The Secret of Raven Point: A Novel

by Jennifer Vanderbes

  Juliet considered the question. “It sounded like Captain Brilling hated him, and like the men in his unit had strange feelings about him, so maybe it’s related.”

  Willard nodded slowly, a cautious gesture acknowledging the scissors above him. “A respectable speculation.”

  Juliet continued working, the noon sun bright in her eyes. Sweat gathered on her forehead, and she paused to wipe it with the back of her hand. She heard a surge of voices and saw people spilling out of the mess tent, pausing, as they plunged their dirty bowls in the water barrels, to take in Juliet and Willard. She was the only nurse he ever spent time with, the only member of the hospital he socialized with, and she wondered what they thought was going on. She wondered what was going on.

  Eventually she lifted the towel from his shoulders and shook free the clippings. “Much more civilized,” she said, stepping to the front of him. “I’m sure they’ll finally all stop calling you Tarzan.”

  Willard grinned. “I should be so lucky.”

  She wiped clean the surgical shears, rewrapped them in the cloth, and set them back in the bag. She zipped the bag closed, debating her next words.

  “Dr. Willard, please don’t get angry or think this is personally motivated. But I’m just wondering. . . . This semicoma, where he sometimes speaks and sometimes seems to listen, then stops for a week: it’s so strange. And it seems to go on and on. Don’t you ever wonder if, well, it’s possible he’s faking?”

  “Every minute.”

  The Germans, it was said, were fortifying a new defense: The Gothic Line stretched from the Adriatic to the Ligurian Sea, zigzagging through the Apennine Mountains. One hundred miles long and eight miles deep, this belt of foxholes and box mines and barbed-wire entanglements was meant to stop the Allies from reaching the Alps, keeping them out of Austria. The news was daunting. After covering 150 miles in its two-month summer campaign, the US Fifth Army had begun to falter. The constant rearrangement of battalions made it difficult for the men to understand how they were to conquer the Apennines before winter. The British Eighth Army, which had been advancing along the coast, was said to be preparing for a separate offensive; they were being heavily reinforced, while supplies to the Fifth Army had slowed. Patients in the hospital had begun to fear that their units, still fighting just five miles north, were decoys.

  As Juliet made her rounds one afternoon, the Recovery Tent buzzed with further rumors that two American divisions and the French Expeditionary Corps—the mountain-climbing Goumiers who had so impressed Lovelace—were being entirely withdrawn from the Italian front.

  “We’re a holding action now,” said Cross. “Just watch. They’ll ship the first-class old pros to France and send us even greener grass.”

  “You really think they’re gonna send us anyone?” asked Alphabet.

  “They’d sure as hell better,” said Cross. “My platoon is down to twelve.”

  “You know why this is happening?” Alphabet said. “This all goes back to Rome. This is because Clark pulled a Patton. You see, the Germans should have been cut off at Rome. And they would have been but for the ego fuck-party going on in the pea brain of Mark Clark. Clark got all hot and bothered at the thought of being the first general since the sixth century to take Rome from the south. And as the story goes, he timed his entry into Rome so he could be there with his photo corps during daylight. To hell with military strategy, the man wanted good photos! While he was holding press conferences, he let the Jerries retreat to the north, and we’re still fighting them. We’ll be fighting them all goddamned winter.”

  “Let us heretoforth refer to the capture of Rome as Operation Whatthefuck,” said Cross. Across the tent, patients applauded.

  “Clark,” whispered Wilkowski, worrying the edge of his bedsheet, “has German blood.”

  Cross looked sadly at Wilkowski. Wilkowski’s orange hair was wild and unkempt, and he had the hungry, desperate eyes of an alley cat. He had not bathed in weeks, and the air around him was sour and fetid. No one came near. The patients had finally begun to ignore his ranting; they had real fears to contend with.

  “You notice how they never send the tanks in first?” Cross continued. “Since when do men clear the way for tanks? Since tanks cost more than a hundred and fifty men. It’s cheaper to lose men than the tanks.”

  “In the Great War,” said Alphabet, “they used to send birds into tunnels to see if there was gas.”

  “Canaries,” said Cross. “That’s what we are.”

  Silence filled the tent, and Juliet brought her hands together with a sharp clap. “How about writing some letters? Anyone need a hand?”

  “A hand, an arm, another eye,” Alphabet laughed.

  “Amputee jokes,” sighed Juliet. “My absolute favorite.”

  The street was quiet, and the sun was fading. The low, gray buildings on either side of them shadowed the street, and their boots echoed along the cobblestones. In the distance, the dome of the cathedral fought the setting sun with a yellow blade of light.

  This was the southern end of Florence. Major Decker had issued Juliet and Willard twenty-four-hour passes, insisting they take advantage of the lull in fighting to recuperate. Even he seemed to think they were something of a couple. They had spent the morning visiting the evacuation hospital shadowing their field hospital, inquiring into the status of the patients they had transferred. They visited several stores commandeered by the army to sell nonessential provisions. They bought wool socks for the cold weather ahead; Willard purchased a leather-bound notebook and a new ribbon for his typewriter. They purchased fresh bread and chocolate and oranges and picnicked in the Boboli Gardens before wandering through the Palazzo Pitti. It was the first sightseeing Juliet had ever done; she was in a European city, wandering centuries-old royal buildings, and it humbled her. Everything in her new life would have once seemed improbable to her younger self, tucked away in her bedroom in Charlesport. Much of what happened had been arduous and gloomy, but now she was a tourist in Florence! Juliet felt adventurous and romantic, as though she had entirely stepped out of herself.

  She and Willard wandered happily and by the afternoon had said nothing of the war, of Barnaby, or of the hospital; together they marveled at the beauty of Florence, as though strangers on a walking tour. Willard knew a great deal about the history of the city, and Juliet enjoyed listening to him. He explained that the first opera in the entire world for which any music survived had been performed in 1600 right there in the Palazzo Pitti, where they were standing. He touched his heart and gazed silently at the frescoed ceiling of the Galleria Palatina; he closed his eyes and let his head sway, as though hearing the music. He told her about the lives of Verdi and Rossini, his favorite composers. He said that his dream as a young boy, long before he knew anything of medicine, was to become an opera singer. He seemed a different man here: relaxed, talkative, passionate about art and music. He, too, had stepped out of himself, and Juliet felt something contracting between them. The reserve had vanished; they walked side by side, their elbows brushing, their steps occasionally synchronized.

  But as they left the Palazzo Pitti and the sun began to set, she had the awful sense that the day was slipping from her, that this feeling—this happiness at escaping herself and the war, this sense of intimacy with Willard—would vanish. She wanted to walk slowly, to hold on to everything. She wanted to taste the air and listen to the sound of their footfalls. She wanted to study the way Willard would half gesture at the façade of a building while she offered a hmmm of agreement. It felt as if they had always been that way, and she wanted it to go on forever. She had never known that a single day with a single person could seem like the entirety of your life. Nightfall loomed like a small death, an agonizing departure from a moment she knew she would always long for.

  Now they were dutifully making their way to the home of Alfonso’s parents, an errand they had promised the partisan fighter that morning. In the darkening street, reminders of all that had happened and was ha
ppening began to flood Juliet; the war took hold of her like a hand gripping her shoulder. From gray doorways hollow-cheeked children emerged, tattered clothing hanging off their shoulders, cigarette butts jutting from their lips. “Hallo, Americani! Any gum, chum?” Barefoot, they pattered alongside Juliet and Willard, tugging at the hem of Juliet’s coat until she emptied her pockets of the chewing gum and caramels she had grabbed from the PX before she left. One child unwrapped his caramel so quickly that it fell in a puddle. The others ate their candies with the wrappers on, crackling noisily. Ahead of them, an old woman paused on the street, hitched up her moth-eaten skirt, and peed.

  Juliet was relieved when they arrived at the small wooden door. “I think it’s this one,” she said.

  Willard knocked, and after several moments, the door creaked open to reveal an old woman, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun.

  “Signora Gaspaldi? We’re friends of your son. Siamo amici di vostro figlio—Alfonso.”

  The woman smiled, gap-toothed. “Il mio Alfonso!” But as her eyes took in the red crosses on their armbands, she clasped her chest.

  “Oh, no, he’s fine,” said Juliet. “Sta bene.”

  Juliet offered the letter. “He asked us to give you this.”

  Snatching the paper, the woman hollered back into the house, “Peppino! Peppino!” She shoved the envelope between her lips, and tugged Juliet and Willard inside. The room was large and bare and dimly lit. At a small wooden table, she pulled back two stools of differing heights. Once again she called for Peppino, and a gray-haired man came lumbering down the stairs, hooking the strap of his suspenders over one shoulder.

  “Sono amici di Alfonso.” She shoved the envelope at Peppino. “Una lettera da Alfonso.”

  Juliet watched as Peppino lit the nub of a candle and held the envelope close, examining both sides. With his blackened forefinger he opened the seal. Signora Gaspaldi hovered behind: “Che cosa dice?” she asked.

  The woman couldn’t read, Juliet realized.

  “È vivo, lui ama l’Italia, combatterà fino a sconfiggere il nemico ed allora verrà a casa,” Peppino explained, then placed the letter in his pocket. He turned to his guests. “Amici di Alfonso? Medici? We make the dinner. Vino, subito.” Peppino signaled Juliet and Willard to follow him through the kitchen, ducking beneath copper pots and pans. In the small yard, the sun cast a weak orange glow across the ground. Juliet expected they might see a chicken coop—something related to dinner. Instead, Peppino grabbed a trowel and probed the bare ground with the tip.

  “Dottore?” He handed Willard the trowel, then sat on the stoop, gesturing for Willard to dig.

  “This is what I call singing for our supper,” said Willard, winking at Juliet.

  Willard turned over shovelfuls of soil until the metal met with a clang. Peppino drew together his hands in one swift clap, waved Willard aside, and began clawing at the dirt. He grinned as he extracted a straw-covered jug of wine and a jar of black olives. Then he nervously signaled for Willard to cover the hole, while he dragged Juliet inside, his bounty hugged to his chest.

  Signora Gaspaldi was working the thick handle of a wooden spoon around a steaming copper pot. The sweet smell of cooked onions filled the kitchen. Juliet helped set out plates and utensils, and within a few minutes Willard returned and they were seated at the small table. Bowls of large white beans, shiny with olive oil, appeared before them. Yellow pasta, long and thick and gnarled, lay beneath a mound of browned onions. The beans were meaty and delicious, the pasta rich and garlicky. Peppino and Signora Gaspaldi poured the wine liberally for Juliet and Willard and drank eagerly and happily themselves. Between sips, Juliet chewed on the black olives so that the wine wouldn’t rush to her head. She already felt a little tipsy. She watched Peppino reach his fork across the table and spear the remnants of pasta on Signora Gaspaldi’s plate. She, in turn, plucked his leftover beans. Juliet wondered how long they had been married, what it would be like to spend every day with another person, growing old together, raising children.

  As dinner ended, Signora Gaspaldi set a small, dog-eared album before Juliet and Willard.

  “Alfonso?” Juliet asked, looking at a baby photo.

  “Sì.”

  After two or three pages, she came upon photos of another baby. “And this?”

  “Marco,” said Signora Gaspaldi, her eyes filling with tears. “Marco amava Mussolini. I fascisti. É morto.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Juliet.

  Willard drew his stool close to Signora Gaspaldi’s and put his arm around her; she cried into his chest. Peppino, who seemed familiar with the scene, withdrew and soon returned with acorn coffee. Juliet sipped at the bitter drink and looked at Signora Gaspaldi’s red eyes and thought of her father, and of Pearl, and even of Pearl’s dead husband from the other war. She thought of the two empty bedrooms looming above them, and of the letters they so dutifully sent to her, asking for news. Juliet hadn’t written in weeks and promised herself she would write as soon as she got back to the hospital.

  Juliet and Willard helped clear the plates and explained that they were headed to a rest hotel run by the Fifth Army, but Signora Gaspaldi insisted they stay the night. She looked from Juliet to Willard. “Morosi, sì?”

  “No, not morosi,” said Willard.

  A blush crept across Juliet’s face. “Not at all,” said Juliet, but the mistake made her happy, confirmed what she had been feeling: this thing between them was not in her imagination. Juliet’s heart began to swell.

  As though their denial was of no consequence, Signora Gaspaldi waved her hand and led them up the narrow stairs. At the end of the corridor, she showed them a small, dark room. The air was cold and musty, and the walls were bare but for a faded Italian flag and a wooden crucifix. A wide metal bed sat in the center of the room.

  “La stanza di Alfonso e Marco.” She bowed her head apologetically. “Una stanza privata.”

  Signora Gaspaldi lit a row of candles in empty wine jugs lining the floor, and yellow light wavered across the room. She disappeared and brought them a pitcher of water with glasses and set them by the door. She threw back the covers on the mattress and removed a hot brick wrapped in a towel. She patted the mattress excitedly: “É caldo.”

  “I’ll take the floor,” Willard said when the signora had left.

  “That’s worse than a bedroll on the ground.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Willard stood facing the door. “Go ahead and get yourself comfortable.”

  Juliet sank into the ancient mattress and tugged off her boots. She tried to remove her pants as quietly as possible, but the sound of her zipper cut awkwardly through the room. She recalled Glenda undressing that day at the lake, her slow, languorous performance. Even with his back to her, Juliet still felt nervous. All her prudishness returned. What had happened with Beau seemed miles away, another lifetime. With Willard it was different. With Willard it mattered. She pulled the covers to her chin.

  “All clear,” she said.

  Willard turned and unbuttoned his shirt; his chest was pale and tubular. With his pants still on, he knelt to blow out the candles. “Well, good night then.”

  She didn’t know what she had expected, but it was certainly more than this. She wanted to tell him about Charlesport and her father. She wanted to ask him about his parents, about Chicago, about his childhood. She wanted this thing between them named, acknowledged. But Willard had shrunk from her. Juliet lay in the dark and listened to him heel off his shoes and arrange himself on the floor, his belt buckle scratching the wood. He readjusted several times before lying still for a while, but she did not think he was asleep. The sounds of pots clanking in the sink downstairs rang through the room.

  “That was a nice day,” she said into the darkness.

  “Very nice.”

  “You know a lot about opera.”

  “To the great misfortune of those stuck in conversation with me.”

  “Oh, I liked it.”

  He was qui
et, and for a moment she feared he was finally going to sleep.

  “Dr. Willard, are you sure you’re comfortable? We’re supposed to be getting rest, after all.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  Was he really going to say nothing more? Did he feel nothing between them? Had nothing happened in that long, wonderful day? Juliet felt as though an enormous weight were suddenly pressing against her chest; tomorrow they would return to the hospital, to their normal routine. Everything she had felt would vanish. She needed to say things, to ask things—questions she could ask only here, under the blanket of darkness.

  “Dr. Willard,” she began, “how come you’re the only doctor in the whole hospital who doesn’t seem determined to get cozy with all the nurses?”

  He was silent for some time; Juliet heard Signora Gaspaldi and Peppino coming up the wooden stairs, opening a door across the hall.

  “I explained to you my belief in boundaries. The need for professional distance.”

  A bewildered anger slowly rose within her, shook loose all her decorum. She would finally say what she had been thinking for weeks, and say it in a way too intimate to ignore. Her hand tightened around the edge of the sheet and she spat out a single word, a word she had used only a few times in her life, a word she had a right to use with the man she had wandered through Florence with, a man she had worked beside for almost three months: “Bullshit.”

  He cleared his throat. “I have absolutely no reason to lie.”

  Willard’s composure enraged her. How could he talk to her with such condescension? Juliet shook her head, rustling the pillow. “Left and right,” she stated, “everybody is coupling off.”

  “Well, what of it?” His pitch, finally, had risen to exasperation, and Juliet had the sinking feeling she had driven him away. The day was lost; any feeling he might have had for her was lost. Her true fear simply tumbled out of her:

  “Dr. Willard . . . is it me?”

  “God no, Juliet.” She heard him turn from side to side, his knees and elbows knocking the floor. He lay still and seemed to ruminate on something, exhaling lengthily. “For Chrissakes,” he finally whispered, “I’m married.”