Today, he was a kid again, a three-year-old in a candy store, stepping into the canteen’s smorgasbord of sound and smells; voices hummed and buzzed from small groups of patients and visitors. Animated chatter dipped in and out of their mouthfuls of food and slurps of coffee. There was a time when he would have turned up his nose at this plebian buffet and strutted off to a cuisine more befitting his station. Not today. No Coq Au Vin with bacon slices, pearl onions, parsley, clovers and roughly chopped mushrooms served with a medium weight Burgundy to excite his pallet. Today, the hearty smells of homemade chili, fresh vegetable soup, and garlic bread overpowered any effete urges left in him.
Yesterday he dined on the psych ward dayroom with a tray of lukewarm mashed potatoes, tasteless marbles that passed for green peas, wilted lettuce fringed in black crud, anemic-looking meat covered with watery gravy and coffee he feared had already started to eat away at his plastic mug. That was yesterday. This was today. Before him lay more food than God should give an army—German potato salad bathed in spices, crisp vegetable and green salads, freshly sliced cold cuts, and ready-made sandwiches of every shape and size. There were three rows of fruit juices, individual plates of Kaiser rolls, stacks of wheat and rye bread, chocolate and banana puddings and fruit pies that smelled like they had just popped out of the oven. The menu of calories stretched clear across the café.
Lundeen stared opened mouth in spite of his breeding, his bushy eyebrows twitching in delight. In bygone days, such ogling would have labeled him “gauche” and “caveman-esque,” even a bit of a pansy. He was different now.
Who the hell are you, Lumpy? Are you that withered man looking back in the mirror when you’re smearing your face with lather?
The VA buffet beckoned to him, a luring reprieve from institutional food. Honest-to-goodness potato salad not made of plastic. Stretching up to his full six foot height and stroking his shaved head in anticipation of an adventure off the ward, he sensed a kernel of long-lost pride, if only for a moment.
Then was then. Today is today. I finally got off the psych ward . Small steps count. He was still in the game.
Minor leagues . . . no World Series yet . . . but not striking out.
Leonard moved toward the start of the cafeteria line, reached for a tray, and queued up at the salad bar. Two women in front of him were chattering about a clothing sale at Macy’s, and then turned their attention to the freshness of the spinach leaves. Both seemed transfixed by the food, stroking it with their eyes, savoring every detail.
This is like lining up to see the Mona Lisa.
He had done just that, when he was a student at the Theological College at Catholic University. The Mona Lisa had been on tour at the National Art Gallery, and he had waited two hours to take a 30-second glimpse of the smiling lady.
That was then, this is now .
These women were holding up the line. They were taking more time to scan a menu than Michelangelo had spent painting a masterpiece. Plautus must have been standing in a cafeteria line when he said, “Mulier profecto natast ex ipsa Mora—Woman is surely the daughter of Delay.”
The woman closest to him had a look about her. Her short, auburn hair curled inward toward a sharp jaw. Not one hair out of place. A hint of lipstick blended with the pale shading in her makeup, as ebony-framed glasses showcased her steel-blue eyes. Her flowing gestures, cutting a wide swath in the cafeteria line, staked out a claim: “This is mine.” Her crisp speech crackled with authority. The clipped shrillness of her laughter sounded harsh and joyless. Leonard read her posturing as a sharp announcement that she was cool, calculating and “in charge.”
The only thing missing is her black habit and a crucifix.
The second woman, wearing a white, starched dress totally free of wrinkles, reached around the first to get some bleu cheese dressing. As she was scooping up potato salad, she bumped him. At first it didn’t feel like much of a bump, but then it began resonating inside of him . . . a gut reaction that he had felt too many times before . . . a piece of useless furniture being pushed aside. Just like years ago in the seminary and in the Marine Corps when . . . His senses jumped to hyper-alert.
What’s that in her ear? A hearing aid . . . or a transmitter of some kind ?
It was hard to tell. She was smaller and now looked like she was dressed in some kind of uniform. Perhaps a nurse, but that could be a disguise. She moved her arms with measured determination, like a surgeon posing to cut through necrotic tissue. Her gestures fell short of pushing Lundeen aside, but the emotional contrails of her movement sucked him into her backwash. Slipping in front of him, she snatched up the spoon in the bleu cheese bowl and began stirring the dressing in an odd sort of way. Some signal, perhaps? Turning her head slightly, she glimpsed at him, and then snapped her attention back to the buffet.
What is she looking at? What did she see? Why was she afraid to look directly at me?
Lundeen racked his brain for some explanation.
V.C.? Infiltrators? Planted here by someone? The Devil? My bishop?
Lundeen froze. Straining to be inconspicuous in picking up bamboo salad tongs from the lettuce bowl, he tried to hide them at his side in case he needed to use them as a weapon. He fought for some understanding of the strange behavior of these women.
Why are they here? Who are they looking for? My god, what do they know . . . about me?
He shuddered. Licking his lips, Leonard stiffened. His hands began to shake. Clenching his left fist into a tight ball of muscle, his body began remembering. An old, familiar feeling surged up his right hand as he squeezed the bamboo tongs like his life depended on it. Poising to strike, Leonard felt his thoughts sliding into a terrifying mental prison, with fragmented images of suffocation tearing at his consciousness. He began choking, like he was drowning in something awful. Breathing in panicked spurts, he began flailing his arms.
They’ve caught me.
Feelings of hopeless terror grabbed his mind.
The Enemy! Spies, hell-bent on discovering my sins! They’re going to cage me up like an animal!
Lundeen screamed inside himself for some shred of reality to balance him, to keep him from spinning out of control.
How could they have found me here? They tracked me down.
Then it struck him, like a rat drowning in a cage sinking below the water.
They’re checking my records. They know my history. They’re going to interrogate and kill me!
A flash of rage shot through him and leapt to the tip of his tongue. Trying to speak, Lieutenant Lundeen felt his words mired down in tar. Sensing a hand touch his shoulder, his body kicked into hyper-drive, just like in Nam. In the distant shadows of his brain he could hear Dr. McGinnis reminding him.
“Remember the deal. No matter how crazy you feel, you’ve promised to act normal. No matter what you are thinking, seeing or hearing, you’ve got to behave. Otherwise . . . ”
Then shouting blocked out his thoughts. Loud, piercing, frantic, desperate shouts. His shouts.