A Study in Honor Read online

  “You’re late.” Saúl’s voice came over the line a faint whisper, with a noticeable delay between words. Bad connection? Or possibly the military line had built in a delay so they could monitor conversations.

  “Hi, and hello to you too,” I said back at him. “And according to Amtrak, I am blessedly on time. For some definition of blessed.” I flopped onto the bed, more relieved than I had expected. If the rebels had picked today for another attack, he might’ve been tied up in surgery for hours. A respite for him, and for the men and women on the front.

  Saúl’s response was a wheezing laugh. “Goddamned Amtrak. Though I’m not sure I can blame them. I heard the New Confederacy has taken to sabotaging the rail lines. At least you got to DC in one piece. Speaking of pieces, how is that arm of yours? You’ve been following my instructions about proper care and all that?”

  Oh. Sure. Now his voice came through clear and unbroken.

  You bossy old man, I thought. I’d called him that more than once, back in Alton. He had laughed every time. To be fair, he only wanted the best for me, just as I had wanted the best for my own patients, so I let my breath trickle out, and with it, any irritation.

  “I will,” I said. “Just as soon as I get off the phone. I promise.”

  “That wasn’t exactly the question, Dr. Watson.”

  I closed my eyes and thought of a hundred different answers, none of them productive. Saúl waited me out. He was better at this than I was.

  “How are you?” I said eventually.

  “Fine. Same as usual. A couple of new surgeons transferred in last week. Typical Ivy League medicos, with too many degrees and not enough humility. I’ll have to teach them proper respect for an old man like me.”

  I laughed. “You mean you plan to terrorize them, the same way you terrorized me.”

  There was a pause, then a crackling that might have been Saúl laughing back, or the signal dropping momentarily. But the next part came through crisp and clear. “Funny,” he said. “I remember things a bit differently. You came marching into my tent that first day, all young and brash and full of self-righteousness. Before I could even say hello, you snapped out, ‘Don’t you talk down to me, old man, don’t you give me none of your New York bullshit, and don’t you ever, ever touch my hair.’”

  I had said all that. Lord help me, I had. Maybe my sister, Grace, was right, and I thought too much about myself. But the memory eased the sense of strangeness that had grown upon me ever since I had embarked upon the bus in Decatur.

  “At least you left my hair alone,” I said.

  We both lapsed into quiet for a few moments. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine myself back in that miserable tent in Alton, Illinois, both of us limp and exhausted after a ten-hour stretch of surgery. Or maybe sharing a glass of whiskey while we speculated about our future after the war. I tugged at my pillows, trying to get more comfortable. Over at Saúl’s end of the line, an engine coughed and sputtered, then someone called out a laughing insult to the driver. Life in Mobile Unit #2076 had continued without me.

  “So how are you really?” I asked.

  Saúl didn’t answer at first. When he did, his words came out slow and measured, as though he was already calculating what could make it past the government censors. “I’m tired,” he said. “All the usual reasons and then some. You could say I’m tired of this damned war, but aren’t we all. Our commander was throwing a fit today . . . orders came down . . . inspection . . .”

  Static garbled his answer. Either we had triggered the government censors, or the signal in the District Hotel really was that terrible.

  “I didn’t catch that last part,” I said. “What kind of inspection?”

  More crackling, then, “. . . VIP from a pharma company making the rounds. Rumor says they have a . . . PTSD but . . .”

  I filled in the missing pieces. Visits from pharmaceutical companies weren’t all that rare, but ones from a VIP were. Our commander was likely having a fit, making the unit ready for inspection. As for the mention of PTSD . . .

  They’re afraid. Especially after Alton.

  I didn’t say anything. Saúl knew this. Maybe the censors hadn’t picked up on this conversation before, but I bet they were listening closely now.

  “I have that interview early tomorrow,” I said at last.

  “You should get some sleep,” he replied. “Don’t forget about that arm.”

  “I won’t.”

  Another pause, then, “You can do this, Captain.”

  And don’t we both wish that.

  But I said all the proper good-byes, and promised to call him back with a civilian email address and a progress report before the week was out. I thumbed the phone to standby, then tucked it back into my duffel bag. Time to continue my preparations for the night.

  The bathroom proved to be tiny as well, but at least it was clean and equipped with instant hot water. Even better, the bathtub had a broad flat rim that I could use as my operating table. I dug out my medical supplies from my duffel bag, then surveyed what other articles I could use. The hotel had supplied me with one large bath towel—an unexpected luxury—two smaller ones, and a washrag. I folded one smaller towel into thirds and laid that over the back of the toilet. I disinfected the bathtub rim with the washcloth, then arranged everything I would need: a fresh sock for my stump, swabs, a bottle of antiseptic, and talcum powder. I soaked two of the swabs in antiseptic and set those on my makeshift operating table.

  Next came the difficult part. Over the last month the hospital staff had drilled me in the procedure, but I had never liked it. The newest models used biometric panels to control how and when and who could detach a device, not to mention a dozen other adjustments. Mine was not so elegant. Using my fingernails, I pried open the panel on the underside of my device’s socket. I knew what came next. My teeth bit hard in anticipation as I tapped the sequence of controls to release the socket from my stump. The suction mechanism hissed. I had just enough time to recover from the swooping sensation and to catch the arm before it clattered onto the floor.

  I leaned back against the tiled wall and breathed through my nose until my stomach settled. My stump ached fiercely, as though releasing it from the socket had freed the pain, and I distinctly felt a throbbing in an elbow that no longer existed. As a test, I pretended to flex my fingers. My ghost hand, the one that only existed in memory, responded. The metal hand in my lap remained inert.

  The stump, real enough, was red and swollen from two days of neglect. I washed it first with soap, then wiped it down with one of the swabs. The phantom pain made me hiss. The most genuine pain of my wounded arm made me almost dizzy. But I did not give up, nor did I faint.

  Practice, the physical therapist had said. You must practice until you can complete your drill, no matter what.

  So practice I did. By the time I had finished, I was sweating in spite of the artificially cool air. Hand shaking, I rubbed the second towel over my face and over my scalp. The stump I let dry on its own while I examined the prosthetic.

  Not as bad as I feared. Sweat stained the plastic interior, and one contact had corroded from the salt. It wasn’t enough to account for the tics and tremors, however, which had plagued me since they first fitted me with the device. If the VA could not supply me with a new prosthetic, I would need to consult with a technician to fix the problem.

  I shut off that train of thought. I could spend the night constructing ifs and maybes. The routine of caring for my stump helped, as it had over the past four months. With the second swab, I cleaned out the interior of the socket, then set the arm on its towel atop the toilet tank. Now for the last step.

  I gripped the bottle of talcum powder with my fingers and flipped it upside down. This was the awkward part. No matter how I practiced, the powder ended up everywhere. I shook a small heap onto my palm. By this time, an unnatural cold drenched my skin. I gritted my teeth and hurried through powdering my stump, then fell back against the wall once more.


  Shock. I knew the symptoms. It would pass.

  It did not pass. Not for many long moments.

  When at last the roar in my ears subsided, I fumbled through my supply case until I found the bottle of painkillers. Working with only one hand was damn hard, but I managed to unscrew the cap without spilling any tablets. Next time, I swore, I would open the bottle first.

  I peered inside. Twenty more pills. Enough to last ten more days—longer, if I was economical.

  I decided I was not so very economical after all. I gulped down two pills, then headed back into the bedroom for my solitary dinner.

  2

  “Captain Watson. Captain Janet Idara Watson.”

  I nodded.

  The caseworker regarded me with a watery stare. He was a pale man, his blond hair almost invisible against his equally pale skull. His nameplate read terrence alexander smith. Several certificates and employee recognition awards decorated the plain gray walls of his cubicle.

  “Do you have your papers?” he asked.

  Silently, I handed over the packet I had guarded along with the cash and vouchers throughout the journey from Decatur to Pittsburgh and then to DC. First, the DD Form 214 with all the details of my military record, from the day I volunteered to my medical discharge. Next, the commendation from my commanding officer on my actions during the assault. Third and last, the official report of my injuries with an addendum from Captain Martínez, explaining the inadequacies of my current prosthetic and how that prevented me from resuming my work as a surgeon in civilian life.

  Smith examined them with a noncommittal expression. Once or twice, he glanced at me and back to the collection of papers he had spread over his desk. His face was difficult to read. Contempt? Irritation? If the man had been my commanding officer, the signals would have been clear enough—I would have expected a reminder of certain military regulations or an unofficial rebuke for neglecting paperwork, nothing more—but I had lost the knack of dealing with civilians.

  “Enlisted October first, three years ago,” Smith said. “Assigned to Mobile Medical Unit #2076, stationed in Alton, Illinois. Volunteered for a second tour.”

  I suppressed a sigh and resigned myself to a pointless review of my career.

  “Wounded in action, April twenty-first,” he continued. “Discharged August seventeenth with honors.”

  I didn’t bother with a nod. The man droned on in that same slow voice, his accent a carefully rendered Middle Atlantic, with shades of Caroline County or farther south. My attention slipped away, and I could almost hear Martínez’s sharper, brusquer voice, a New York City voice, from that last morning in Decatur, before they shipped me home.

  They should have given you a Silver Star. Or better.

  Well, they didn’t, I had told him. You know why. They can’t reward failure, Saúl, and that’s what everyone calls it. Everyone who matters, anyway. Besides, I’d rather have the new arm.

  A sudden movement caught my attention. I flinched, hard. It was only by sheer bloody determination that I did not fling myself to the floor. A heartbeat later, I could recognize the movement for what it was—a harmless office worker passing by Smith’s cubicle. Even so, my blood thrummed in my ears, and my throat felt raw, as though I had screamed.

  The caseworker’s gaze flicked up and back down to the papers. This time the contempt was obvious. He should have been used to us by now, dammit. The ones who came back from the wars wounded beyond a surgeon’s skills. Evidently not. My Afro was neat enough, but my linen suit hung loosely, and I’d had to unstitch the left sleeve of my jacket to fit my new arm. To this man, undoubtedly used to military precision and the glossy perfection of high-ranking politicians, I must have appeared shabby and lopsided.

  What did he expect? I wondered. I had left everything behind three years ago. All my possessions. My offers at Georgetown, Howard, and the University of Maryland. My parents, dead with so many others in that goddamned bombing. My sister, with her unexpected decision to move across the country so she might escape the war. That too was part of my record.

  “You have a device already,” he said at last.

  So that was the problem.

  “I do,” I said. “As you can see from the medical report, the retrofit was not entirely successful—”

  “Do you wish to file a formal complaint?”

  I hesitated. A formal complaint meant a demerit for Saúl Martínez, inserted into his military record, to remain there for all time.

  “I have no complaints about my treatment,” I said carefully. “I’m a surgeon myself. One works with the available supplies, and the invasion left us with shortages, as you can imagine. So rather than leave me without any arm, Dr. Martínez fitted me with the only device available. He did so believing I would receive a more suitable one after my discharge.”

  “The action in April was classified as a temporary breach of security, not an invasion,” Smith said quickly.

  Temporary. Four bloody days of temporary. I had to fight back the urge to rage at his quibbling over words—goddamned words—when so many had died. However, I knew better than to raise my voice. I sucked down a breath and willed myself to speak softly, reasonably, politely. “Does that make a difference?”

  “Possibly. The department has reclassified certain benefits in the past year and . . .”

  And between protests against new taxes and the factions who secretly supported the rebels, the bureaucracy had decided on economy rather than justice.

  So much for being polite and reasonable. I stood up and gathered my forms and papers from his desk. To my relief, my left arm did not fail me, though I was trembling with anger. “Thank you. I accept you are not authorized to say more. Now, tell your administrator I wish to speak with her. Today.”

  * * *

  I had frightened the man. Oh, his expression never faltered, but I could tell by the rapidity of his movements and the almost formal tone of his voice as he relayed my request to his administrator. “Don’t be making trouble,” my father and mother had told me. “You might win today, but you’ll pay tomorrow.”

  I’ve already paid, I told myself.

  To my surprise, Terrence Smith’s administrator granted me an almost immediate interview with her and her director. Smith had said nothing beyond my name and former rank, and that I requested a reevaluation of my case. They must have accessed my records when I applied for my initial appointment.

  An escort brought me up an elevator that required an electronic key and her thumbprint. We left behind the region of cubicles occupied by lower-level bureaucrats, such as Smith, and entered a far more rarefied atmosphere, one populated with tinted glass walls and expansive waiting rooms outside the executive offices.

  Immediate could be a relative term, however. My escort brought me to a small air-conditioned cube. There were no windows, only four beige walls hung with the requisite portraits of President Sanches and Vice President Donnovan, now presidential candidate Donnovan.

  Sanches . . . I had such mixed feelings about the woman. I admired her intellect. Her ambition left me breathless. Her politics . . . I could understand them well enough. It was like the choices a surgeon had when they were confronted by a difficult case. How often had my teachers and my medical director advised me to take the least disruptive route? Perhaps her conciliations to the moderate and centrist factions were simply another legacy of the war.

  But dammit, I had expected so much more from her. The woman won that first election by doing what so many other Democrats could not or would not do when she forged an alliance with the progressive third parties. The Democratic Progressive Party they called it, though it included members of the centrist faction as well. And those first few years, she had fulfilled her promises. She had rolled back the evils from that dark period earlier in the century. She had restored civil rights. She had enacted real gun control. And more.

  But then came the outrage from the NRA. The Christian fundamentalists. Angry white men—and quite a few women—who
wanted the federalists to shut up and go home. They were the ones who believed those dark times had made America great. They were the ones who had made those dark times even darker.

  Alida Sanches had not invented gun control or equal rights, but she sure made a handy target to blame when the terrorists took over Federal buildings in Oklahoma and Missouri and declared themselves the New Confederacy. When Kansas, Iowa, and western Arkansas joined them with riots and guns, a new era, a new civil war, had begun.

  So for her second term, Sanches had quietly set aside her principles and her sitting vice president, and picked Donnovan as her running mate. A Pennsylvania man, a man from the center and not the left, a man with a blue-collar background. His grandfather had worked in the coal mines. His father had picked up the pieces when that industry crumbled to dust. I could get behind that, sure enough, me being born on a dirt farm in Georgia. It was for those same reasons Donnovan had picked a Harvard lawyer, now a junior senator from Washington State, for his own running mate. East Coast, West Coast. Big city and small town. Senator Jeb Foley from Texas had used the same calculations for his own run for the White House, when he chose Joe Stevens from Iowa.

  (And isn’t it funny how those calculations always end up picking the white man?)

  I had plenty of time to consider Donnovan and Foley and their running mates. At regular intervals, an administrative assistant appeared to ask if I wished for coffee or tea. I accepted the coffee gladly and savored the taste, since there was little else to savor in this barren place. The rage had passed, leaving behind a heaviness and a stillness, which some might have called patience.

  Ten o’clock passed without comment. Eleven o’clock as well.

  At noon precisely, the assistant returned to escort me through several corridors and into a sunlit office overlooking Vermont Avenue. There, two women introduced themselves as the administrator and director for the Division of Oklahoma Affairs. Ellen Moskowitz and Dr. Lydia Greene were their names, both appointed by President Sanches in her second term, when it became clear the war would not end in two years, or four, or possibly longer. Both were obviously well trained in the necessary diplomacy for their positions. They explained to me the difficulties with funding and the politics involved with medical benefits.