In the Shadow of Blackbirds(47)

“I just buried a boy who meant the world to me, ma’am. I’ve seen corpses as blue as ripe huckleberries lying in front yards out there. There’s no need to protect me from anything.” I shifted my sagging bag to my other hand. “I’m tired of sitting around doing nothing.”

She swallowed. “Very well. Are you up to serving the men refreshments and making sure they’re comfortable? Helping them write letters and whatnot?”

“Yes.”

She stepped closer and softened her voice. “Several of the men are amputees, and some of their faces are quite damaged beneath their bandages. You may see signs of deformed cheeks and chins and missing facial bones. Are you sure you can do this?”

“I’m positive.”

“All right, then. Please avert your eyes if you need to, but try not to express disgust. Our goal is to help them recover in the most soothing environment we can offer.”

“I understand.” I peeked at the quiet gathering of broken boys beyond us. “Why are so many of their faces disfigured, if you don’t mind me asking? Is it the explosive shells they’re using over there?”

“I’m told it’s the machine guns. Curious soldiers will often lift their heads out of the trenches, thinking they can dodge bullets in time, but there’s no way they can possibly avoid the hail of machine-gun fire.” She glanced over her shoulder. “We tend to also see several missing left arms because of the way they position themselves for shooting in the trenches. Their bones shatter into tiny fragments and their wristwatches become embedded in their wounds. There’s no way to save the limbs.”

I didn’t cringe, for I felt she was testing me, and I was determined to prove I could handle the horrors. “What can I do first?”

Her heels clicked over to a woven tan basket sitting on one of the front tables. “Well, I was just about to pass around these oatmeal cookies. Why don’t you give that a try?” She carried the basket my way. “Heaven knows, these boys would probably love to be offered baked goods by a pretty young girl. Just be careful none of them gets too fresh with you.”

I looped the basket handle over my arm and soaked up the scents of baked oatmeal and roasted nuts—a divine combination that curbed the rancidness inside my mouth.

“Is there a particular part of the room where I should start?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter. They’re all in need of cheering. If the men are too much for you to take, come into the back kitchen. We can always have you help bake something or roll bandages.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” I dropped my black bag by the front door, and then I journeyed into the main room, trying to convey confidence in my stride.

Where to start, where to start? I wondered, unsure if I would be more helpful in one direction versus another. At random, I picked the right.

The first two young men I approached were sitting in fat leather armchairs reading outdated copies of the Saturday Evening Post. I remembered the picture of the clown on the rightmost cover from way back in May or June. The black-haired boy reading that particular issue was missing both his legs, his trousers sewn to hide the two stumps. The other young man, a handsome devil with golden-brown hair and smoky-gray eyes, wore bandages over his left wrist where his hand ought to have been. An unlit cigarette dangled from the scarred fingers of his surviving hand.

“Would you like a cookie?” I asked the black-haired one.

He looked to be of Mexican descent, with olive skin and dark irises that brightened when he found me standing over him. “Yes, please,” he said.

I handed him one of the lumpy oatmeal cookies and kept my attention from straying to his two stumps. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” He untied the top strings of his flu mask and revealed a boyish round face with a healing pink gash across his chin. “You’re much younger than the ladies who usually help around here,” he said. “Qué bonita. Very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you, querida.”

“Please excuse Carlos,” said the other boy with a cockeyed smirk I could see through a round opening cut in the center of his mask. “They dope him up with morphine so he doesn’t feel the …” He pointed with his cigarette to Carlos’s missing legs. “He’s under the delusion he’s still a Latin lover.”

“I’m twice the man you are, Jones.”

“Said the man with no legs,” chuckled the blondish boy.

“Not funny, friend. You’re just jealous the ladies fuss over you less.” Carlos leaned back in his chair and beamed up at me. “Do us lovesick fellows a favor, querida. Take down your flu mask. Let us see your entire beautiful face.”

“You don’t need to see my whole face.”

“But I do,” said Carlos.

“You’ll be sorely disappointed.” I lifted another cookie out of the basket. “I have huge warts and buckteeth hiding under my mask.”

“Don’t tease us.” Carlos gave me a pleading look with his big brown eyes. “We’re starving for female attention, querida. Just one quick peek.”

“I’m afraid not.” I offered the cookie I was holding to his friend Jones. “Would you like one of these?”

“No.” The blondish boy slid his cigarette between his lips through his mask hole. “But I’d love a light.” He raised his narrow hips and yanked a matchbook out of his back pocket with a grimace. His other arm, the one with the missing hand, lay across his left leg as if it were something dead.