Chapter 24
1019 Words
“Can you climb out of the whiskey bottle?” Camille asked the following morning.
Lucien lifted his chin from his chest and blinked, his eyes offended by the light. “I must have dozed off,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He sat in the same chair by the window where he had been the night before.
She handed him a cup of coffee. “Drink it black.”
“I always do,” he mumbled as he took the mug. He rubbed his hand across his face, rough from the shadow of a beard. He touched the knot on his head and winced.
She stood beside him, looking out the window, waiting for him to fully awaken, the ache in his head to subside.
“Are the Germans gone?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“Most of them.”
He sat up straight, as if suddenly remembering their dilemma, and sipped the coffee. “What do you mean most of them?”
“Those in the fields and along the road left at dawn.”
“There’s more?”
“A half dozen are camped on the other side of the chicken coop. Past where we found the British soldier, near the rusted troop truck from the last war.”
He took another sip. “They didn’t leave?”
“Not yet.”
“What are they doing here?” he asked. “Waiting for someone?”
“Or searching for someone.”
He looked at her, head c****d. “I don’t understand. Who could they be looking for?”
Camille was about to reply but didn’t. “He’s still alive,” she said, referring to the Englishman. “But he’s very weak.”
Lucien took another swig of coffee and stood, closing his eyes tightly.
“Your head must be pounding.”
He nodded. “Not as bad as it was.”
She watched him, more ghost than man. “You have to take the bullet out.”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “I can’t do it.”
“He’ll die if you don’t.”
“He may die if I do. The last time I tried to be a doctor, I lost two people I loved.”
“An accident killed them,” she argued. “And you couldn’t save them. Nobody could. It doesn’t make you less of a doctor. Or less of a man.”
He blinked, as if he didn’t expect the confrontation. “You know what happened?”
“Yes, I know what happened. You lost your wife and daughter. I feel for you, I really do. I wouldn’t be able to cope either if our roles were reversed. But you can save the Englishman if you remove the bullet.”
He sighed, wrestling with the past, as well as the present. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“At least you’ll try,” she said. “Or is that something you forgot how to do? Why don’t you drink some more whiskey? Maybe you’ll find your courage.”
Lucien ignored her. He drank the rest of his coffee and went into the kitchen. He drank a glass of water, and then another, and poured one more cup of coffee.
“He’s still in there,” she reminded him, pointing to the spare room. “And he’s getting worse.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to will the problem away. “Have any Germans come near the house?”
“Not yet,” Camille said. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t.”
He went to the window, gazing at the chicken coop. “They’re sitting around a campfire. It doesn’t look like they’re leaving.”
“Henry Green is dying. We have to do something.”
He took a long swallow of coffee, and then another, as if mentally preparing for a fight he didn’t think he could win.
She watched him closely—his battle with the bottle that coffee couldn’t cure. “Are you going to remove the bullet?” she asked, her hands on her hips. “Or should I?”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m no longer a doctor.”
“You’ll always be a doctor.”
“Doctors don’t kill people.”
“No, they don’t. God does.”
He grimaced, the wound still fresh, the slice still deep. “I know you’re trying to help. But you can’t make me into something I’m not.”
“Just be Dr. Lucien Bouchard.”
“I’ll fail you like I failed everyone else who ever trusted me,” he mumbled. He sipped more coffee and stared at the Germans. “They don’t look like they’re searching for anyone.”
“Go ask them if it’s that important for you to know. Maybe they can give you another reason to pretend that Henry Green isn’t dying.”
He looked in her eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “It’s not that easy.”
“You’re only avoiding what has to be done,” she said. “I know it and so do you. Just as you’ve avoided each day that dawned for the last eighteen months.”
Lucien closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers, like a blind man wishing for sight.
“Are you going to let him die?”
He was quiet. After a moment passed, he raised the cup to his lips and drained the contents. He put the cup in the sink and washed his hands very thoroughly, scrubbing them with soap and water. And then, with a deep breath, he walked to the spare room, but paused at the door, as if knowing what waited on the other side.
“Do you need your courage?” she asked, pointing at the whiskey bottle, almost empty.
He looked at the bottle and then at her. “Watch the Germans,” he said. “Tell me if they move, even an inch.”
He went into the spare room and shut the door behind him.
- Writer
