Facing him, biting her lip, she held out the paper, hoping he would be encouraged by the promised cessation of hostilities. "Let’s hope for luck," was all that he could say. "Sister Blanche has communicated with your uncle ... perhaps he can come ... he has phoned..." She could not continue. "Let me see the paper." "Yes ... yes ... I sent you some carnations. Haven’t they come? A boy promised to deliver them ... he..." "One of the Sisters is fixing them." "The paper?" "Yes..." He reached out for it and then pain slapped him, a rough spasm, cramping his fingers, shutting off his speech: staring at Jeannette, he waited, hoping he could make it back. Sensing his anguish and bewilderment, she spoke lovingly, bent over him, kissed his bearded face. "It’ll go away ... it will go away ... be patient ... dear, Orv ... patience ... Orv ... lie back against your pillow ... patience..." "I can’t see anything. Can’t..." "I’m right beside you ... shut your eyes ... wait ... that’s it ... think how nice it was when you went canoeing ... remember those long hikes in the Adirondacks ... how about that time you camped with your mom ... how about that?" As pain diminished, he imagined a glossy photograph on the wall of his Ithaca office: it was a photo of his first apartment building: three floors, brick, slate roof: maybe it was imitative but so what! Outside, on the street, pedestrians were walking in the snow, shoes crunching: the campus chimes were ringing: I’ll be able to do a lot of walking, skiing ... She kissed him, her mouth lingering on his. "Don’t pity me ... don’t!" The pain was gone. Later he said: "Better throw me out ... just chuck me ... suppose I’m impotent. Do you want an impotent man around? I’m not sure I’ll be impotent ... I feel..." His unshaven face continued to bother her, she tried to see him as he was when they cycled along the Nonette, his smooth cheeks ... his smile as the trout hooked his fly. "Hush ... don’t imagine things," she objected. "Give me a drink, Jean ... a glass of water ... my Pershing arm is thirsty." "Yes, Orv, yes." What if he committed suicide like Chuck? He slept fitfully, through war dreams and serious pain, travelling that route for several days and nights, gaining little, losing a little, angry, difficult, at times abnormally calm. He began to enjoy his food. He began to look ahead. Began to avoid self-induced fabrications. He knew he must learn to write with his left hand. How long would it take to become proficient? He would have to learn by himself. Certainly he would have to learn to sketch--with a reasonable amount of skill.