Authors: Julie Johnston
Little Red Lies (11 page)
“Could be,” he says. “We’ll know better once we get the lab report.” He leaves a prescription for pain relief with Dad and says he’ll be in touch.
When he’s gone, Mother says, “What do you think it is?”
Dad frowns. “No idea.” Although he tries to hide it from Mother and me, the expression on his face shows that he might have an inkling.
We all go upstairs to worry over the patient.
“What did he tell you it is?” Mother asks.
“He didn’t say.”
“Oh, that annoying man! Why we continue to go to him, I don’t know.” When she puts a hand on Jamie’s forehead, he shifts out from under it.
“I think it’s reasonable to wait for the lab results,” Dad says. “No use fretting until we have scientific proof there’s something wrong.”
Mother means to sigh, I think, but it comes out as a snort. “Surely he told you something,” she says to Jamie.
“He doesn’t think I need an operation.”
She brightens. “Well, I guess that’s something.”
I catch sight of bruising on his arm. “What happened to your arm?”
Mother’s eyes widen. She pushes up his sleeve. “How did this happen?”
“When he siphoned off my blood.”
“Good heavens! The man’s a butcher! You shouldn’t have all that bruising. I mean, I do know something, and this is definitely not right. A little bruise, perhaps, but this … this is scandalous.” She turns to Dad. “We’re getting another doctor, Howard. This is deplorable. There’s that new chap. I’ve met his wife, and she seems very nice. Could you just phone him? Please, Howard.”
“Hmm,” he says, frowning over Jamie’s bruise. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Downstairs again, Mother bangs pots and pans on
and off the stove while Dad picks up the evening paper. The paper rustles; his hands are shaking.
I set the table without being asked. I’m thinking of offering to help with dinner, but when Mother tries to take a baked ham out of the oven without oven mitts and screeches like a tormented animal, I think it safer to go back upstairs. When I peek into Jamie’s room, he’s lying very still with his eyes closed.
Letters not sent
.
Half my mind says, don’t write about it, and the other half says, get it out of your system. So all right, here goes. It’s taken me almost a week to be able to write about this. It’s about trust. It’s about wondering if we can put our trust in anything
.
The heat that day was suffocating. My eyes stung from sweat, although not exactly the worst thing I had to put up with
.
We could hear the drone of bombers and knew they were ours, Halifaxes. Coop could be flying up there, for all I knew. Lucky son of a gun. Not down here with us, creeping like ants on the baked earth with the stench of battle in our nostrils. But as I looked up, my envy turned to horror
.
“Good God!” someone yelled. The bomb doors were opening right above our heads. The Allies were bombing us
.
Some of our transport vehicles roared ahead. Others stopped abruptly, and men tumbled out to dive under them. Some of us took to a nearby wooded area. The last things I saw before I started to run were parts of machinery and parts of men flung into the burning air. I dove behind a clump of trees, and there was Leeson, trying to dig a foxhole with his bare hands. I’d known him only a few months, yet, it felt like a lifetime. I joined him, two dogs after the same bone, no time even to unhinge our spades. We huddled together, half-protected by a shelf of moss-covered rock, praying the bombs would miss us and drop a quarter mile ahead, forward troops be damned
.
Leeson was a married man. Once, he showed me a picture of his wife, a plain girl with a sweet smile and slightly protruding teeth, but big eyes that saved her from being funny-looking. “She looks nice
,”
I told him. He put the picture back in an inside pocket, nodding, satisfied. Leeson was one of the few in our platoon who didn’t go looking for women whenever the opportunity arose. I tended to stay behind with him and one or two others
.
Again bombers pulverized the air overhead. Someone threw a Union Jack out onto the field just beyond our half-dug trench, but it lay furled in on itself as if trying to avoid the onslaught. “Get your head down
,”
our captain yelled at me
.
I thought we should spread out that flag to show the bombers they were blasting their own side. The utter stupidity of Allied bombs dropping on Canadian soldiers turned whatever fear I had into anger. “Coop, you stupid bastard!” I yelled and crawled over the rock to give the flag a flick, to make it at least recognizable
.
Leeson yanked me back by the legs, and I slid again into our homemade dugout seconds before more bombs could do their worst. The attack was punishing beyond anything I’d ever imagined, the more so because of its irony. We burrowed in like moles while clots of earth, rocks, metal—debris of all kinds—pummeled our backs
.
At some point, I passed out. I came to facedown on top of my rifle in a mud puddle, held there by an impossibly heavy weight. When I got my face out of the oozing earth, I discovered that the deadweight was Leeson’s body and the puddle, Leeson’s blood. I managed to squirm out from under until, by kneeling on him, I could
hoist myself over what was left of the makeshift trench and roll out. I wiped his blood off my face with my sleeve. My leg was ripped open below the back of my knee and bleeding, but I managed to stand with the help of my rifle
.
Carnage everywhere. Bodies of men looked like hunks of meat. Bloody, mangled, strewn. I kept vomiting until all that came up was sick-tasting slime
.
Then it hit me that I had actually knelt on Leeson, with his helmet knocked off and his brains spattered everywhere. I owed him my life, and yet I practically stood on him. On a recruitment poster, I once read “Let the army make a man of you.” It should have said “Let the war make a mound of earth of you.”
Leeson took his wife’s picture everywhere. I thought it was likely still in his pocket, drenched in blood, maybe. I made a quick survey of the sun and the land to get my bearings and hobbled a short distance away. I was still thinking about the picture and wondering if his wife would want it. But, why? I wouldn’t care about having a picture of myself
.
I was in a real daze at this point. I decided to walk in the direction of Falaise, hoping to find some live, whole human beings. Blood from
my wound was dripping into my boot, and my leg stung like billyo
.
That’s when I dragged myself back to Leeson, because what if his wife would love to have the picture back and to know that her husband carried it with him everywhere? I managed to move Leeson enough to reach into his pocket and draw out the picture without smearing it with blood and put it in my pack. I had a roll of bandage in my kit and wound it around my bloody leg. By the time I struggled to my feet again, the bandage was soaked through. The pain was a killer, but—
Hang on. An announcement. Big move. Orders from on high. I’ll finish this later, maybe a lot later
.
As I stare at Jamie, he barely seems to breathe. Beside him lies a sheaf of papers, tied at the corners with string.
I go in. “I know you’re not asleep,” I say loudly. “And I know you’re not dead, you big faker!” I watch his chest to make sure it’s still moving up and down. His eyes remain shut. “Jamie!” Nothing. “I want to know what’s wrong. Why are you sick?” I grab his arm to look at the spreading bruise.
Suddenly, his eyes pop open and he bares his teeth like a mad dog. I jump back startled. Quickly, he covers the papers with a blanket.
“Don’t manhandle the war wounds.”
“You gave me such a scare. Why is your arm like that?”
“The doctor went a little overboard trying to bleed me dry.”
“What’s that bunch of papers all about?”
“It’s about how to make your sister mind her own business.”
“Liar.”
Doctor Melvin makes another house call the next day. Just as I get home from school, he comes into the kitchen and says to Mother, “I want Jamie to see a specialist in Toronto.”
“What kind of specialist?” She puts down the potato she’s peeling and turns to face him, one hand gripping the sink for support.
“He specializes in diseases of the blood.”
“What’s wrong with Jamie’s blood?” My voice is squeaky, panicky.
Mother frowns. “Don’t interfere, Rachel.”
“Well, it’s a long story, I’m afraid.” He hunches his shoulders more than usual, as if the weight of what he has to say is too heavy. “To be brief, Dora, we think your son’s blood is low on normal white cells. This means he can pick up germs more easily, so we have to be careful about keeping him well and making sure he gets plenty of rest.” He takes a notebook from the pocket of his suit coat and
squints at it. “I’ve gone ahead and made an appointment for him to see a chap in Toronto this coming Monday afternoon.” He tears the page out and gives it to Mother. “If the day doesn’t suit you and Howard, just phone and they’ll change it.” Putting his hat on, he nods consolingly at us and leaves.
Mother and I look at each other as if we’ve never met.
“I’d better get dinner ready,” she says and goes back to peeling potatoes.
I brighten suddenly. “You know what? He’s going to be fine.”
“Oh?” Mother’s still frowning.
“Yup, I just know it. He got home from the war all right, didn’t he?”
11
It’s early June. Jamie’s trip to Toronto will take place the day after closing night of the play. In these final few days, excitement runs high for both the actors and the backstage crew. Mr. Tompkins draws me aside to say, “I don’t want you to feel underemployed. How would you like to be props mistress?” So, besides prompting and doing makeup, I am in charge of making sure the bowl of apples is on the table in act 1 and that two apple cores are beside it in act 2, things like that. I now seem to be responsible for all the bits and pieces required for the smooth running of the plot. I don’t mind the extra job; it’s not acting, but it’s important. That’s what I tell myself.
I try to avoid making eye contact with Tommy, as much as possible. I need to focus on my backstage jobs. The play is to run for two nights, Friday and Saturday. My family has tickets for the final night.
On my way home after the dress rehearsal, I run into Mary Foley coming from work. We stop to greet each other. She seems a little shy and in a hurry to go.
Quickly, I say, “Jamie’s sick in bed with something horrible.”
Startled, she says, “What’s he got?” Her face is chalk white.
This is a good omen. If Mary and her friends know he has a mysterious health problem, they might show him a little respect or at least take him a little more seriously.
“We don’t know for sure, but he fainted after he had lunch with you.”
I think this will make her gasp, but all she says is, “Is he getting shots for it?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“They give the boys shots for that disease they pick up overseas.”
“What disease?”
Mary shrugs. “Just something I heard my older brothers whispering about. They had to get shots for something they called the clap. I don’t know what it is.” (She’s blushing, which makes me think she does know.)
“You could phone him,” I say.
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
And she does, that very evening.
I answer the phone downstairs in the front hall, where we keep it on a little table. I call up the stairs to Jamie to
pick up the extension in our parents’ bedroom. Intending to hang up, I keep the phone to my ear to hear when Jamie comes on the line. I hear him say hello, and Mary say, “Hi, Jamie,” and Jamie say hi back.
“I’m sick,” he says.
“So I hear.” There’s a long pause. “Um, I was wondering if you’re getting shots for it.”
“No.”
“Well, you should.” For some reason, she sounds angry.
“Why? Shots for what?”
“For, you know, that disease you get from being with, you know, strange women.”
“What strange women?”
“Um, bad women.”
The silence that follows makes me think the phone has gone dead for a moment.
“The clap?” he sounds horrified. Suddenly he yells angrily, “Rachel, get off the phone!”
I hang up quickly.
Mother calls from the living room, “Who was on the phone?”
“Mary.”
By the time I head upstairs, Jamie’s back in bed, but I go into his room anyway. “Sorry for not hanging up right away.”
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even get it. What was she going on about?”
“Never mind. It’s just some stupid idea Mary’s got into her head. That girl has some growing up to do.”
I feel a little bit forgiven, but I’m still in the dark.
The next day, Jamie’s up and dressed and nearly collides with me on my way downstairs.
“I thought you were supposed to stay in bed,” I say.
“It’s impossible with the sun pouring through the window. I can’t explain this, but now that I have permission to be lazy, I feel anything but.”
“Guess what? Jamie’s all better,” I announce as the two of us go into the kitchen for breakfast. I glance back at him, hoping he’ll look better, but he’s still pale in his white shirt and so narrow his trousers hang low on his hips. He needs to punch another hole in his belt.
Mother studies him with her hands on her hips. “Jamie, you go right back up to bed. I’ll take something up to you in a minute. Honestly. You’re a grown man. You would think you’d at least be able to follow the doctor’s advice.”
Jamie and I glance at each other with raised eyebrows.
“I’ve suddenly been promoted,” he says under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” Mother says.
“Ever since Doctor Melvin took all that blood, I’ve felt fine. I think it was just holding me back, too much blood in my system.” His bruises are still a rainbow of colors. He sits down and eats toast and honey for his breakfast.
As I’m leaving for school, he says, “I’ll be fit as a fiddle for Saturday night’s play.”