How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (10 page)

Dr. Donnolly stood motionless, tears welling in his eyes.

Ski wasn't sure just what had been read to him, and his father's look of bewilderment grew.

“The President has granted you citizenship. You're a U.S. citizen, Ski!”

The place erupted with shouting, whistling, and metal bedpans and urinals clanging against wheelchairs and bed rails up and down the ward.

Ski's father reached for the letter and held it as if it were a newborn baby. His trembling hands gently stroked the words on the page as tears streamed from behind the rims of his glasses.

“My boy is ceetizen? He eez really a ceetizen of America? You are such a great doctor!” he sobbed, embracing the man who he thought had just given his son this ultimate gift.

Ski could only lay back, motionless, tears trickling down the deepened crevices of the crow's feet of his scrunched face.

Two Shades of Purple

“INCOMING! INCOMING!”

A wheelchair and its operator came crashing through the swinging double doors. The young Marine snapped the chair skyward in a perfectly balanced position and began spinning in circles like a mechanical Weebles doll. The boy and machine were like one.

He had absolutely nothing left of his legs and sat on a pillow, half on what was left of his ass and half on his lower back. His pajama bottoms were cut and folded into a triangle and pinned at the sides like a diaper. A large, manila envelope was tucked safely between the pillow and his right hip, the corners bent and frayed from so much handling.

The pilot was Lance Corporal Alonzo Labonte, as Italian as they come: jet-black, wavy hair, skin the color of light copper, large olive-black eyes, and a boyish but handsome face.

Lance Corporal Labonte had been on Ward 2B for almost six months. His home now was at the far end of the hospital in one of the rehab wards. He was known to everyone as Big Al.

Before the explosion, Big Al stood five foot six and weighed just over a hundred and thirty pounds. He was now a little over three feet high and weighed maybe sixty pounds. He had both full arms and no shrapnel wounds. He had a smile that never took a break, and anyone who came within talking distance was a friend. He also had his dick. He said that was reason enough to smile.

Big Al was on his assigned duty routine—to announce the incoming of the next occupant to Ward 2B and deliver the documentation ahead of the patient so everyone could prepare for his arrival.

“Incoming! Incoming!” he shouted as he blew past our beds and glided over to Miss Berry and her paperwork.

“Thank you, Al, we've been expecting you,” she replied.

Two corpsmen wheeled the new patient into the second slot to the left of Miss Berry and her cluttered desk. She went over to the new arrival and placed her hand on his arm just above the IV puncture; a catheter tube curled down the side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Not bad, ma'am,” he said.

He was in a full body cast, chin to toes. Both legs were completely covered in plaster with a bar across the middle just above his knees. The plaster cast shell covered his entire torso and chest. The only parts sticking out were his two full arms and his head. He looked like a giant white turtle stuck on its back.

“Hey Big Al,” Earl Ray motioned. “What's the new guy got?”

“Two broken femurs and busted pelvis, motorcycle. He was home on leave from AIT before going to 'Nam.”

“A non-combat moderfucker,” Ski laughed, looking at Earl.

“Yeah, but he's a Marine,” Earl said, looking at me.

“What difference does it make?” Big Al said. “Makes no difference, man. We're all here for the same reason. We got fucked up, and we gotta get on with shit, that's all.”

“What's his name?” I asked.

“Roger George,” Big Al said. “Just made Lance before he went home.”

“What the fuck kind of name is Roger George?” Earl chided.

“What the fuck kind of name is Earl Ray?” Big Al shrugged.

“Fuck you,” Earl shrugged back.

“Like I said, what difference does it make?” Big Al smiled, popping his wheelchair straight up.

“How's everything out on the rehabs?” Earl Ray asked.

“Same old shit, Earl. Be glad when you get back out there. I need somebody to beat at Spades.”

“You couldn't beat me in a chair race,” Earl chided. “I haven't heard when they're moving me back out, but when they do, I'll race you down the ramps.”

“You got a deal,” Big Al smiled, spinning in circles like a Tilt-a-Whirl.

“And I don't need a head start, either,” Earl smiled, showing the bulging muscles in his right arm.

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Big Al grinned as he let the chair down easy and disappeared off the ward.

Roger George was a welcome sight for me. Maybe he was a Marine, but at least now I wasn't the only non-combat person on the ward. A motorcycle accident, to boot. Thank God he wasn't run over by a tank during advanced infantry training, I thought.

His bed was across the center aisle and slightly off to my right. I couldn't wait until his last pain shot wore off so I could get acquainted. Safety in numbers, I had always heard.

Miss Berry went over to Roger George's bed with Doc Miller; they both had a puzzled look.

“When's the last time you had a bowel movement, Roger?” Miss Berry asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “I don't think I've had one since the motorcycle flipped.”

“Oh, boy!” Miss Berry said. “That's not good.”

“Six days and you haven't gone yet!” Doc exclaimed.

“Guess I just haven't had to,” he said with his turtle head bobbing upward.

“Stand back. Stand the fuck back!” Bobby Mac hooted. “The new guy's going to get it!”

Miss Berry took hold of Roger's arm. “You poor soul,” she said, and winked at him as she picked up the clipboard at the foot of his bed.

“Three tablespoons of castor oil. You want it in grape juice or plain?” she smiled.

“Grape juice, I guess,” he said, swallowing hard.

She took it over to him herself, and I wasn't sure if she was enjoying this or if she wanted to make sure he drank the entire concoction.

I had my introduction to the stuff about a week before. It was like drinking motor oil. The castor oil had separated from the grape juice and was floating on top. The instant it hit my tongue, my brain put the rejection fluids on autopilot, and I nearly choked on the flood of saliva. It tasted and felt like a raw slimy fish was caught in my throat.

Roger drank it down in a couple of gulps and chased it with the grape juice, almost puking the stuff back up. He squirmed in the turtle-shell cast and tried to spit some of it out, but Miss Berry tapped under his chin and forced the rest down.

Ski and Bobby Mac were making howling noises as Doc came over and gave Roger a hypodermic, right on schedule. Later that night, Roger would be awakened by a watery spray of diarrhea filling his bed sheets. The third shift corpsmen wouldn't be happy.

Miss Berry patted Roger on the arm and said not to worry about Ski and Bobby Mac; they had their turn already, or they were going to get a second dose.

“Okay, you two, serenade me with my favorite song,” Miss Berry said as she stood between Ski and me.

We had done this a few times before; once Doc had told us her favorite singer and favorite song, we surprised her with our own rendition.

Ski and I started in unison.

“Please release me, let me go, for I don't love you anymore. To live our lives would be a sin, so release me, and let me love again.” It was the staple song of Engelbert Humperdinck, and Miss Berry joined in.

The boos and hisses started before we could finish, and Miss Berry bounced away, clapping and smiling.

Ski and I went into our duet again, only louder this time.

“I'll release you!” Earl Ray jabbed. “I'll put you both out of your misery!”

We ramped up the volume.

Shit started flying at us from everywhere: empty milk cartons, rolls of toilet paper, boxes of Kleenex, a pair of socks. Doc Miller threw a plastic puke tray from behind the nurses' station.

Ski and I did a high-five in the air space between us; we could ramp it up again as soon as Miss Berry was back on the ward.

The day shift tidied up as usual before leaving us to the partial crew at 1600. Doc Miller would often hang around and help out for another half-hour or so. He came out of the back room after changing into his dress whites, drying his hands with a towel, and hastened his step toward Ski.

“Got another surprise for you, Ski, my man!” he said.

“Dwhat eeze it now? You going to take me home weeth you?” Ski smirked.

“No, it's even better than that,” Doc replied.

“Nothing could be better dthan getting out of here.”

“That will come in due time. Right now, it's due time for something else,” Doc said.

“Dwhy don't you guys just leef me alone?” Ski said, raising one eyebrow and squinting at Doc, who was headed toward the brown double doors.

Doc Miller pulled opened the doors as Miss Berry and a hard-jawed Marine gunny sergeant, decked out in full Marine Corps dress blues, paraded in. The gunny had a small rectangular box in one hand.

Miss Berry led the man over to Ski's bedside and introduced him.

“Nice to meet you, Marine,” he said with a slow, hard tone.

“Am I een some kind of trouble?” Ski asked, his accent growing with his uneasiness.

“Not at all, young man,” stoked the gunny. “I'm here to present this to you. The Order of the Purple Heart medal. It's for the sacrifice you made for our nation. Please wear it proudly.” He shook Ski's hand hard and gently placed the small box on Ski's lap.

Ski looked at the purple enamel heart with the brass cameo bust of George Washington emblazoned in its center.

Before he could get out his thank you, the gunny had already turned away and headed toward the doors. Miss Berry took Ski's hand.

“It's not every day that I get to be a part of this. Most of the time, it's given before you guys arrive here. Ski, thank you, and please do wear it with pride. Every one of you, wear yours with all the pride in the world,” she said as she walked through the green and white tiled entryway, tears welling in her eyes.

Earl Ray climbed down into his chair, removed a small box from under the letters from Jennifer, and quietly made his way over to Ski.

“You, me, and all the others in here with this, this is who we are.” Earl Ray's voice had an eerie sarcasm to it that made Ski uneasy. “Take a good look at it, man.”

Ski cupped the Purple Heart in his hand like a baby bird, staring at it for almost a full minute.

“Sometimes, it feels broken,” Earl said, mostly to himself.

“Dwhat do dyou mean?” Ski asked, looking at Earl with a puzzled grin.

“Sometimes it feels like it's broken. You know, like it's all for nothing. Like you've been fucked.”

“Dyou are djust feeling Jendeefer, man,” Ski said.

“Shit, I've been feeling this way long before that,” Earl said.

“Well, I think eet's all about Jendeefer. Dyou should be proud of dyour Purple Heart.”

“Yeah, that's what they keep telling me,” Earl said.

“Who's dthey?” Ski asked.

“Those dumb, fucking shrinks they make me go to, who else?”

“They know what they are talking about. You should leesten to them,” Ski responded, his accent thickening with his growing uneasiness.

“They don't know a goddamn thing. Trying to tell me my two legs and arm are worth this little piece of purple and brass. It ain't why I joined the Corps. I just wanted to be like my old man. Be a Marine, go to war, and come home and just fucking live out my life. Nobody said I'd come back like this. And they think this Purple Heart is supposed to make me feel better? They're the ones that are out of their fucking minds.”

“Dyou shouldn't feel that way,” Ski offered, almost apologetically.

Ski and Earl Ray had not heard the portable phone ringing about three beds down. “Hey, Earl!” Doc called out. “It's for you.”

“Who's calling me?” Earl said with a look of slight anger.

“Don't know. She wouldn't say,” Doc said with a grin, holding the phone up.

Earl melted back into his wheelchair and tossed his Purple Heart onto his bed. He glanced quickly at Ski. Ski smiled that instant, toothless smile that made you feel good.

“Brding the phone down here, Doc!” Ski yelled.

Earl stiffened up and rolled cautiously around his bed, keeping an eye on Doc and the waiting call. Doc began pulling the privacy curtains around Earl's bed.

“Don't need to do that, Doc,” he said. “This won't take long.”

“Hello?” he said with a forced harshness as he cradled the phone with his shoulder and his left arm stump. He reached up and took the Purple Heart off the blanket and gently placed it in the bottom drawer with Jennifer's letters.

“Oh, hi, Jen, I thought it might be you.” The air from the corner of his mouth snapped at the receiver. “…I'm doing okay…Not since you were here…No need to be sorry. You didn't do anything anyone else wouldn't have done…Sorry, Jen. I didn't mean that…Yeah, I've been doin' a lot of thinking, too,” his voice trembled. “I'm not sure that's a good idea,” he said, still cradling the phone against his chin and left shoulder.

A quick blast of air from the corner of his mouth pushed at the receiver, and it slipped off his shoulder, banging to the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” he said as he tried to grab it with his left half-arm. Earl instinctively slid off his chair, picked up the receiver, and sat on the floor.

“Sorry, Babe, I dropped the phone…Yeah, I guess I did call you Babe…” he said with another snap of air at the mouthpiece. “No, I don't want you to come up, Jen…You know why…I need a lot of time. A lot of time, Jen…Yeah, I'm getting your letters…Sure, call me when you can…No, Jen, I can't call you, not for a while…Okay, Jen…Bye.”