Chapter 43

Business at the restaurant was beyond Kitty’s dreams. A steady stream of patrons dined at Eclipse, many looking for a night of pleasure without thinking of the ever-present war. It was a double blessing: it kept Kitty’s mind occupied, and it brought out the best in Dermot. He loved going to work every day and earning a paycheck. He proved himself capable at setting tables, cleaning up, and performing odd jobs. His conscientiousness and his sunny disposition became an asset. “Where’s Dermot?” patrons would inquire when they arrived.

Kitty and Dermot closed the place around midnight and drove home. The first thing she did was race to the mail. Months without news only made her more certain each night that tonight there would surely be a letter.

One night, arriving home more tired than usual, she let Dermot get the mail for her. Her heart leaped when her brother ran to her, waving a letter. “Kitty, is this the one you want?”

She scanned the return address. “It’s from Charles.” By the light of the oil lamp in the kitchen, she read:

Dear Kitty,

How glad I am to snatch a few moments to write. The fighting has been intense. I am working in a church that has been made into a field hospital. How I miss Boston General, with all the latest equipment. Here, we have to make do with what we have at hand, which never seems enough. The wounded keep coming, and even those who manage not to catch a bullet get trench fever or trench foot, the like of which I have never seen before. The only good thing is that I think we are close to winning, but what a sacrifice. I’m glad I can do some small thing for these brave men.

How are you and Doughboy? The restaurant sounds as though it is keeping you busy, yet you always find time to write. Thank you for being so faithful. I miss you so.

Love,

Charles

Kitty was overjoyed to hear from Charles, yet hearing from him only intensified the long silence from Vittorio. He is not dead, she told herself. Why would God have us affirm our love on the pier that day if he will not return to me? It’s a sign that we will be together again. “I know he will come back,” she said aloud to drown out the one thought that she could not face, that they had met to say goodbye.

Two days later, Kitty received official notice that Charles would arrive home in two weeks.

“Dermot, wait till you hear the good news. Charles is coming home! What a surprise. I wonder why he isn’t needed any more. I think it’s a sign that the war is winding down.” She beamed as she told her brother.

“Vittorio, too?” he asked.

“Soon,” she said, but the rising fear in the back of her throat told her that was only a hope.

Kitty made arrangements for the staff and Dermot to handle the restaurant without her the day she was to meet Charles. “We’ll probably visit so Charles can see the restaurant,” she told them, “but I don’t want to have any plans, in case he just wants to stay at home.”

For two weeks, she cleaned the house until everything shone. The morning of the day she was to meet him, she was up early, cutting late-blooming roses to place in every room of the house. As she placed a vase in the main guest room, her gaze fell upon the bed that had been their wedding gift. She quickly closed her mind to what might have been.

Kitty thought she’d get to the pier early to assure a good spot for watching the men disembark, but she was not early enough. An enormous crowd was already assembled on the pier, milling about, excitement charging like a racehorse through those waiting. The excitement erupted in cheers as the ship sailed into view. The crowd grew impatient, shouting and waving until it finally docked, a ponderous gray bird, a hulking mass that dwarfed its human cargo.

She expected to see more men on deck, smiling and waving. A siren cut through the noisy excitement, and the crowd parted as several ambulances pulled up to the gangplank. Kitty turned to a young woman next to her. “I guess they have some soldiers on board who’ve been wounded, poor things.”

The woman looked at her quizzically. “This is the U.S.S. Hope.”

“Yes?”

“This is a hospital ship. I expect nearly everyone on board is wounded.”

Kitty’s stomach tightened, but she quickly reassured herself. Of course. Charles is fine; he’s needed to tend the wounded.

Little by little, she managed to inch her way to the front, close enough to make out the faces of the men being carried or wheeled off the ship. She watched an unending succession of wounded, on crutches, in wheelchairs, on stretchers. The devastation was more than she had imagined. How many more Charles must have tended. No wonder he wrote of the horror of it.

She craned her neck. Men came off in twos and threes, helping each other. Most likely Charles has to stay until the end, until the last wounded man has left, she told herself. After more than an hour, the crowd began to thin, and she moved right to the foot of the gangplank. Still the wounded came. She strained to recognize each man, willing the next one to be Charles. Until the man on the stretcher… She stopped breathing. He was thin, so thin his cheeks were sunken and sickly pale. But the thinning blond hair and the blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were unmistakable.

“Charles!” she cried, rushing forward to greet him.

He lifted his hand and closed it around hers, smiling. “I came home to you.”

“Oh, you did, you did. You’re home safe now.” She bent over and kissed him, tears blurring her vision. She wiped them away with her hand. “Let me look at you. A little thinner…”

“Not enough of your good cooking,” he joked.

“I’ll remedy that.”

“They’re taking me to the hospital. I’ve asked for Boston General, and they’ve agreed. Just a checkup, pretty routine, before I can go home.”

“Oh.” Her face fell.

“Now, don’t be concerned. Everything will be fine. I’ll be out in no time.”

She summoned the courage to ask him, “Is it a wound?”

“Basically, that’s it, a shot in the leg.” He tried to point to his leg, but his hand dropped limply.

“I’ll ride in the ambulance with you,” she said. She sat next to his stretcher in the ambulance, talking softly, not relinquishing his hand. She felt the need to warm those hands which had helped so many people and now seemed so weak.

He had lost none of his spirit and wanted to know every detail of what she did at home. He asked about Doughboy and wanted to meet Dermot as soon as he could. He said nothing about the war, and Kitty did not ask, knowing that he would talk about it when he was ready. She watched Charles wince with every jolt of the ambulance.

“You’ll get special care at Boston General. Your colleagues will be happy you’re home,” she said. As the ambulance reached the building, the staff stood out in welcome, waving and clapping and calling his name.

“You’re a hero.”

He smiled. “It’s so good to be back.”

“I wish you were home.”

He lifted his hand to her face. “I see home in your eyes.”

She bent over, kissed him gently, and laid her cheek down on his hand.

Kitty stayed late with Charles but finally had to leave near midnight to pick up Dermot at the restaurant.

“He’s not well,” she told her brother. “But he wants to meet you.”“

“That’s good,” he said, but seeing the concern on Kitty’s face, he looked up at her. “Is he going to…die?”

“I don’t know, dear. I have lots of questions to ask the doctors as soon as I can.”

****

“Arthur, is Charles going to get better?” Talking with their friend Dr. Winthrop, she knew she could be direct.

Arthur rubbed his chin, and didn’t answer her right away. “It’s hard to say. We are hopeful. He has the best of care here, and your love to come home to. That can be a tremendous incentive.”

“Perhaps I’m naive, but a wound in the leg shouldn’t be life-threatening, should it?”

“That’s all he told you?”

“He hasn’t spoken of the war or his wound at all. Going home is the only thing on his mind.”

“From what we learned, he was transferred from the relative safety of a field hospital to an R.A.P., a Regimental Aid Post. It’s no more than a dugout in the forward trenches, right in the thick of the fighting. That’s where he was shot.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“He was lying there in the field, exposed, certain he was going to be killed. One of the men he knew pulled him to the safety of the trench and saved his life.”

“God bless him, whoever he is.” She persisted, wanting to know his chances. “So he should recover?”

Arthur took her hand. “Well, Kitty, he lay in the trench for a day or more, he’s not sure how long, until the fighting stopped and he could be carried out. The mud in the trenches carries a bacteria. It gets into the wounds of many of the men, Charles too, I’m afraid. It’s called gangrene, and it can be deadly.”

Kitty lowered her head and cried softly.

Arthur slid his arm around her. “You know we are doing everything possible for him. If anyone will make it, it’s Charles. You have to have faith.”

“I do, I do. It’s just that he looks so weak.”

“It’s up to you to give him the support he needs. I believe in medicine, but I also believe in the healing power of love.”

Kitty reduced her hours at the restaurant, only returning to close up there late at night, so she could spend all her time with Charles. She did her best to make him comfortable and to occupy him with news and presents from home. She brought in the rose pillow she had needlepointed and left it on the chair next to the bed, and miraculously found a hardy rose blooming in the winter garden and placed it in a vase on his bedside table, next to a picture of her and Doughboy.

She was aware of every little incident at home or in the restaurant that might divert him, and she often embellished them until she had Charles laughing, a spark of his old self.

She did everything she could for him. She did love him; how could she not? But her love for him was a familial love. She had come to know him well—his tastes, his passions, his fears. He was a beloved family member to her. But it was Vittorio who was her first and only love.

She brought Dermot to the hospital, and to Kitty’s delight, they liked each other. After initial shyness, Dermot, encouraged by her, told Charles his own version of events at home. Dermot’s job at the restaurant had given him new confidence and, while he loved visiting with Charles, he relished the importance of leaving him to “run the restaurant,” as he put it.

Charles had been stable for weeks when he developed a fever. His usually pale face red and perspiring, he stared at her with glassy eyes. Kitty made arrangements for Dermot and Doughboy and stayed with him day and night. After a week, the fever subsided. She sat by his bedside, dozing at dawn when Charles spoke to her.

“Dear, you look so tired.”

“I’ve been staying with you.”

“I wasn’t able to tell you, but I knew it. I could feel your presence like a rose beside me.” His health seemed to improve after that, but he still was not allowed to go home.

Buoyed by his improvement, Kitty spent more time at the restaurant, catching up on neglected business. On especially late nights at Eclipse, she sent Dermot home in the evening, and she stayed until after midnight to work on the books.

She had just sent Dermot home and was about to go to her office when she noticed the night sky. It was unusually bright, and she stepped outside to get a better look at the stars, a glittering, crackling, crystal galaxy dancing in the winter night. She stood there, her arms pressing the wool sleeves of her dress to her, hardly aware of the cold. The night was enchanted. A quick gust of wind blew a lock of hair in front of her eyes, and as she lifted her hand to brush it back, she thought she heard someone call her name.

She turned to see a figure racing up the street, waving and calling her name. He ran effortlessly, with the grace of a natural athlete. As he passed under the gaslight, she saw him clearly, a tall, slender man in uniform, a joyous smile lighting his handsome face. Her heart leapt before she could make her feet move. It was the moment she had dreamed about.

“Vittorio!” She began to run toward him. “You’re alive!” He caught her and swept her up in his arms. Her head back, her hair coming undone, she laughed and cried as he swung her around, the dainty ties of her shoes not touching the ground, the stars a spinning crystal canopy above them. She could feel the rough wool of his uniform against her, the softness of his neck as she locked her hands around it, his face so near, not wanting to let go, lost in the bliss of him.

“Vittorio, you came back. I was afraid you were dead.”

“Cara Kitty, I had to come back to you.”

Still in his arms, their faces moved as close as a whisper. Suddenly conscious of what they were doing, Kitty pulled back, and Vittorio put her down. Silence came between them, of unspoken longing, of damned propriety, of vows that bound the conscience but not the heart.

“Are you all right? They told me you were missing in action.”

“I was wounded, but I’m fine. Those weeks in the hospital, the thought of you kept me going. I had to live to be with you again. It was meant to be.” He pointed to the word “Eclipse” etched on the window.

“Every time I touched that name,” she said, “it was a prayer. I couldn’t look at it without picturing you coming home.”

He threw his arm around her. “Why are we standing out here? You’ll catch pneumonia without your coat.”

She led him into the warmth of the restaurant. The gaslight cast a glow as they wove their way to a corner table, away from the eyes of the passersby. She poured two glasses of wine and sat next to him. In the flickering glow of the gaslight, she studied his face. With tenderness, she saw in his eyes the remembrance of war and the knowledge of how fragile life can be. The loss of a few pounds accented his cheekbones. She couldn’t help herself. She reached up and touched the lines that etched his cheeks when he smiled. He let her hand rest there a moment, feeling its softness, then took it in his hand and gently kissed her palm, a kiss of promise.

His eyes could not get enough of looking at her. They toasted each other, laughed, cried, drank in each other like starvelings, afraid they would never have their fill.

“You knew to come here.”

“I got all your letters. They were my lifeline, but I had no chance to write. I didn’t want to go to your home because of Charles. How is he?”

“He came home weeks ago, but he’s been in the hospital. He was wounded in the leg, and developed a condition—I’m sure you know of it—gangrene.”

Vittorio winced and put his hand over hers. “I’ve seen many who’ve had it.”

“I’m with him every day, then come here late. I have a wonderful staff and Dermot, who keep things running well here.”

They talked until dawn, warmed by the glow of gaslight and the reality that they were here, together, a touch away.

“I must go,” she said. “I worry about Dermot.”

“I’ll see you home, maybe say hello to him.”

Kitty shook her head. “He loves you, and I don’t want to upset him.” She looked away. “We can’t be together, you know. Tonight was magic, but I have my commitment. I owe him so much. Please understand.”

Vittorio took her face in his hands. “I have waited all this time for you. I can wait as long as it takes.” He leaned over, and her heart began to pound, so near were they to a kiss. Instead, he took her hand and held it in both of his.

Tears came to her eyes. “You are always in my heart.”

“Some day, I know, I will have all of you.”

****

Kitty spent her days torn between knowing that her love was home safe and the desire to have him, now and completely. Years before, when she had made her marriage vows, she knew their seriousness. Though nearly impossible, she kept her word. She continued to visit Charles at the hospital every day. With growing awareness, she saw the slow but steady deterioration of this good man.

As she left the room one day, the doctor called her aside. She touched his arm. “I’m afraid of that look on your face.”

He nodded. “The infection has gotten such a strong hold throughout his body that we can’t combat it.”

“Arthur, no.”

He put his arms around her. “He wants to go home. I think this is the time.”

Kitty stared off into space. “I have tried to prepare myself. In my heart of hearts, I knew, but there is no preparation. He is so young, so good…”

“With everything to live for, but Kitty, that is the awful thing about being a doctor. The senselessness of death is a humbling experience because we’re powerless before it.”

She buried her face in her hands.

“At home,” he said, “you can do so much for him.”

Charles came home on December tenth, a month after the armistice was signed.

“I’m doubly happy today,” he said, holding her hand in the ambulance as they rode home. “I’m happy for all the fighting men that there will be no more wounds, no more death, only healing. And I’m happy for myself that I can go home while so many men could not.”

Charles’ return home had such a beneficial effect on him that for days it seemed as though he might yet recover. But eventually, the disease did its deadly work and he deteriorated day by day, then moment by moment.

As she sat beside the bed, the crisp winter sun angling through the window, sending bright shafts across the rose coverlet, Charles reached for her hand.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said weakly.

“I love it when the winter sun streams in,” she said.

“There are things…” He stopped to get his breath. “Things I want to tell you.”

“Please, try to save your strength.”

“No, I must.”

Alarmed that he was trying to raise himself up, Kitty knelt on the floor and leaned her head near him as he spoke.

“I want to thank you,” he whispered.

“Thank me?”

“You have been the best wife any man could have.”

“No, Charles, I should thank you. You have been wonderful.”

He waved aside her protest. “I haven’t spoken of the war, but there is one thing I want to tell you. It’s about…” His chest heaved with the effort. “When I was wounded.”

She looked up in alarm, but he was determined to go on.

“After I was shot, a German soldier made it right to the trench where I lay, next to the wounded that I had been tending. He stood above me, his rifle pointed right at my head. He intended to shoot us all. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Kitty squeezed his hand as she imagined the terror he’d faced.

“From…out of nowhere…a soldier jumped him. It was hand-to-hand combat until he wrestled the rifle away. The German fled like a frightened animal. And then the soldier helped me and the other wounded out of the trench, and at great risk, he carried us one by one to safety.”

“We owe him so much,” she said quietly.

Charles lifted himself on an elbow. “That soldier was Private Vittorio Rossi.”

Kitty’s heart jumped, her hand going limp in his.

“I asked him why he saved my life. You know what he said?” He coughed from the effort to speak but waved away her protest. “He said, ‘She would hate me if I didn’t.’ ”

She nodded, her heart filled, not trusting herself to speak.

He turned away so he couldn’t see her face. “I know you love each other.”

“Charles, I married you.”

He appeared not to hear. “I’ve always done what’s best for you. Even…” His voice became fainter. “Even in dying.”

Kitty wanted to protest, to cry, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but she was mute. Charles had said it all.

“Dear,” he whispered, “help me to sit up.”

She fluffed up extra pillows and slid them behind his back. Then her hands followed, under his arms, and pulled him to a sitting position. He was too sick of late to eat much, and his brittle bones felt so fragile.

“Sit next to me.”

She climbed beside him and held his hand. Through half-closed eyes, he looked out at the city laid before them, glittering in the winter sun.

He smiled. “Like a king…” he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Kitty felt for a pulse. There was none.

“Oh, Charles. Dear Charles,” she sobbed. “In my own way, I did love you.”