Crossword (12 page)

The doctor examined him, fairly thoroughly Larry thought,
and took several x-rays of his chest in a variety of positions. He was a rather
large man, and if he had smiled he would have had a jovial look about him,
especially with the sparkle in his eyes that Larry noticed. Odd, he thought, to
have such eyes when his face wore the dour look of an elderly dyspeptic. It was
as if he were at war with himself; a conflict of emotions ending in some
bizarre stalemate that left its aftermath imprinted on his visage. And he had
been even more reticent than the doctor at the camp, talking only when he had
to have Larry move this way or that to position him for the x-rays. Even after
the examination was complete he said only that he would send the results to the
camp doctor. But as Larry walked out of the room, he could feel his eyes on
him, a situation that was confirmed when Larry glanced in the mirror that hung
next to the exit and saw the doctor, his hands folded over the medical file,
staring after him, his eyes dull, having at last capitulated to the bleak
expression on his face.

The drive back to the camp had none of the charm of the trip
to Zurich. On the way there Larry could envision many possibilities, a variety
of scenarios to explain his symptoms, the doctor laughing at how Larry had been
worried for nothing.
It's nothing, really, hardly anything at all. Just a
cold that has lasted longer than usual, a bit more severe than most. Perhaps
it's the altitude; maybe something in the air.
A comforting hand on the
shoulder, a smile from a kindly white haired doctor in his crisply starched
white lab coat as he walked him out to the waiting car, the stethoscope still
around his neck. A friendly wave as the car pulled away.

But that's not the way it had been. No kindly doctor, no
reassuring words, no comforting arm around the shoulder. Not even a smile or
handshake upon leaving. Most of the prospects he had considered seemed much less
likely on the journey home. So now he sat in his room staring out the window at
the well-trod dirt of the camp and the woods beyond, or he laid in his cot,
eyes closed, listening to his wheezing. And while he rested, he thought ——
a dangerous state of affairs in the best of situations and things certainly
were not at their best. A mind deprived of input cannot survive. Where
information is not supplied by the real world we manufacture it from the
endless stream of sounds, images and fragmentary thoughts that populate our
minds, the flotsam and jetsam of years of experience. This debris, often
lurking below the surface, is recycled and introduced into our consciousness
where it becomes for us the dossier of reality and the building blocks of our
imagination. The fact that what we conjure up may be far removed from what any
sane, rational person might envision neither deters us nor lessens the
credulity with which we view it. Even a dismal future is better than no future
at all. As he lay there he could not help turning possibilities over in his
head, imagining all sorts of scenarios, most of which were rather desultory,
usually involving him dying or being hopelessly disabled. The vision of an old
wizened man in a wheelchair, a dark plaid blanket covering his legs and racked
by intermittent fits of coughing, was a recurring theme. It was during one of
these waking dreams, on the third day back from Zurich that a brisk knock on
the door thrust him abruptly back to reality. Larry sat up quickly, but remained
sitting on the edge of the bed, looking first right than left as if in strange
new surroundings. However, the vicissitude was internal. The bed, the walls,
the chair by the window, these were all unchanged, but inside, something had
been altered. He wasn't sure what was different, but as the knocking resumed he
knew that revelation must be at hand. Fate, he imagined, was knocking at his
door, and as he reached for the knob a fleeting vision of a bearded man,
cloaked in a flowing robe and come to tell him his future, shot thru his mind.
Larry pulled the door open, greeted by a look of surprise on private Warren's
face as he stood there, knuckles poised to rap once more on the door. Warren
stood there, staring at his raised fist, his surprise turning to confusion, not
knowing what to do with it. He opened his fist, about to salute even though he
wasn't sure of Larry's rank, when he remembered that there was no
acknowledgement of rank at this clandestine outpost anyway, so he awkwardly
stuffed his hand into his pocket, cleared his throat unnecessarily and said,
"The doctor would like to see you in his office."

"OK, just got to get my boots on. Tell him I'll be
right there." Now that it appeared there was to be some resolution to all
his anxiety of the last few days Larry felt, not surprisingly, almost
disinclined to leave the shelter of his little cabin. The news, he was sure,
would not be good.

Nonetheless, a few minutes later he had covered the short
distance to the hunting lodge that served as the administrative and command
center for the OSS camp. He hurried up the five steps to the covered porch that
extended along the entire width of the front of the building, some part of him
taking note that he seemed to be somewhat out of breath from the short walk
over, and strode through the entrance into the large ante room that had once
served as a lobby. The aide at the front desk motioned to a chair then turned,
walked to a door marked simply "Medical" and disappeared inside after
a quick knock. No sooner had Larry exhaled, expecting a long wait so typical of
the military, when the aide emerged and told him the Doctor was ready for him.

Despite the various desks scattered around the room, many
with typewriters on them, the filing cabinets placed haphazardly around the floor
and the seemingly random bureaucratic motion of the inhabitants, it was obvious
that this had been a hotel lobby, and even though he was scared Larry smiled to
himself thinking that the "desk clerk" was showing one of his lower
class guests to one of the hotel's lower class rooms. The smile was short
lived. The click of the door latch closing signaled the entrance of the doctor
that Larry had met for the first time last week. He walked into the room from a
side door, an austere look on his face, an expression that was becoming all too
familiar to Larry. He held a medical file in his hands, and Larry, trained as
an astute observer, noticed the white knuckles of a grasp far tighter than
necessary, indicating the discomfiture of the medico.

"Larry, I've always been to the point so I'll get right
to it. The news is bad." It was almost a relief. At least now, finally, he
would hear the truth. "I'm afraid you're quite ill. You see, you have a
tumor, a malignant growth on your lung. That's what's been causing your
symptoms, the wheezing and the shortness of breath." The doctor paused,
sucking in air quite deeply as if he had said the last few sentences on a
single breath, anxious to get it out, to be done with it and unwilling to wait
for even a single inhalation more than was necessary.

Larry took advantage of the momentary gap to interject,
"What needs to be done?" The hesitation before the doctor replied,
and the beads of sweat forming at his hairline did not bode well, he thought.

"I'm sorry, but there is nothing to do; nothing that
can be done."

"Can't it be cut out? They do that kind of surgery,
don't they?"

"The cancer is inoperable. The x-rays showed that.
There are a few things we can do to make you more comfortable, a few treatments
that might make things a bit better temporarily, but unfortunately we have
nothing in our arsenal that can cure you."

In Larry's mind the final door slammed shut. His mind was
racing with a thousand thoughts, all moving too fast for him to grasp as they
careened through his consciousness. A part of him shut down. The doctor was
saying something; he heard the words but not their meaning so he simply nodded
as he turned around looking for the door. He had to get out; this place held
nothing for him. It was already part of another life, another world, one that
he had inhabited up until moments ago but one from which he was now banished,
or more correctly it was he who had repudiated that former life. In the blink
of an eye he had cast it from him for it seemed prodigal; a future which,
dangerous though it may be at times, had almost infinite potential and now
seemed lavish in its excess of possibilities. He would have none of it. Without
waiting to be dismissed he walked to the door and crossed the lobby to the
exit. The aide came out from behind the front desk and started toward him but
was halted by a wave of the doctor's hand. The two of them watched as Larry,
seemingly in a stupor, walked out, down the steps and staggered off in the
direction of his cabin.

The doctor stood staring out the window for some time after
Larry had disappeared from view. When he turned and walked back to his office,
his gait and his bearing echoed a sadness, a melancholy that encompassed more
than the fate of the young man who had just left. It was something of himself
that he also mourned. He crossed the threshold into the exam room, his head
still hung low. The doctor turned sideways and confronted a well-dressed man in
a suit who gave a brief nod of recognition before reaching out and slowly
closing the door behind the doctor.

Larry lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling. When he had
reached his cabin after the brief walk from the administration building, he
immediately undressed and got into bed, thinking it would offer some comfort or
at least the narcotic of sleep. He already felt like an invalid. However,
neither sleep nor solace awaited him and he lay there awake and agitated,
glancing at his watch every few minutes wondering what fraction of his
remaining life had just passed. Eventually, though, he was overcome by sleep,
the penultimate anodyne, second only to death in the peace that it offered. And
if he had to accept the former as his soporific of the moment, he new that it
would not be long before the latter would enfold him in its stygian embrace.

When he awoke he glanced out the window, confronted by a
chill gray light, the dawning sun filtered by the forest cover. A thin mist
hovered just above the ground, and as he lay there having neither the strength
of purpose nor the desire to move, Larry watched the formation of little eddies
where the haze was heated by the first rays of morning. Over the next hour the
ground clouds dissipated leaving behind no trace. The symbolism was not lost on
him, and he turned away, his eyes moist.

It was another hour before he showered and dressed, the
usual daily routine somehow bolstering his spirits as he slipped into familiar
patterns. Although he was not particularly hungry he took his jacket from the
hook next to the door, put it on, and walked out into the cool, clear
sub-alpine air, thrusting his hands into the pockets as he ambled off to the
dining facility, his head bent down as if he was searching the ground for
something he had lost. When he arrived he poured a cup of coffee, nodding to
one or two of the occupants, and asked for some eggs, toast and bacon; he felt
a need to keep up appearances, to keep his illness a secret. But as he sat
there, sipping the hot brew, he noticed the wide birth the others gave him.
Larry was used to eating alone; most field agents were left to themselves
unless they initiated contact, but it was obvious to him that more than
distance now separated him from the other residents of the camp. They knew. He
smiled to himself and shook his head. Here he was, in the business of secrets
and covert activities, and his personal affairs were already common knowledge
to everyone who populated his current world.

"Here you go." The cook set the platter down and
turned on his heels before Larry could put down the coffee and open his mouth
to say thanks. He put a small forkful of eggs in his mouth and pushed the
remaining food around the plate for a few minutes before standing and walking
out. The brisk morning, which usually had a rejuvenating effect on him, only
chilled him, and although the air felt like it was stinging his skin, Larry
knew that it was really the bleakness of his soul that sucked the warmth from
his body. He stood outside for a moment, not sure where to go or what to do,
not even sure if there was anything for him to do; field operations were
certainly no longer an option for him. Would they try to get him across the
border into France or Italy and then back to the States? Were they going to let
him live out the remainder of his life here, another casualty of war buried in
some foreign country? So many questions, so much unknown. As he stood there,
confused and angry, the CO of the camp walked out of the administration
building and strolled over to him, his movement casual as if to say "I was
just out for a walk, fancy bumping into you," but the seriousness of his
face and the set of his jaw gave up the lie.

"Morning, Larry." Capt. Darnell stopped in front
of Larry. There was no saluting at the camp, no real military formalities since
those who trained here had to expunge any military training from their
behavior, and since Larry was not compelled to speak, an awkward silence
ensued. Darnell stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back and forth on his
heels once or twice, and began what was obviously a difficult conversation for
him. "Larry, the doctor spoke to me about your, uh, condition and I want
to say how sorry I am. It's just a bitch; not fair that things like this
happen, but we have to deal with them. I'm really sorry."

Larry nodded, not knowing what to say. "Thank you"
seemed stupid so he continued nodding and just said, "Yeah, a bitch."

"This may not be the best time for you but some things
about the mission I mentioned last week can't wait and I need to talk to you.
None of this is easy for me but it's got to be done so I'm going to get right
to it. The people who planned the operation back at OSS were considering
dropping it because of the risk to the agent who would be involved."