How would Jeannette bear up under his problems ... would she be an outsider? When he made love to her would she resent him, his armlessness a continual influence? In his probings he understood more and more that she symbolized hope. Stealing glimpses of sanity through pain, he knew they had become a pair in London ... together they might fly home, sail home. He wanted to phone Aunt Therèse and Uncle Victor but the physical task of phoning was beyond him; there was no room extension; he asked Jeannette to talk to them. He had her write to his mother: he tried to dictate the letter but bogged down completely. With the help of Sister Blanche he informed the army of his condition; the Red Cross sent information; Dr. Phelan telephoned; official forms were forthcoming. Orville did his best to keep from sweating out these problems. Drugged sleep settled many things. Was sleep another deception? Maybe sleep was a second floor or attic. Basement? Memory--he scudded through his memory, testing it: King Francis ruled at the time of da Vinci; Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812; Haley’s Comet same year ... King Cyprus knew the name of every soldier in his army; Mithridates spoke twenty-two languages ... if memory could be so dependable then it must be equally possible to forget--erase horrors. In a wheelchair, outside French doors that opened into the hospital’s walled garden, he enjoyed a Sister scattering seeds for the winter birds: what a whir of wings, flash of beady eyes, about her skirt and cornet! He wished he could walk the garden, the brick paths so trim, the flowers in angular beds, medieval statues in hedge corners. What were those red-leafed shrubs? As he sat, dreaming, wrapped in blankets, Jeannette placed both hands over his eyes. "Here you are, up again, and outdoors. How lovely!" She swished in front of him and peered at him. "It’s getting so I have to hunt around for you. Gee, you look lots better," she enthused, kissing him, amused by his Airedale-colored bathrobe and mousy slippers under his blanket. "Somebody shaved you ... you’re my old Orville!" He was delighted to see her but could not crawl from beneath his serious mood: he wanted to shake himself: a loving and grateful smile was all he could offer: she sensed that he was fighting a mood or was in pain and waited, chatting with a nurse, enjoying the birds, ready to fit into his world. It had been a stand-up ride on the local bus, and she sat on a bench, after rolling his chair close by. "Sister Blanche brought me some letters from E," he said. He patted a pocket in his robe. "I heard from Isaac Jacobs ... Zinc. Quite a scrawl from him." "Oh," she exclaimed, at a loss, worried about Orville’s reactions. "How is he ... any news?" "He’s been discharged ... hernia ... bacillary dysentery. He’s returning to Ohio. Landel has disappeared. Zinc says our Corps has been disbanded ... not enough survivors." Every word, every thought about the war, disgusted him.