M.A.S.H. WAS MORE THAN A MOVIE AND A SITCOM
One of the great situation comedies of all time was set in the least humorous time and place possible. Thinking that a medical unit operating close to the front lines of battle would ever be considered humorous must have taken some serious salesmanship on the part of the writers and producers. The resulting product M.A.S.H. became an iconic success, allowing the creators to thoughtfully attack the
glorification of war. The scripts were thoughtful and the cast was remarkable. Laughs were plentiful and
memorable scenes are still replayed.
The difficulty a writer encounters when broaching a topic involving psychiatrics conditions is that duplicating symptoms is very challenging. Creating situations, actions, and dialog appropriate to the characters and believable to the reader involves total emersion into a world not necessarily familiar to the writer. Two of my short stories that required such strenuous focus were The Marketplace and Night
Sounds. In the first of those stories, I had to imagine what thoughts go through the mind of a young suicide bomber just before he releases the detonator. Night Sounds, which appears in my first collection Morning Wine, depicts the paranoia present in a man who cannot face the world outside of his room. The Marketplace is in Thinking, Just Thinking.
With the hope that you will enjoy the chapter and be eager to read more I present CHAPTER 35 of The Monument.
CHAPTER XXXV MARCH 1, 1944 ST PAUL
The morning was unlike many of the others. A hint of spring was in the air and after a winter in Minneapolis the change was more than slightly noticeable. Icicles still hung from eaves and dirty snow awaited the inevitable blizzard of late March to restore beauty before being replaced by colorful crocuses and forsythia bushes bedecked with gold. Tulips and lilacs were still just dreams, and lawns of green specked with the beauty of ‘damned dandelions’ were weeks away.
Her walk was becoming more of a waddle but each day she dutifully trudged the icy sidewalks to the small commercial area and to the Hot Oven where goodies abounded. “The usual? Or is the little mother desiring something a little more sinful this beautiful morning?”
“No, I think a couple of croissants for later and the apple tart for this morning. Coffee seems to be getting later and later each day. Don’t think it’s by design...just don’t move very efficiently anymore.”
“Oh, that will change. I had six of em... good old Irish Catholic husband just couldn’t say no to him, handsome devil anyway.”
“And they all turned out ok?”
“Yeah, except maybe Louise. She did great in college and has as really good job and all. But you see she married a Methodist. Don’t think her father will ever forgive her. Christmas is not very festive event with my Harold staring darts at Ronald. To make it worse he’s a Republican. There you go now hon, you’re all set.”
‘”Thanks Mrs. T. Please don’t invite me to join you at the Holidays next winter.”
Ginnie waved and a sobering thought passed through her mind. ‘That’s the only time today I’ll have any contact with another human. Maybe I’ll get a letter today. It’s been a couple of weeks. At one time I really looked forward to them, but lately Scott’s just not been himself. Who could be with all the blood and death? But there is one certainty. I will never forget his ranting
about my being pregnant.’
It was not long before she unlocked the door and felt the comfort of the heat that was still needed at this time of year. Her feet always hurt and her hands were always cold. And the kicking was beginning to be more of a bother and less of a thrill. The warmth of a tub full of hot water was a good way to pass an hour but the changes in her body made getting back out challenging. And she no longer paused at the mirror to study that body.
She stirred the soup without even looking in its direction. Chicken noodle today. Her favorite was cream of mushroom but the last time had not resulted in pleasant memories. It stayed down for only a few minutes before she was bent over the stool retching. Her stomach muscles hurt from that for several days; at least it gave her something to write about to Scott.
Like Minnesota springs do, the beautiful morning morphed by early afternoon into heavy cloud cover being pushed about by biting cold winds. A few snowflakes scurried to the brown earth. Ginnie assumed her position beside the window facing the street hoping for a letter, but with a sense of dread. For the last couple of months his letters had become more and more morose. He had not warmed to the idea of fatherhood and his sarcastic remarks always suggested that she was solely to blame. But still she waited with anticipation.
As had happened more recently than ever before, she awoke with a start at the clanging shut of the mailbox. Through the fog, she saw the blue uniform walking away, pulling his jacket collar tight against the northerly blast. ‘Was that my box that slammed shut? How long was I asleep for?’
When her vision had cleared and her mind began its normal function, Ginnie struggled to her feet and crossed the room grabbing her favorite cashmere sweater, the one Scott had given her. She had not gone ten feet from the front stoop when the wind hit her and she wished that she had added a coat. Letter firmly in hand and a smile on her face she crossed the threshold of the tiny apartment which was so far from Country Club Lane that she dreamed of so often.
She fidgeted about the kitchen putting the tea kettle on and unwrapping the remaining bakery item. Then she stood facing the cupboard for seconds before opting for tea rather than the awful stuff that now passed as instant coffee. After the kettle had whistled and the bag was dangling in the hot water, she peeked in the direction of the letter. She purposely made two trips of the six steps to her perch, the second carrying only the letter.
Ginnie wiped away the lasts crumb from her lips and began the torture of opening the precious letter. As she feared there was no Dearest Ginnie or even Dear Ginnie and before starting to read she checked the bottom of the one page. No ‘all my love’ or ‘I love you’ or even his name. Just a blank space where all those things could have been said and were not. No tears formed, no uncontrolled sobbing or seething or gnashing of teeth. A strange numbness accompanied the newest disappointment. And so she read
‘Those bastards did it again. They goddamn did it again. Tongue depressors instead of bandages and gauze. We have so goddamn many tongue depressors if it rained for forty days and forty nights we’d be safe. We could build an ark, but no goddamn animals on my boat. No not snot nosed little kids either. Only healthy people with all their limbs intact and no intestines hanging out. How can I escape, let me see. I could open the flap and sprint to that Jeep, yea that’s it and I could be on the first tee by noon. But I can’t because that dead kid’s watching, damn it I knew I should have shut his eyes. But I just couldn’t cause before he took his last breath he didn’t say anything...just stared at me. I could hear him even though the mouth never moved. I heard him, no shit I heard him. He screamed without opening his mouth, “You are the shittiest doctor who ever wore a mask. My ten year old nephew could have saved me, but look at me cause I’m dead and I’m going to follow you for the rest of your life. Look at me, Goddamn it, look at me!” And he is following me. I should have shut his eyes. And all those tongue depressors. All those Goddamn tongue depressors. His ten year old nephew could have saved him and now he’s watching me. If I take the Jeep to the first tee he might not be able to follow. But he would find a way. Those eyes. I didn’t shut his eyes. I’m so tired I’m going to sleep now.’
Silence ruled the world of Ginnie. The clock above the stove ticked off the minutes with the cat’s tail and eyes accounting for every second that passed and there were many before she finally folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. Still no tears formed. No sobbing wracked her bloated body. She rose and crossed to the writing desk where so many of her hopes and fears had been spilled onto the stationery with the pink hearts, a gift from her mother in law before Scott boarded the train to insanity.
The last piece of stationery with the pink hearts was poised on the table’s surface. The pink ribbon that had held the pieces together when the packet first arrived was carelessly discarded, another victim of the war. Ginnie drew a deep breath and winced a little from the foot extended against her rib cage. Then she blew the air out in a long even hiss, raised the pen from the ink well and began.
Dear Jimmy
The Monument will be available on October 31st on Amazon. You can also order the short story collections or my two previous novels Trapped in the Inferno and Escape from the Inferno on their website. The third novel in my Inferno series, The Key to Paradiso will be out in time for Christmas.
