Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“Me, too,” Will said. “What if that wasn’t it, though? What if she was afraid of something going on in her life right here and now?”

“The MKPD is looking into it. They’ll get to the bottom of it.” She took his hand again and squeezed it, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of her head reminding her of how sure Russ had been that Tally’s death was a suicide.

A pretty young girl stuck her head in the door. “Bookmobile,” she sang. “Ready to pick out a good read?”

“I’d better go,” Clare said. “I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“As will I.” Trip Stillman pocketed his PalmPilot as he rose. “Tell your mother I said hi.”

“Thanks. For coming to see me.” Will lifted his hand in a feeble salute.

The bookmobile girl rolled back to let them out of the room. Clare recognized her as one of the youngest and chattiest of the hospital’s aides. In her apron and ponytail, she looked like a nurse in a World War II flick, come to bring cheer to the wounded boys.

“I notice they’re not sending him the grandmotherly candy stripers,” she said.

“Might as well give him an eyeful of what he has to live for.” Stillman pressed the elevator button. “My niece used to volunteer here. She would have loved to spend time with a good-looking boy Will’s age.”

“Tell him that.”

“I will.”

Clare looked at her scratched and blurred reflection in the elevator’s doors. She was suddenly so tired she thought she might fall over. She leaned against the wall. “Do you think he’ll make it? Not now, I mean. In the long haul. Are his doctors just patching him up so he can try again?”

“I don’t think so. Will’s already done the hardest work of recovery.”

She made a little go-on gesture.

“His life’s been divided into before and after, and he’s in the after.” The elevator pinged, and Stillman held the door open for her. “I think he’s finally accepted that. That’s the first step toward going forward.” He stabbed the floor button.

The car jerked precipitously beneath them, and the lights dimmed.

Clare heard the sounds of the mortars in the distance as she looked frantically around the bunker. Dim emergency lights, and the smell of mouse shit and rotting wood, and where was the chem hazard locker and where was the bulkhead door and where was her mask and the blare of the klaxon and the thud of the shells getting nearer and the slosh of the river water rising higher and higher-

Clare found herself on the elevator floor, legs tucked, arms wrapped around her head. She opened her eyes. Trip Stillman was looking at her from exactly the same position.

The car jerked again, upward, quivered, and then began its descent. For a second, she couldn’t move. It’s getting worse. It’s supposed to be getting better, but it’s getting worse.

“Are you okay?” Stillman whispered.

She scrambled to her feet. Stillman got up more slowly. “Like I said. The foolish stuff.” His voice was thin and dry.

“Trip, I need sleeping pills and amphetamines and Tylenol Three.” Like falling into the duck-and-cover, the words came out without conscious control. “I had them when I came back and I’m almost out and I need more.” She looked at him. “I don’t have any good medical reason. I just need them. Will you help me?”

He stared at her. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They got out. He glanced at the people walking past them; a pair of doctors, a technician in scrubs, a man toting a potted plant. He beckoned her around the corner, into a niche formed by a vending machine and a stainless steel crib frame. “What have you been taking?”

“I don’t know. They’re go pills and no-go pills. The only bags that had labels were the antibiotic and the Tylenol.” He frowned. “I’m cutting back on the sleeping pills. Really. With everything going on, I’ve been falling into bed at the end of the day. It’s just-” She swallowed. “When I wake up. If I have a nightmare. I need one then to get back to sleep.”

“Are you mixing them with alcohol?”

“Sometimes. Yes. Usually.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need more, you need to get off them. Amphetamines and sleeping pills just feed into each other.”

“I can’t!” To her horror, her voice cracked. “Trip, I’ve got nightmares and flashbacks and parishioners to take care of and a wedding to get through. I can’t talk to my spiritual adviser about this, and I’m not going to dump it on my fiancé. I just need to keep on an even keel for a few more weeks.”

Trip looked at the floor. Finally, he sighed. “I won’t give you any painkillers. Forget about it.” He pulled out his PalmPilot. “I’ll give you a two-week prescription for Ambien and Dexedrine. Here’s the deal.” He speared her with a look. “You take the Dexedrine as prescribed-no more than ten migs a day, to start. No booze when you take the Ambien and for twelve hours after. I’m going to call you for a blood test some time during the next two weeks. If I find you’ve been mixing, I’ll cut you off. If I find you have a higher concentration of dextroamphetamine than you ought to, I’ll cut you off. No second chances, no do-overs.”

She nodded.

He tapped something into his PalmPilot. “I’m e-mailing myself the instructions. I’ll give you the scrip Monday, at group. Can you hold out until then?”

She nodded.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.” He rubbed the scar along his forehead.

“Thank you.”

He sighed again. “I’ll see you on Monday.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to say something else. Instead, he turned and walked away. She stayed against the wall, half hidden, for a moment, turning the whole thing over in her head. Telling herself she was going to be okay. Wondering if this was her own before and after.

Clare hadn’t taken a sleeping pill the night before, and she hadn’t had a nightmare, but she was still sodden with fatigue when she rolled out of bed at 6:30 A.M. for the 7:00 Eucharist. She debated taking an upper for twenty seconds before popping one in her mouth. By the time she closed the rectory door behind her, she was feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, congratulating herself for making a smart choice.

She wrapped up the Eucharist in thirty-five minutes and was standing by the great double doors, bidding farewell to the communicants-all seven of them-when Russ wedged his way past Mrs. Mairs into the narthex.

“I didn’t expect to see you today. What are you doing here?” Clare asked.

Mrs. Mairs tittered. “Can’t wait to see the bride-to-be. That’s a good sign.”

Russ smiled patiently at the octogenarian before turning to Clare. “You said we had to go to the Stuyvesant Inn, remember? To okay the napkins or mints or whatever?”

Clare waited until the last of the congregation left the narthex. She kicked away the stand and let the heavy double-braced door glide slowly closed on its hydraulic hinges. “I said I have to go. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.” She headed up the aisle. Russ fell into step beside her. “If I hadn’t been sure my mother never would have spoken to me again, I would have just asked Julie McPartlin to do the deed in her office.” She opened the door to the hallway. “It’s still awfully tempting.”

He laughed. “You may be the only southern woman in existence who prefers elopements to white weddings.”

She went into the sacristy. “Me and every other clergywoman. Do you know how many weddings I’ve officiated at? And I haven’t been ordained five years yet.” She stripped her alb over her head and snapped it to get the wrinkles out. “Another five years and I’ll run screaming when I hear the opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon .” She slid the alb onto a wooden hanger and replaced it in the closet. “Which reminds me. If you have any musical preferences, speak now or forever hold your peace, because Betsy Young has announced she and the choir will be providing the wedding music as a gift to us.” She removed the stole from around her neck, kissed it, and draped it over a padded dowel with the others.