“Cooking fires. They’re all around the compound.”
“What about all the flies? Can’t you do anything about them?”
“Dr. Hart, do you recall what I first said about working with local doctors and not always following the same rules set out in your country? It is possible to learn valuable lessons from other cultures, especially in a place like this. These flies serve a purpose. They may be annoying, but they are especially beneficial to patients with gangrene, pressure ulcers, and napalm burns. They land on the wounds, lay their eggs, and maggots will soon emerge. Maggots, I’m certain you know, consume only dead tissue. Healthy tissue is left behind, ready for skin grafting or whatever is needed.”
She’d read about that but never seen it in practice. She peered closer at one child who lay facedown, his buttocks and back covered in what appeared to be napalm burns. Tiny white worms moved among the wounds, doing their job. Regardless of how hard they worked, Marion couldn’t help shuddering and quickly moved on.
“Here, you can see, is one of the operating rooms.”
A man lay on a bed, his leg shattered. Above him, his surgeon hunched in concentration. Blood pooled on the floor, but the nurses were too busy to mop.
“What do they do for blood transfusions?” Marion asked, unsure she wanted to know the answer. Her mind kept going back to the maggots.
“We have supplies, but the U.S. Naval Hospital will send more over. It’s not always fresh, but three-week-old blood is better than none at all, wouldn’t you say?” They stood in the doorway a moment, and he pointed out the array of shining silver instruments standing by for use. “We have everything you might need. I understand you are here as a senior medical student, so you will be mostly with the interns, working alongside surgeons doing suturing, debriding entry and exit wounds, and anything else the surgeon requires.” He nodded, satisfied. “You are on the schedule for tomorrow morning at eight. Any more questions?”
forty-oneSASSY
Sassy got out of Tom’s car and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the white-brick building with its black shutters and small burgundy awning. A hanging sign above welcomed them to Barberian’s Steak House, Est. 1959.
“I’ve seen this place so many times, and I’ve always wondered what it was like inside.”
“I’ve only been once,” Tom admitted, opening the front door for her. “With my parents, almost ten years ago. It was their forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Harry Barberian was a friend of my dad’s. Now, there’s a man who knows how to cook. I think you’re gonna like this.”
She inhaled as they walked in, and her mouth watered with the promise of perfectly grilled beef, fresh fried onions, baked potatoes, and garlic. Caesar salad, maybe? She smiled up at Tom, pleased with herself. She’d told him a date demanded delicious food, and he had delivered. She had rewarded him by looking fabulous, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
She’d bought a pretty dress for the occasion, mindful of Marion’s three Cs:Keep it classy, comfortable, and complementary.Knowing it would match her eyes perfectly, Sassy had chosen an emerald-green dress with black polka dots, cap sleeves, and a matching belt, cut just above her knees. Earlier that afternoon, she’d rolled up her long chestnut hair then teased out every curl and tied halfof it back so the big curls crowded around her shoulders. She decided to have a little fun with her makeup, too. Except for at the fundraising concert, Tom had mostly seen her face au naturel, so she picked up a copy ofVogueto copy the latest style. She started with white eyeshadow, brushed all the way to the edge of her eyebrows, then she blended a line of brown around the little dip that outlined her eye, since she’d read that made women’s eyes look deeper set and bigger. She painted a careful black line at the base of her top and bottom lashes, extending into a gentle cat’s eye, then she stuck on a set of false eyelashes she’d picked up at Eaton’s. Lots of mascara to bind it all together, a smack of lipstick, and she was, well, she was spectacular, if she did say so herself.
The maître d’ showed them to a corner table with a perfectly white tablecloth and a little candle burning in the centre. The silverware practically sparkled, picking up the candlelight. As Tom pushed in her chair, she smiled up at him from under her lashes. Gosh, he was handsome.
“I’m so glad you don’t dress like that every day,” he said, shocking her.
“What? You don’t like it?”
That little curl at the side of his mouth lifted. “I’d never get any work done.”
Reassured, she laid her napkin on her lap. That’s how she felt about him, too. Despite all the time they’d spent together, she wasn’t the least bit tired of him. He was reading her better, too, knowing when to give and take when it came to her temper, and she was settling down, adjusting to proper behaviour in the workplace and out.
Settling down. She gazed across the table at him, wondering. She’d sworn she’d never get married. But that was a long time ago, before she’d grown up. Before he’d come along.
“I know you like white wine,” Tom said, “but this place has the greatest wine cellar, and considering it’s a steak house—”
“Red it is,” she said, beaming up at the waiter. “You pick, Tom.”
After the bottle arrived and the wine was poured into the glasses, Tom lifted his and looked directly at her.
“Here’s to you,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the world.”
They both took a sip, never looking away.
“And you look dashing.” She tipped her head to the side and eyed himcoyly. “I have a question. Aren’t I a little young for you? I mean, you’re, like… old.”
“I like the immaturity,” he said, straight-faced. “Keeps me young.”
Trying to hide her smile, she sipped her wine and appreciated the flavours playing on her tongue.
“What do you think?”
“It’s very good. I don’t know red very well. Tell me what I’m supposed to taste.”
