The baseball game was over and Kyle switched the TV off, letting the remote drop to his side. Releasing a long, frustrated sigh, he raised his head, looking down to where his legs should have been. A roadside bomb in Iraq had taken them from him, leaving two useless stumps that pained him as much now as they had five months ago. There would be no more ice hockey, no more dancing, and, most likely, no chance of ever finding a woman, getting married and starting a family. What woman in her right mind would ever want him? Warm tears welled in his eyes.
He looked over to his roommate, Arthur Wynoski, who had arrived at the VA hospital a week before him and was lucky enough to draw the bed by the window.
Art was an old guy – maybe in his mid-seventies – who'd been seriously wounded at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. He was propped up by pillows, phlegm rattling in his lungs, skin yellowed by jaundice, his narrow chest rising and falling with each tortured breath. His white hair was a mess, shooting from his scalp in all directions, like the coils of some broken box spring. An IV was attached to his right arm and a ventilator was nearby in the event of an emergency.
“Hey, Art, you okay?”
The man responded with a gurgling laugh. “It depends on what you consider 'okay.'”
“You'll be all right. They can't keep an old war horse – like you – down for long.”
“You should share some of that optimism with yourself.”
“At least you have both your legs. Do you like to dance?”
“Yeah, sure, I did some strutting in my day. You know; the jitterbug, some be-bopping, waltzes with the wife. But after getting shot in Korea, breathing was a chore and I got tired fast.”
Kyle closed his eyes, hard, until he saw stars. “Well, I'll never be able to dance, not even the slow numbers.”
“Look, kid, they've come a long way with prosthetics. So why don't you stop feeling sorry for yourself and go down to therapy, see what they can do, see what they have to offer.”
Kyle barked a laugh, waving off the suggestion.
“You know; in Korea, the MASH unit gave me up for dead, one nurse nearly pulling the sheet over my head. But, oh no, not this soldier – I wasn't going to go down that easy. I willed myself back to life and here I am – fifty-four years later and seventy- six years old.”
“With your legs still connected to your hips.”
Art fell into a bout of coughing and had to wait a minute to catch his breath.
“You know, kid; talking to you is like talking to a wall.” He offered a wheezy laugh. “Or, maybe, my wife.”
“Okay, okay, I get your point.”
Kyle laid there for a long time, thinking about his buddies still in Iraq, wondering how many would wind up withering away in some VA hospital, or how many of their wives and mothers would be presented with a folded flag.”
“Hey, Art; take a look out your window and tell me, again, what you see.”
Kyle watched as the old man elevated his bed, raising himself on an elbow and craning his neck so he could see out the window. It was an effort and he struggled with his breathing for a few moments.
“Come on, Art, what do you see?”
“There's a park, down below, with plenty of trees and flowers and a pond. I see some ducks floating in a straight line and there's even a couple of swans. Three kids are on a swing, having a grand old time. The grass is green, kid, greener than you can ever imagine.”
“Can you see the city from here?”
“I've already told you that, maybe a dozen times.”
“Well, tell me again.”
“Yeah, I can see its skyline, maybe ten, twelve miles distant.”
“Is it a nice day?”
“Crystal clear, bright sun. If you can believe it, there's not a trace of smog.”
Kyle stared at the ceiling, closing his eyes, trying to imagine everything that Art had described. God – ever since the explosion, he had seen little other than operating rooms, ICUs and hospital beds. The flowers he received only lasted a short time before wilting. Trees, green grass and ponds were a distant memory. Was there a woman, out there, a woman who would accept a man with two fake legs, a cripple who walked like a stork?
Art flopped back onto his pillows, coughing and gagging. He grabbed the sheet, clenching and unclenching it in his hands, sweat beading his forehead.
“You okay, Art? I'm sorry that I made you overwork yourself.”
“May --- may --- maybe some of that --- some of that cafeteria slop will straighten me out.”
“Yeah - for your coffin.”
Wynoski started to laugh, which drove him to another bout of coughing, his face turning as red as a lobster.
The next morning, Kyle woke from a pill-induced sleep, and looked over to see how Art was doing, startled when he saw that the bed was empty and neatly made. He pressed the emergency button and when no one responded, kept it depressed until his nurse rushed into the room.
“Maureen, where's Art? Did he have some tests scheduled for this morning?”
Maureen's downcast eyes explained it in a second.
“Oh no, please, no! When did it happen? I ----- I didn't hear anything, any noise, nothing.”
“Carol, the nightshift nurse, said that it was sometime after midnight. He passed quietly in his sleep.”
“Ah, Jesus, poor Art!” Kyle ran his fingers through his hair, blinking away tears. “What ----- what am I going to do without that old guy?”
Maureen nodded, trying to keep a check on her own emotions. “We'll all miss him. He was really something.”
Kyle laid there for a few moments, thinking of Wynoski – how upbeat he had been, even under the very worst of conditions. Life had just gotten a whole lot emptier.
Maureen rested a hand on his shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for you, Kyle, while I'm here?”
“Yeah, would it be okay to move my bed over by the window? You know, so I can get more sun and some scenery.”
“I can't see why not.”
Maureen hailed an orderly and the two of them made the switch, just as the sun popped through the clouds. Wasting little time, Kyle raised his bed to its highest level and with the help of Maureen, he looked out to see the park, below. What he actually saw stunned him, his mouth working like a fish out of water. Beyond a small parking lot stretched an empty lot, choked with weeds and strewn with debris. The sun caught shards of broken glass, causing them to sparkle like hundreds of diamonds. On the far side of the lot – across a narrow street – was a row of abandoned buildings, their brick facades blackened by soot and scrawled with graffiti, windows covered with squares of plywood.
“No, no, this can't be! It's ----- it's impossible!”
“What's impossible?”
“That lot, that empty lot! All that junk, those rundown buildings!”
Maureen followed his gaze, looking as though she was sucking on an extra sour lemon. “I'm sorry that you expected more, Kyle. But, unfortunately, this hospital was built, long ago, when the area was not quite so ----- so neglected.”
“When Art looked out of the window, he told me that there was a park with flowers and plenty of trees and a pond. He said there were ducks and swans and kids playing on swings.” Kyle slumped back onto the bed, his brain whirling. “Why did he tell me all of that? Why ----- why did he lie to me?”
“Oh, I don't think that he considered it lying. Knowing Art, he just wanted to encourage you, to make things as pleasant and upbeat as possible.”
Kyle stared off into space, at a small speck on the wall, biting his lip to stem the flow of tears. “Maureen?”
“Yes?”
“Would you go out with me if I had two artificial legs?”
“I'm married, Kyle, but if I wasn't, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to me. Your legs would be prosthetic, not your heart.”
“Do you think that, someday, I can carry on a normal life? You know; find a nice woman, have some kids, hold a decent job?”
“Of course you can, but that's going to be entirely up to you. You're the master of your own fate, Kyle.”
Kyle stared at the ceiling for a long time, considering, thinking of Art. “Okay, make the arrangements for me, Maureen. I would like to start therapy as soon as possible.”
“That's wonderful, Kyle! I'll get hold of your doctor.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“I'm going to name my first son 'Arthur.'”
“What if you have all girls?”
“How does 'Arthurette' sound?”