The windows of the office were open, exposing Ambrose to early morning sounds, birds and waves and the low horn of a sloop approaching the wharf. The doctor had on a new cravat. Something seemed to bother him about it. He kept pulling at the knot. Ambrose watched him, his legs crossed politely. The doctor intimidated him with his British accent and his mannered ways.
“I notice you’ve been spending time with that woman,” Dr. Cowell said.
“Iris?”
“Mrs. Dunleavy, yes.”
“We play checkers.”
“And you have conversations?”
“Yes.”
Something about that answer seemed to rankle the doctor. “About what?” he asked, his tone suddenly sharp.
Ambrose’s foot began to jiggle. He wasn’t sure what he had said wrong. “Everyday things.”
“She’s a married woman.”
“I know.”
The doctor began to wind his pocket watch. He seemed troubled by something that winding it only halfway cured. “We encourage conversation between ladies and gentlemen here. The social structure of the outside world is emulated, in the hopes that you may return to it. So you’ve done nothing wrong. My concern is that you might start forming an attachment with her based upon some idealization of the situation. The truth is, the only reason that you find yourself in proximity with her on this beautiful island is that you’re both thoroughly mad.”
Ambrose looked away. Thoroughly mad. The British accent made the words more damning. He didn’t feel mad. Not at this particular moment.
“Do you find her comely?”
The question sounded accusatory, and Ambrose retreated. The doctor was making him feel stupid. Stupid and slow and completely outmanned. He found her attractive, to be sure. Beautiful and rare as a good night’s sleep.
“She isn’t plain,” he said in a measured voice.
“A woman’s a very complicated distraction. In order to concentrate on your path back to wellness, I would urge you toward the simpler things. Colors and shapes. Warmth of the sun on your face. Taste of citrus. Texture of sand.”
Ambrose nodded slowly.
“You’ve made quite a bit of progress.”
“And I’m so grateful, you know I am. I think you’re a genius.”
A brief look of pleasure came to the doctor’s face.
“Can I still sit with her at the checkers table?”
The doctor thought about this several moments. He took his handkerchief out and began to polish his glasses. Ambrose’s foot jiggled harder. With an effort, he steadied it.
“I suppose you can,” the doctor said at last. “As long as that is all it is. Nice conversations with a married woman. It’s therapeutic and yes, even a beautiful woman can be part of the cure. As long as you realize you have no rights to her, or she to you.”
Ambrose left the office feeling chastened by the great doctor and determined to think of simple things. Blue of the sky. The smell of honeysuckle. Oranges. Yarn. Birds. Organ keys. Ears of a dog. Pages of a Bible. Soggy center of a sandwich.
Sunlight on a dress.
She was just easy to talk to. He had not enjoyed that kind of company since back in the war, after the new recruit, Seth, appeared during an unreasonable period of rain.
It fell from the sky in drops big as plum pits. Leaked through woolen uniforms, plastered hair against heads, and soaked the face of Jefferson Davis from the backs of playing cards. Horses shook their manes and tried to shake off their riders when thunder rolled. Drills continued during pauses in the deluge, but the rain would come again, preventing campfires and sending the temperatures plunging.
The new recruit stuck out his hand.
“My name’s Seth.”
“Ambrose.” The boy’s shell jacket was too wide in the shoulders and his belt was too loose, although he had cinched it to the very last hole. He said he was eighteen. He looked younger. Something about his unsteadiness and shyness of gaze drew Ambrose to him. The boy seemed always watchful, anticipating the approach of strangers even in a resting state, like the way a cat pricks up its ears before it opens its eyes.
“William,” Ambrose said once to the old flag bearer, “you notice anything funny about that new boy?”
“Which one?”
“Seth.”
“Looks too young to fight.”
“Besides that.”
William shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I can barely tell what’s funny about me.”