The recovery section of Charlie Med was subdivided with plywood and sheets into individual curtained bays for convalescing soldiers. Black wanted to rest at his hootch, but the doctors told him no way.
He’d lost a significant amount of blood in the twenty-four hours between being shot and his first contact with the medics at Vega. The bullet had made a lucky pass-through, but his wound was fairly messed up from lack of prompt treatment and inadvisable physical activity. He had been severely dehydrated when found by Shannon, and the doctors told him he had suffered multiple significant concussions. He rated a bed in the hospital for a few days.
When they began asking questions about how he’d suffered his injuries, he kept his answers as perfunctory as possible. What information he did provide was so bizarre and confounding that they invariably shook their heads and waved him off, leaving him for the inevitable investigators to talk to.
Never mind, I don’t even want to know. U.S. nine-millimeter pistol wound, got it. Banged your head falling onto a stone floor, got it. Wandered in the woods with no water, got it.
Then they would leave, which was fine with him. By the end of the first morning he was tired of the place.
“Goddamn, L.T., I thought I told you!”
The violinmaker.
“Sorry,” he replied, grinning.
She’d just shown up for a shift, with a pack slung over her shoulder. She’d seen his name on the incoming roster the night before.
She grabbed a stool and peppered him with gruff questions about the aid he’d received from the medics in the field and the treatment he’d gotten once he’d made it to Charlie Med. Since he didn’t remember much about the first part, those questions were easy to answer.
When she’d satisfied herself that his care was not being neglected, she sat back against the plywood partition and looked at him, brow furrowed.
“What the hell, man? What happened out there?”
He looked down at his sheets, saying nothing and shaking his head.
She eyed him another moment then shrugged, letting it go.
“Anyway, I brought you some stuff,” she said, digging in the pack. “Continue the classical portion of your woeful musical education.”
Out came a portable CD player with an expensive-looking pair of headphones and a stack of discs. She handed them over and Black commenced thumbing through them.
“Charles Ives . . . ?” he mumbled.
The violinmaker rolled her eyes.
“American,” she said. “Everyone knows about him now, so you should know about him.”
He kept flipping.
He held up a disc reproachfully.
“I know who Beethoven is,” he complained.
“You’ve heard his Fifth Symphony?”
“C’mon,” he said. “Da-da-da-DUM.”
“Hey, I don’t know, man. There are some serious holes in your music.”
Black looked away.
“We were sheltered.”
She eyed him sidelong, waiting for more, but he offered no more.
“I bet,” she said, shaking her head. “Anyway, no, you haven’t heard it. Not till you hear that recording.”
She pointed at the CD in his hand.
“Wiener Philharmoniker?” he read. “Carlos Kleiber?”
“Veener, not Weener,” she corrected, exasperated. “Vienna Philharmonic. 1975.”
She pointed at the headphones.
“Put it on in the dark with those on. You’ll see.”
“Thanks.”
“No sweat,” she said, rising to go. “I’ll check on you during my shifts. And if you decide you wanna tell me what the hell happened, I’m around.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
She went. She came by daily to check on him and break his balls about one thing or another, but she didn’t ask about the Valley.
She must have told Kourash he was at Charlie Med. He made his way over from the Green Beans Coffee the next day, fretting over Black like a doting parent and generally wringing his hands at the threadbare condition of his young friend.
“I am sorry, my brother,” he told Black sadly. “I wished that you do not go in this war.”
Sergeant Cousins came by to visit, which was good of him. Smoke Toma didn’t show, which was probably for the best.
—
Late on the third day, the person Black had most hoped for and most dreaded walked in.
He appeared unannounced and lingered in the doorway a long time. His arm was bandaged but he didn’t look bad physically. When he lowered his angular frame into a chair, Black saw the dark circles under his eyes and the ashen pallor of his skin. He wondered if he looked that bad himself.
He sat in the chair with his elbows on his knees, glaring at a far point on the floor. When he finally spoke it was in a voice so hollow and gray it startled Black. He hardly recognized it.
“What the hell,” Merrick said, eyes unmoving, “is the end of the world?”
Black felt very tired.
He pointed at the wheelchair in the corner.
“Give me that thing.”