Dawn of a New Day (24 page)

His thoughts then went to Prue, as they often did. He found that he could picture her in his mind so those memories were clearer than any others. He could call up her strong features, her dark eyes and black hair, and for a time he sat there remembering their days together growing up.

Something suddenly touched his hand. It was wet and cold, and he jerked upright and sat there rigidly. “What's that?”

A muted wuffing sound came, and he realized that it was a dog, a rather large one apparently since his hands had been as high as the crook on his cane. He reached his hand out tentatively and said, “Hello, boy,” and instantly a rough tongue began to lick his hand. Putting the cane aside, he reached his other hand over and found himself stroking a massive, broad head. “Must be a big Lab or something like that. A short-hair, anyhow. What are you doing here, boy?” he said, and the dog again said, “Wuff!” and at once reared up and put his feet on Mark's legs and licked him in the face. Mark had always loved dogs, and he allowed the animal to remain in that position; he stroked him, noting the rather stiff, short fur. He thought of the dogs he had had at home during his youth and muttered little endearments to the huge animal.

Finally a voice said, “Max! Come on! Stop bothering people!”

Reluctantly Mark felt the pressure on his legs disappear, and then the dog was gone. “Maybe when I get settled somewhere I can get one of those guide dogs,” he murmured. “Even if they're no good for guiding, I'd like to have one.”

Time ran on, and twice as he sat there people passed by speaking to him, and he had responded, but they had gone on. He was glad of it, for he had no desire to talk to anyone. After a while he heard a rapid patter of footsteps, and it puzzled him. It sounded like a child, and although he knew children sometimes came to visit, he was somewhat surprised when a youthful voice said, “Hello. What's your name?”

Mark turned his face in the direction of the voice and said, “My name's Mark. What's yours?”

“Heidi. I'm five years old.”

“Are you? Well, I'm twenty years older than you are.”

“That's old!”

Mark grinned despite himself. “I guess it is. What are you doing here, Heidi?”

“My mummy brought me to see my daddy. She's gone inside now, and she told me to wait here.”

Mark felt a small body settle beside him, and turning, he thought he could smell perfume. “You're not wearing perfume, are you?”

“Yes I am. My mummy said I could wear it today. The kind that Daddy likes. What's wrong with you?”

“Oh, I got hurt,” Mark said quickly. “Do you go to school?”

“I go to kindergarten. I brought some books. Maybe you'd like to read one to me.”

Mark felt a book pressed into his hands, and for a moment could not answer. The girl said, “You can read that one. I like it the best of all.”

Mark swallowed, then shook his head. “I'm sorry. I can't do it. I can't read the book for you, Heidi.”

“You mean you can't read?”

“No. That's not what I mean. I can't—” He had trouble getting the words out and felt foolish being so backward with a child that he would never see again. “I can't see. I'm blind.”

“Oh! I didn't know that! Did you get hurt in the war?”

“Yes, I did.”

The child was silent for a moment, then she said, “Well, I'll read it to you, Mark. My mummy's read it to me so much I know it by heart.” Mark felt the book leave his hands, and the child began reading a story about a little train that had difficulty. Something about the little engine that thought he could, thought he could, thought he could. Mark sat there listening as the childish voice went on, and finally the story ended with the little train being successful.

“There! Did you like that?”

“That's a good story.”

“Mummy says that if you try hard enough you can do anything you want, but I don't know if that's right or not.”

“Better listen to your mummy.”

“She says Daddy's going to get well because she's going to ask Jesus to make him well.” The voice hesitated, then Mark felt a small hand come and touch him. Turning his hand over, he held the child's smaller one; after a few minutes she said, “Why don't you ask Jesus to let you see?”

Mark could not answer. A thickness came to his throat, and he had to pause and clear it before he could say, “That sounds like a good idea.”

“Oh, there's my mummy! I've got to go.”

“Thank you for reading the story to me, Heidi.”

“That's all right. Now, you be sure to ask Jesus to let you see.”

Mark sat there, and as the sound of her footsteps diminished, he thought about what she had said. He was shocked to find that there was a hardness in his heart. Although he had been moved by the child's words, he knew that something was different in him. He was not the same man he had been. He had lost some tenderness, some softness, and now there was a hard wall that seemed to surround him as thoroughly inside as the blackness did outside. He rose and tapped his way along the walk, and as he went he kept hearing the child's voice saying, “Why don't you ask Jesus to let you see?”

Dr. James Pennington leaned back in his chair and chewed on the eraser of his yellow pencil. Realizing what he was doing, he looked down with irritation and saw that he had bitten it off. Shaking his head angrily, he tossed the pencil into a wastebasket, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out another from the supply he kept. He tapped the pencil against his open palm and said to the young marine sitting across from him, “Sergeant, I've looked over your X-rays and the reports of all the tests we've made.” He hesitated for a moment, giving Mark a chance to speak, but when only silence met him, he said, “We can't find anything organically wrong with your eyes.”

“Then why can't I see?” Mark demanded, his voice grinding and hard.

Pennington removed the eraser from between his teeth and tapped it on his palm again. The young marine who sat there was the first case that he had ever had like this. Carefully he said, “As I said, we've done all the tests that we can think of, and there's no reason, physically speaking, why you can't see. There's no point doing more tests, but I want you to see Major Franz.”

“The shrink?”

“Well, yes. He is a psychiatrist.”

“No thanks!”

Mark's abruptness caught Pennington's attention. “Don't be a fool, Sergeant! He may be able to help you!”

“I don't think so!”

“You're just being stubborn! Look! Have you ever thought about how many of your buddies didn't get back at all, and here you've—”

“You don't have to tell me that! Every one of my patrol was wiped out! I was the only one left!”

Pennington was shocked by the ferocity in the young marine's voice. He had talked with Stevens twice before, and now as he stared at the young man he was baffled. “You can't blame yourself for that. Now look, I want you to see Major Franz today.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

Pennington hesitated. If Mark Stevens' trouble lay in an area other than physical, he knew that he might be making matters worse by forcing him to see a psychiatrist. “No, it's not an order,” he said. “Just a suggestion, but one I think you should take.”

“I'd rather not.”

For a time Pennington sat there trying to convince Mark Stevens, but he had other patients to see and finally shrugged his shoulders. Looking down, he saw that he had bitten off another eraser and angrily threw it into the wastepaper basket. “All right. Come back to see me next week.”

“What for?” Mark rose and made his way out of the room. He had learned to navigate better in the week that he had been at the hospital, and as he slammed the door behind him, Dr. Pennington shook his head, muttering, “He's carrying a big load, and I don't think he even knows it.”

Mark made his way back to the room and found Oscar listening to Loretta Lynn sing “Stand by Your Man.” “How do you stand that country western mess?” he said.

“You don't like country western music? I thought you was from Arkansas.”

“I like folk music,” Mark said, sitting down on his bed. “But just the titles of those songs are awful.”

“What's awful?”

“That one for instance. What's the name of it?”

“That one? That one is, ‘If I Told You You Had a Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It against Me?'”

Mark grinned despite himself. “You don't see anything wrong with that?”

“No, I don't see nothin' wrong with it!” Oscar shook his head. “You ain't been raised right. Anybody that don't like country music ain't got much goin' for him. Here's a letter for ya. You want me to read it?”

“I guess so.”

Mark sat back and listened to Oscar tear the envelope. “It's from Prue Deforge. That yo main squeeze, Mark?”

“Just read the letter.”

“All right. She say: ‘Dear Mark: I was glad to hear that you had been transferred to the hospital in Chicago. I heard from Jake that you arrived here last week. I've been out of town, but I will be by to see you as soon as I can get there…'”

Oscar read the letter, which was three pages long, and said with admiration, “That's a fine lady you got there, Mark.”

“I don't
have
her!” Mark said sharply.

Oscar looked over quickly and saw the frown on the young marine's face. “You want me to read it again?”

“No.”

“I'll just fold it up then and put it in this here drawer.” As he closed the drawer, he said, “She sounds like a nice lady. Not like some I had.” He waited for Mark to respond but saw that he had lain down on the couch, his face turned upward, his eyes open and unseeing, his mouth hard, and he shook his head thinking,
He sho is a hard case! If I had me a nice lady like that, I don't reckon I'd be as stubborn as he is!

Prudence sat across from Dr. Pennington, listening carefully. When the physician finished his explanation, she asked, “I really don't understand, Doctor. If there's nothing wrong with his eyes, then why can't he see?”

“He refuses to see a psychiatrist, but I think his problem is mental, or perhaps emotional. It certainly isn't physical. He never had any vision trouble before, did he?”

“Why, never! He can see farther than anybody I know, and he was always a great shot in the woods while hunting.”

“Well, all I can say is physically we can't find anything wrong with him. Have you talked to him since he was wounded?”

“No. I've written him many letters, but he stopped answering them. Of course, if he can't see, he couldn't write.” She was sitting tensely in the seat, and there was an urgency in her dark eyes that riveted the doctor's attention. She leaned forward and said, “Can't you do
anything
for him?” He shook his head helplessly.

“Maybe you could help him,” Pennington said. “These things are peculiar. It's not my field, you understand, but I've got the feeling that he feels terrible because all of his buddies were killed on that last patrol he was on. We've seen that before a time or two and never saw it take this form, but emotionally it's hard on men. You know how it is, I'm sure, how close men get on the field of battle. And then when they lose a buddy, somehow they get to thinking it should have been them, and then they're guilty, or think they are.”

“But what could I do?”

“I'm not sure—perhaps nothing. He needs love, and assurance, and all I can say is it will take the good Lord himself to bring him around.”

Prue rose after a few more minutes of conversation, thanked the doctor, and then left his office. She made her way down the hall, and when she got to Mark's room, she hesitated. She had not seen Mark in a long time, and a whole war stood between them. Still, he was the same Mark, and lifting her head, she knocked on the door.