The Good Left Undone(51)

“It’s an insignia ring. I earned it in the Great War.”

“But you were just a boy.”

“Sixteen. That’s why I wear it on the small finger. My hands grew larger than my feet, it seems, in the intervening years. I keep meaning to have it sized.”

“My father could size it for you. He’s a goldsmith. And a gem cutter.”

“Oh, so you’re like Saint Catherine—she was a rich society girl, a flapper, if you will, of her day, who gave up all the fun to go into the convent. Forgive the obvious, but that’s what we Scots call fire insurance. You give your life to good works, and it buys you a chit to stay out of hell when your hour of death comes.”

“For a Protestant, you know a lot about my canon of saints.”

“I read.”

“Then you know that not all jewelers are wealthy. My father makes a living, and like any artisan, he waits to be paid. While Papa waits for his commission, our family goes without while my mother stews.”

“More famine than feast.”

“Italians never starve. We eat with cunning. We live by the sea, so we fish. We eat chestnuts and dandelion greens and eggs. Tomatoes. We make bread. You know. You’ve been to Italy.”

“My mother boiled meat and made porridge, but we always had a bottle of good whiskey in the house so we might chase down all the bad victuals.”

“That’s a fine diet for a cold-weather climate.”

“I’ve never eaten a chestnut.”

“They’re delicious.” The thought of her mother at the stove stirring the chestnuts saddened Domenica.

“I’ve upset you.” McVicars lifted his hands out of the water. “Don’t cry.”

“Keep your hands in the ice bath.” Domenica wiped away a tear with her sleeve.

“I will behave if you tell me why you had a weep.” He placed his hands back into the ice bath.

“I was thinking of my mother.”

Domenica lifted one of McVicars’s hands out of the ice bath. She gently dried his hand and brushed a thick antiseptic goo onto the abrasions.

“What is that?”

“Honey.”

“As in tea?”

“As in medicine. The nuns have their own beehives in the garden. They make their own antiseptic out of honey. People come from all over France for a jar, I’m told.” Domenica gently wrapped his hand in fresh cotton. “I took a small jar and use it for face cream.”

“They should bottle the goo and sell it so women who use it turn out as beautiful as you.”

Domenica turned away from McVicars and stifled a laugh. She had served many male patients in the hospital. Most of them were so full of gratitude that they called her their beautiful angel. It turned out the grateful patients said the same to all the nurses.

Domenica wrapped his other hand. “How does that feel?”

“I don’t have any pain.”

“Sister will make you eat. Once you’re fed and your uniform is pressed, you can go back to the ship and sail on to wherever it is you’re going.”

“Miss Cabrelli? I love you.”

Domenica laughed.

“No, I mean it sincerely. My hands were on fire, and now they are wrapped like a newborn babe.” McVicars held up his hands. “I know a little bit about your line of work. I once pulled a bullet out of a man’s gut on a battlefield—well, it wasn’t a battlefield, it was the barroom floor at my favorite haunt, a pub called Tuck’s in Glasgow—but I saved his life. But I don’t believe I’ve ever actually taken away another person’s pain. And you did.”

McVicars followed Domenica back to the dining room. The captain was dizzy from hunger, but he had no appetite. His body ached, but he didn’t feel the pain. He wasn’t himself, and he didn’t understand why.

Mother Superior approved of the bandages on the captain’s hands. She thanked Domenica and invited her to have breakfast in the dining room with the captain. This was a rare invitation, and Domenica humbly accepted. The captain sat by the fire with Domenica as she entertained him with stories of home. He took in every word as he consumed the best meal of his life. The strawberry jam on the croissant exploded in his mouth like a sweet summer day. The fluffy omelette was seasoned with fresh herbs and melted in his mouth. The coffee was the hottest he had drunk since the Boidoin docked in Colombia, in South America. This was no ordinary hunger satiated by a good meal; the captain’s soul was being fed too. He wondered if the brown-eyed nurse from Italy had something to do with it.



* * *





McVicars stood by as the nurses filed into the chapel. Cabrelli nodded in his direction. He also received his share of winks and smiles from her co-workers. The Sisters followed the nurses inside. Sister Marie Honoré smiled at him as she stooped down to remove the wooden wedge from under the chapel door before closing it. He could hear the murmur of the priest’s opening prayers. McVicars turned to leave H?pital Saint Joseph through the door he had entered the night before when he came eye to eye with the statue of Mary on a pedestal. He stood for a moment and looked up at her. He patted the breast pocket on his uniform, retrieving his gold signet ring. He picked up paper and pencil from the front desk and scrawled.


23 March 1939