The Guineveres (29 page)

During chapel, and despite our doubts, we closed our eyes the tightest, clasped our prayer hands until our fingers hurt. We didn't know how we'd find our homes, but we had to believe that we would. We dreamed of Our Boys, imagining the way their eyes would flutter as they kissed us. Imagining our wedding days, the vows we'd take.
We do. I do
. With our heads bent and swaying, we looked rapturous, inebriated with the Holy Spirit. Sister Fran called us “good girls” when we lined up to leave the chapel, though we didn't feel like good girls. We felt lonely. We felt afraid.

Finally, one night, after Lights Out, we stared into the darkness, waiting for an hour to pass. We'd grown fairly skilled in measuring time by instinct. We prayed the rosary three times, our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys and Glory Bes, to tick away the time. Soon enough, we gathered in the corridor outside the Bunk Room, and we made our way to the third floor. The moon was out, shining through the windows, the same ones that Ginny had cleaned a month ago, the light making our path more visible. We passed several open doors, passed the room that held boxes marked with our names, passed shadows that looked like they might spring to life and capture us. We traipsed along, holding on to one another, dressed in our white nightgowns that revealed our bony ankles and bare feet. We tried not to be scared, tried to think about what Sister Fran had taught us about channeling our fears into the Lord, letting Him take the brunt of the burden. He wanted to bear it.

The four of us had to push up against one another as we filed down the narrow staircase. It was almost total darkness, but we could smell each other's hair, the sickly floral scent of our shampoo, the same one used on the old ladies in the Sick Ward. We could feel each other's hot breath on our necks. Our bodies trembled as we slowly descended, an energy pulsing through us that I could only explain as love. At the bottom of the stairwell, we all stopped, bumping into one another in the process. We'd arrived. One of us opened the door, and our eyes adjusted to the dark.

We found Our Boys sleeping where they always slept, blankets tugged up to their necks. We talked to them in whispers. Some of us cried. Some of us clung to their chests just to feel them breathe, to make sure they were alive. We weren't sure how long we were there—longer than the duration of Morning Prayer, for sure. We gathered by the stairwell door and composed ourselves, but when Win wrapped her fingers around the knob and pulled, we heard only the thud of resistance. The door was locked.

“I guess it only opens one way,” Ginny said sheepishly.

“Now what?” one of us said. We grew nervous, and it came through as gulps and heavy breathing.

“Well, only one way back,” Win said. “May as well do it.” Win never allowed her emotions to overtake her, not like the rest of us. While the rest of us bent over the bedsides of Our Boys talking or weeping, I sometimes caught her simply sitting on the edge of the bed, not saying a word.

“Great,” Gwen said. I could practically hear her eyes roll.

“No point in crying about it,” Win said.

“Wait a second,” Gwen said, and she crept into the storage room. She materialized a few moments later with the hidden telephone book beneath her armpit like a clutch.

“What are you doing?” one of us asked.

“Just go,” Gwen said. She could not be bothered with questions.

We crept into the Front Room, the moon casting bar-shaped shadows onto the floor of the lobby. Win led the way, and the rest of us followed close behind.

“Nurse, Nurse,” we heard one of the old women say, and we stopped in our tracks and stood as still as statues. “Nurse,” she said again, her voice a loud whisper. We didn't know the name of the woman; she'd arrived after Our Boys. “Can I have a sip of water, please? I don't feel well.” The voice was frail and scratchy, deep for a woman's.

“What do we do?” Ginny whispered.

“Leave,” Gwen said.

But I walked over to where the water pitchers were kept, and I found one that was full. I made my way to the bedside of the old woman. “Here you go,” I said, filling her glass.

“You're not a nurse,” she said. She took the glass in both her hands, but had a hard time putting the straw in her mouth, so I helped her.

“No,” I said.

“Why are you here?”

“Same reason as you,” I said.

“You're sick?”

“I'm waiting.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, motioning for me to take the glass; she'd had enough. “Waiting for what?”

“Hurry up,” Gwen snapped. “We don't have all night for small talk.”

“To go home,” I said. I set down the glass and rejoined The Guineveres as we started for the door again. But at that moment, we heard footsteps, so we retreated to the Back Room. Sister Connie. Checks.

We hurried to the far end of the room and crouched in the corner, behind the supply cabinet, where we waited, squeezing each other's hands for reassurance. We heard a few noises from the Front Room, some muffled conversation. We were sure the old woman was telling Sister Connie that she'd just seen four girls in nightgowns. Soon Sister Connie appeared in the Back Room. She didn't make a sound, just methodically walked down the aisle of beds toward us, stopping to adjust pillows or straighten blankets. She appeared tired, even in the dark; the circles under her eyes were black crescents. We stiffened as she made her way closer to us, and just as she was about to get to the end of the row of beds, My Boy groaned in his sleep, catching her attention. He saved us, My Boy did. Sister Connie turned around and away. The Guineveres breathed relief.

She stood at the foot of My Boy's bed. “Again,” she said, tsk-tsking, then picked up his clipboard and made some notes. “You must be having unpleasant dreams, Number Twenty-two.” She stood for a moment watching him, as I sometimes did, and then she turned and headed for the door.

The Guineveres didn't move, didn't chance it, just continued crouching until our legs tingled. After a while we stood up, shook out our limbs, said good-bye to Our Boys once more, and tiptoed right out of the Sick Ward and back through the convent.

However, we didn't head to the Bunk Room immediately. Gwen demanded that we stop in Sister Fran's office first. “We have a phone call to make,” she said, holding up the phone book.

“But it's in the middle of the night,” I said.

“But it's in the middle of the night,” she mocked. “It's only the middle of the night at the convent. Most civilized people don't go to bed when we do. In fact, I used to stay up till midnight in my Unholy Life. Even on school nights.”

Sister Fran's office door stood slightly ajar, and Gwen nudged it open with her foot. We half expected to see Sister Fran inside, like a crypt keeper. Instead, her chair was empty, her desk cleared, except for her whistle. To our relief, Pretty's cage was empty, too.

“So this is where she keeps it at night,” Win said. She picked up the whistle and hung it around her neck. The Guineveres always imagined that she slept with it resting on her lips, ready to blow it at a moment's notice. “I feel more powerful already.” Win put it to her mouth, but she didn't dare blow it.

“What are we doing here?” Ginny asked. Gwen turned on the desk lamp.

“Turn that off,” I said.

“We're calling Junior,” she said. She set the telephone book on Sister Fran's desk and began thumbing through it. “He's been home for months. Maybe he remembers something, now that he's recovered. He might be able to give us information about Our Boys, or else Ebbie can. I'm sure she can get it out of him.”

“We don't even know if he's listed,” Win said. She unwrapped the whistle cord from around her neck and placed it back on the desk exactly as she'd found it. “Maybe he lives in a different city. Maybe he moved.”

“Look, do you want to get out of here or don't you?” Gwen said. “Because I can't be dragging around dead weight. And besides, do you have any better ideas? Just wait for Father James to take us to the VA, or until we're eighteen perhaps? Get some radio privileges and be sent on our merry way? I don't know about you, but I'm not waiting that long. Look at Ebbie. She didn't.”

We knew that to get ahold of Junior, we'd have to look up his dad, but there was no J. Murr in the phone directory, only an L. Murr and a T. Murr. Gwen picked up the phone and dialed the first number without hesitation. She let it ring a dozen times, shaking her head. No answer. With the second number, she had better luck. A miracle is how The Guineveres might have described it. We gathered around the phone. Gwen tilted the receiver toward us, explained to the man who answered that she was an old friend of Junior's, from the War, and that she was trying to contact him with some important information, and, well, would he happen to know how to locate him? The man on the other end went quiet for a moment. “You should talk to his father,” he said.

“His father?” Gwen replied.

“Yes, his father. My cousin. Here, let me get you that number,” he said. Gwen found a pen in Sister Fran's top drawer. She had no paper, so she jotted the number down on her hand.

She hung up the phone, then immediately picked it up again and dialed the operator. Win peeked out the door to make sure nobody was coming. We all got quiet and listened; the silence made a sound of its own.

The phone rang several times before someone answered. It was a woman's voice this time, all crackly and full of sleep. “Yes, may I speak to Jack Murr, please,” Gwen said. She twisted the phone cord around her finger and sat down at the desk, imagining herself a secretary at some office in the city.

“My husband's not here,” she said.

“Junior, ma'am. I was hoping to speak to your son.”

The line went quiet. Gwen tapped the receiver. “Are you there?” she asked.

“Who is this?” the woman asked. “Are you from the newspaper?”

“No, ma'am. I'm an old friend of his. From the War,” she lied, just as she'd rehearsed.

“There are no women in the war,” the woman said.

“A nurse. I was a nurse. I
am
a nurse.”

“Are you friends with that Ebbie girl?”

“Yes, yes I am. May I speak with her?”

“She's gone.” The Guineveres poked each other with glances. Concern? Jealousy? Maybe a little of each.

“Yes, well, Ebbie's a friend of mine, but I was really hoping to talk to Junior about his recovery time at the Sisters of the Supreme Adoration. I was hoping he could tell us—me—about some soldiers who were there with him.”

The line went quiet again, but soon we could hear a sound, like the whistle of a teakettle, only lower, full of grit. “It was an accident,” the woman said. “My poor Junior. It was an accident. I don't care what they say, and don't listen to what you read in the papers. The papers are full of lies. I'm telling you he didn't mean to do it. It was an accident.”

Gwen stood up at the desk. “Is he in trouble?”

“He's dead,” the woman said, and as soon as she spoke the words, she slammed down the phone. The line returned to the hum of the dial tone.

Gwen placed the receiver back on the cradle. Our throats felt tight, restrictive. Ginny began wheezing and cradling her palms again.

“What kind of accident do you think he had?” I said.

“Vere, you idiot. He didn't have an
accident,
” Gwen said.

I understood what she meant, but I refused to believe it. Obstinate doubt. Total denial. Why would anyone weather the worst of the storm—the War, loss, injury—only to give up on the other side, just when things were about to get better? That's how I saw it back then: illogical.

“Why do you think he did it?” Ginny asked.

We didn't know how to answer, so we sat quietly in Sister Fran's office, listening to the sounds of the convent at night, the click of the radiators, the creaks of old plaster. Finally, Win said, “Maybe he was afraid nobody would ever understand, that he'd have to live the rest of his life trying to explain it.” After all these years, I think Win was right. It wasn't just the sights he'd seen in the War, or his injuries. It was the fact that he'd be forced to stare into the void for the rest of his life, wondering if he'd ever again do anything of value, if his life would ever again have meaning. The War was like that, even for us on the home front: horrible and scary, unspeakable even, but it was real, and there was something to that.

“But what about Our Boys?” someone asked.

“They'll be different.”

“How do you know?”

“Because
we
understand,” someone said. We heard a rustle outside Sister Fran's window, a gust of wind, the clacking of branches.

“Poor Ebbie,” Ginny said after a while.

“She got out, didn't she?” Gwen said. “That's what she wanted.”

“But maybe what she wanted changed,” I said. “That can happen. She's probably grieving somewhere. In the city.” I thought of her postcard. Men and women on their way to work. The boy leaning over the fountain. Somehow the scene seemed sad to me now.

“Well, if she's in the city, she's lucky,” Gwen said. “Luckier than us.”

“I don't consider that lucky,” Ginny said. “Losing someone you love. Especially like that.”

“Do you think she was there when it happened?” Win asked.

“I've never seen a dead person,” I said, but as soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them.

“I have,” Ginny said. But we already knew.

Instead of speaking anymore, we each took turns paging through the telephone directory, checking for our parents' names. None was listed. It felt as though they never existed at all. We had no proof of it. Win turned off the lamp, and we sat there in the dark for a long time. We could hear Ginny whimpering. We could hear an owl outside the window, somewhere in the distance. “Who? Who?” it said over and over, as though we held the answers. We didn't. We thought we heard Sister Magda's familiar footsteps down the hall. Finally, we decided it was time to go.