How Can You Mend This Purple Heart (23 page)

“I don't want to go back inside,” Big Al said, lighting up another Kool.

“We got to go in sometime. People are going to wonder about us after a while,” I said, trying to be funny.

“No, Shoff, I really don't want to go back inside there.”

“Okay with me, Al. Whatever you want. We can sit here the rest of our lives if you want to.”

“I wish she hadn't been so nice to me. Ain't no way I'm going to meet another woman that can make me feel like she did.”

“I think there's women out there, Al. It just takes what it took tonight to find them.”

“Yeah, what's that?”

“Pure fucking luck.”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe it is pure fucking luck.”

Big Al flicked his half-smoked cigarette down toward my feet; I stood up and casually twisted the fire out of it with the sole of my shoe.

“C'mon, Shoff, get me inside. I gotta piss.”

The Ambush

ALCOHOL HAD BECOME
the drug of choice for most of us on Q Ward. Pain pills had been reduced from 250-milligram doses to 100 milligrams, or from Darvon to Tylenol with codeine in low doses. The number of pills allowed per week was cut in half, too. You didn't get buzzed every day. You simply took more pills at one time but less often.

Except for Sunday afternoons, drinking on Q was rare. The difficulty of getting a cab outside the hole and the low pay kept most of us on the ward until Friday and Saturday nights.

A Marine who had been on L Ward transferred onto Q, and Moose agreed to let him take a bunk in the far back corner of the ward. Lance Corporal Steven Ramsey never said much, but we got to know each other through small talk and the occasional sharing of a joint on the back steps.

He wasn't like the other Marines on Q. He was shy, a little aloof, and he didn't share the deep-rooted allegiance of being a Marine. He wasn't a loner, but he would take off through the hole every chance he could. He spent a lot of evenings away from the hospital—and he drank a lot.

He came from an affluent family in northern Philadelphia, and his parents sent him money every week. He was sure it was their way of not having to visit or, worse yet, their way of keeping him from coming home on weekends.

He had already embarrassed the family twice—first by turning down a scholarship to Temple, then by joining the Marines. His older brother had done what was expected—a degree in political science and now law school.

Steven Ramsey knew even before he started his first semester he wasn't ready for college. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. He just couldn't get past the boredom and the fact that he was forced to do it. He dropped out three weeks into his second semester, and he and his dad had another one of their talks. They were never really their talks; they were always lectures from the old man.

Maybe a stint in the Marine Corps was the thing to do. It would show the bastard that chasing money wasn't the only way to live a life and earn respect.

Steven Ramsey lost his right leg below the knee and could have left the hospital and the Marine Corps four or five weeks ago. He pushed the limits of what his half leg and stump could take. The abuse of wearing his plastic leg for hours on end and walking without support from crutches or a cane kept the stump weakened and raw. It wouldn't heal, and his intentional neglect kept it that way. Warnings from the PT officer hadn't fazed him.

Where the hell was he to go from here?

One Monday, he staggered onto Q Ward just a little after midnight from an evening of heavy drinking. He was so wasted he had groped his way in the dark for a bunk on two other wards before finding Q. He was slurring words no one could make out. As he stumbled down the ward, he got louder and louder. Several guys woke up and hollered at the voice in the dark.

“Hey man, we're trying to sleep here!”

“What's wrong with you?”

“C'mon, man, hold it down!”

It only emboldened Steven Ramsey, and he began shouting at the top of his lungs. I got up in the dark and helped him to his bunk, where he passed out and slept until almost noon.

The next night the same thing happened—drunken, loud, boisterous, slurry nothingness coming from the shy, quiet, unassuming Marine.

This time, the objections were more forceful.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Are you stupid or something?”

“I'm gonna shut you up if you can't do it yourself!”

Steven Ramsey continued down the ward, yelling at the top of his lungs. Ski and I groped through the darkened space and once again got him into bed.

The third night, it happened again.

Steven Ramsey was halfway down the ward, yelling and slurring obscenities like a madman. Five or six guys had been waiting, and they were going to teach this guy a lesson.

Chairs went screeching across the floor. The table crashed into the foot of my bunk. The sounds of plastic feet thudding on the floor and hollow, echoing pops as canes and fists and the ends of crutches came down on Steven Ramsey from the concealment of the darkened ward.

“Take this, motherfucker!”

“This'll shut you the fuck up!”

“You won't do this again, dumbass!”

It was over in a matter of seconds. Someone hit the light switch next to the side doors and the overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered on. Everyone had scattered like cockroaches and rushed to the cover of their own bunks.

Steven Ramsey lay on the floor in a bloody mess.

His nose was broken, his lips were cut wide open, and a gash about an inch and a half long went lengthways across his left eyebrow. We couldn't tell, but it looked as though his right arm had been broken. His knuckles and forearms were bloody from his attempts to stop the blows to his head and chest. His right pant leg was empty. Someone had pulled the artificial half leg from Steve Ramsey's stump and threw it against the side door about eight feet away.

“God dammit!” I screamed. “He didn't deserve this! He's one of you! Look what the fuck you've done! C'mon! Take a good look, God dammit! Look at him!”

Ski slid his leg on and limped as quickly as he could into the shower room with a pillowcase in hand. He came out with it dripping wet and began pressing it against Steven's battered face. Moose and Earl Ray were reaching down from their sitting positions in their wheelchairs, trying to comfort the Marine as much as possible.

Bobby Mac, Ski, and I lifted Steven Ramsey off the floor and dropped his limp body into a wheelchair. Bobby Mac went over to the side doors, picked up Ramsey's leg, and threw it on his bunk.

“You motherfuckers didn't have to beat him so bad!” Bobby Mac yelled down the ward. “God dammit, ain't this some shit!”

Steven Ramsey thrashed his drunken and bleeding head, spitting blood and slurring disconnected syllables and vowels as we wheeled him passed his attackers. “Take a good fucking look!” I shouted one last time. “He's one of you!”

Steven Ramsey was passed out when Ski and I got him to emergency sick bay.

“How did this happen?” the ER doctor demanded.

“We don't dknow, sir,” Ski answered him, giving me a quick glance. “He came onto the ward like theese.”

“He's taken a pretty damn good beating. How the hell did he get past the guardhouse like this? Where had he been?”

“We don't know that either, sir,” I said. “He usually goes out on his own.”

“Where's his wristband, his dog tags?” the doctor asked.

“His name is Steven Ramsey,” I said. “He always leaves those in his locker when he goes out.”

The doctor rummaged through Steven's pants pockets and yanked out a wallet.

“Well, at least he carries his Marine Corps ID,” he scoffed. “There must be at least three months' worth of pay in here. Whatever it was, they didn't want his money.”

The doctor and corpsman stitched up Steven's left eyebrow, his upper lip and his right cheek, a cut on the right side of his head, and a couple of knuckles on his right hand. They iced down the swollen, bulging forearm. It wasn't broken. The bruises on his back and thighs were tell-tale signs that a stick, or a club, or maybe even a cane, had been used in the beating.

“You two go back to your ward. We're going to keep him right here. I don't want either of you going anywhere tomorrow,” the doctor commanded. “Stay where I can find you.”

“Yes sir,” we both said.

We don't know what he told the doctor, but the next afternoon was the last time we saw Steven Ramsey. Two MPs escorted him back to Q Ward in a wheelchair to bag up his belongings and retrieve his leg.

“I'm going back up to the psych ward…6B,” he said quietly. “They're putting me under twenty-four-hour watch. I don't blame them. I've got to get my shit together.”

“Eef anybody can do it, dyou can,” Ski said.

“Not like I'm fucking nuts, you know.”

“We're all a little nuts,” I said.

The MPs gently held Steven Ramsey at each elbow, eased him down into the wheelchair, and with his artificial leg standing upright in his lap, they headed toward the front doorway of Q.

“Hey, take care, man,” one Marine stepped out to tell him. “No hard feelings.”

Lance Corporal Steven Ramsey reached out his bandaged right hand and took hold of the hook at the end of the Marine's plastic arm.

“Glad you didn't use this thing,” he smiled.

Back to Rosie's

I MADE SURE
no one was within earshot the first time I dialed Rosie's number.

“This is Rosie.”

“Hi Rosie, it's Shoff.”

“Hi Jeremy.” Her low, sure voice felt seductive. I pictured her full lower lip and its little creases against the mouthpiece. “How have you been?” she asked. “I thought I would have heard from you sooner than this. Have you and Al forgotten about me?”

“Not hardly, Rosie. We've talked about you, Tammie, and Sheryl every day. Just me and Big Al, that is. Well, and Earl Ray.”

“And what does Earl Ray think?”

“Just like Earl. At first, he said it was bullshit. The more we talk with him, the more he's convinced Big Al had a religious experience.”

“That's too funny.”

“Not for Big Al. He thinks he's in love with Tammie. He thinks if he stays away, he can forget about her.”

“And what do you think, Jeremy?”

“What do I think? Well, I think, in his mind, he is in love with Tammie.”

“And does that bother you?”

“What would bother me is if Big Al gets screwed…I mean, screwed over.”

“Trust me. Tammie knows what she's doing. She wants to see Al again.”

“Hold on a second. I want you to tell him what you just told me.”

“Rosie? Big Al. How's it hangin'?”

“Just fine, Al. Listen, why don't you and Jeremy come over this Sunday around three? Tammie wants to see you.”

“Shoff, I told you so!” He spun his wheelchair in circles, lifting the front wheels two feet off the floor.

I pulled the swinging receiver away from the wall. “Rosie?”

“Is Sunday around three okay?”

“Look for us on the bench.”

Sunday couldn't come soon enough. It took every bit of discipline for Big Al not to say anything, but he knew if he did, it was over. Saturday, Big Al got a haircut and doubled the time he spent pressing his shirts.

“Should I get on my horse, Shoff?”

“I don't think so, man. Tammie won't recognize you,” I laughed. “She wants to take over for me once we're inside, remember? Ain't no way she can lift you with that tree trunk on your ass. Besides, you got me to get you there.”

“What shirt should I wear?”

“Shit, Al, you ain't going to have it on that long. Wear the blue one.”

“Nah, I think maybe the green one. It makes my eyes sparkle,” he grinned.

“Tammie makes your eyes sparkle.”

“You got that right!”

Around two o'clock Sunday afternoon, we went through the hole, and forty-five minutes later, we were sitting in Rosie's lavender and white living room.

Tammie cradled Big Al around the front of her neck and in her arms, and they disappeared up the stairway. Rosie followed close behind with a beer and a glass of wine.

She was back down in less than a minute.

“Jeremy, come with me,” she said as she put her hands around my waist.

The cool plastic beads in the doorway slid over my arms and shoulders as Rosie tugged at me from the other side and pulled me into her waiting arms. We kissed for a full minute, my heart pounding from the unexpected, the anticipation, and the loss of control.

She pulled me further into the room and led me through a door on the other side.

It was Rosie's personal and private bedroom. And this was Rosie's free time. It was Rosie's time for her own pleasures, and today, I was the lucky one.

More than an hour and a half later, Rosie slipped out from under the sheets, and still nude, she left her bedroom. She returned with a glass of wine and a beer. The amber flow felt like glacier water in my parched mouth. Rosie took a small container from the nightstand and swabbed each of our lips with a cool ointment.

“I'm going to take a shower. Want to join me?” she asked, her mouth pulling at my bottom lip.

“A shower sounds great.” How could I refuse?

Thirty minutes later she stepped from the shower and left me under the steaming spray of water. When I came out, she was lying in bed.

“That was nice,” she said. “We'll have to do this again sometime.”

She handed me her pink robe from the nightstand and stood with the backside of her naked body pressed gently against my groin; her wet red hair smelled like the shower against my face. A brilliant-colored memory of piles of red-brown Ozark leaves in November seared my brain, and for one moment, I thought I was home. Rosie slid her arms through the long sleeves, and I lifted the robe onto her shoulders.