Oh, yes. Seventh, I believe I had no breakfast either, if I recollect.”
They clustered around the elderly man, bringing him milk and bread and butter, and helping him off with his overcoat. Dr. Fortune with a woebegone face drinking milk in an outfit of khaki trousers, gray flannel jacket, sweater for a shirt, and sneakers, was an astonishing sight.
Cherry said, with as much formality as possible under the circumstances, “Dr. Fortune, this is Sergeant Jim Travers. Jim, Dr. Fortune is Lieutenant Colonel Fortune of the Army Medical Corps, but he’s home on sick leave.”
Jim stood very straight on his crutches and tried to salute.
Dr. Joe waved a piece of bread and butter at Jim. “Never mind the formalities, my boy. Just look at me.” He glanced down at his absent-minded choice of clothes. “It’s this difficult matter of becoming a civilian again,” he confided to Jim with a chuckle. “Just wait until you get out of khaki and have to decide daily what to put on.”
“Yes, sir. But what became of your daughter?” Jim asked curiously.
That was answered promptly. The doorbell rang. Midge practically fell into the hallway, her eyes red from weeping. She gave out a distinct aroma of burned onions. Cherry unobtrusively opened a window. Everyone tried hard to keep a straight face.
Mr. Ames said in a hearty voice, “Midge, we were just trying to decide where to go for dinner—the Lincoln Hotel or Dick’s for steaks. What do you say?”
Midge looked suspiciously from one face to another. She looked a long time at Jim’s open countenance. Then in a very small voice indeed she said:
“Dick’s would be nice, thank you. In fact—Dick’s would be wonderful!”
Jim never did dine at the Fortunes’ on Midge’s cuisine. But late that evening, as the Ameses let him and Cherry out of the car at the hospital gate, he said:
