hauled the control frame into the boat, and then onto the plane.
Within minutes, I was in dry clothes and growing warmer, though the cold I felt remains to this day. Ask anyone who has been rescued from icy waters. One's bones, cells, never forget; they need only the barest reminder of a raw, wet day, even the sight of one onscreen, and the sea's chill comes surging back.
My swim, as the crew called it, was significant not because of what we collected-a souvenir; I believe the control frame now sits in a collection of wartime artifacts in a museum in Canada-but because of that deep, cold water. I functioned differently after that. If I knew anything about biology, maybe I could tell you how-but I know everything about me felt changed. My skin, the way I moved, the insides of my eyelids, even. I'd get these flashing headaches when I sneezed, and I swear my blood flowed in reverse, or at least in some direction that allowed me to feel it. Really. Sitting there, I could feel all those molecules and cells and whatever other sludge blood ferries about inside us.
This would have made no sense to Gurley nor even the doctors at the hospital back at Fort Richardson. (The army had a large, if dwindling, corps of veterinarians, holdovers from the days of a mounted cavalry and mule trains-and since everything else about the military in Alaska was jury-rigged, we just assumed they'd been redeployed to work on humans.) So I didn't tell them. But my heart had suffered some damage, and it was to my benefit. It made me more reckless, more eager for danger.
As for what happened to the other, less physical aspect of my heart, it's obvious it froze as well. In time, one led to the other-the physical death to the death of a spirit-and I found myself willingly executing Gurley's most every demand. In time, I did worse than that-I came to anticipating his demands before he would issue them. This is not to say that I became him, that he had molded me in his image. Hardly. But the truth was far worse.
“HOW DID YOU KNOW?”
This is what Gurley asked me when I returned.
It's also what I asked Father Pabich when he found me in the hospital only minutes after I was installed there. (Who had told him I'd arrived?)
And it's what Father Pabich asked Lily when she later joined me at my bedside.
When Gurley asked his question, I didn't answer, pretending to be even more groggy than I was. And when I asked Father Pabich, he didn't answer.
But when Father Pabich asked Lily how she knew what she knew about Shuyak- and how she knew me-not answering was not an option.
After his initial visit to the hospital, I didn't see Gurley for a day or two. He'd promised as much; he said he was being summoned to yet another meeting, this time in Juneau. Might be gone for a week. He didn't look pleased. I mentioned how Shuyak at least gave him something to crow about, and he shook his head. “Something's up, Belk. Not good.” And with that, he was gone.
Father Pabich, on the other hand, checked back in on me several times. At first, I was touched-tough Father Pabich was actually a tender man. But when he returned again and again, and then once more right after dinner, I realized that what I was witnessing wasn't so much tenderness but curiosity. The man wanted to know what I had done and where I had done it.
Fat chance. The more callow the secret keeper, the more tenaciously kept the secret. The Army had told me to keep quiet. Gurley had told me to keep quiet. I wasn't going to tell Father Pabich, though the more he pressed, the more I realized I'd have to tell him something. Then an idea came to me, a fabulous one: I'd ask him to hear my confession. No priest could reveal anything told under the seal of confession. I didn't know much, but I knew that.
So I asked to confess, and instead of saying yes, Father Pabich looked at me strangely. He knew something was afoot, and when he turned to look around the room, he thought he knew what, or who: Lily had appeared in the doorway.
As horrible as that moment was-Father Pabich assuming I'd hurriedly asked for confession because I'd caught sight of my illicit lover-that picture of Lily in the doorway is one of my favorites. I carry it around in my head as if a photograph actually existed. The lighting is poor, but she's clear enough, and beautiful.
She had changed: she was wearing a long, dark coat (cashmere?), the collar trimmed with fur, a matching hat, long black gloves-but pretty, Park Avenue gloves that must have been useless against the cold. She was wearing equally pretty but useless boots, and was carrying a tiny black purse.
It's her face I remember best. She wasn't smiling. No, much better, she was worried. Thinking back on it now, I suppose she had plenty to be worried about-she was a woman, alone, on base, and her Eskimo features would have only made her the subject of increased attention and prejudice. But all I was thinking about then was that she was worried about me.
All the relative splendor that had caught my eye had caught Father Pabich's as well. Her appearance and my sudden desire for confession combined to convince him of one thing: she was a prostitute. He didn't say this, but he didn't have to. Lily wore all that finery and no wedding ring, and that was proof enough for him. As corroboration, a semiconscious guy a few beds down gave a low whistle. Father Pabich shot him a look and Lily ignored them both. She took off her hat, peered into the room. She saw me, took a step, saw Father Pabich, hesitated, but only a second, and then came over to the bed.
She nodded to Father Pabich first. “Father,” she said quietly, and already, he was won over, just a little bit.
“Louis?” she said next, looking toward me.
I looked her up and down and grinned. “Who in the world arej
She grinned back, but then Father Pabich said, “Indeed.”
“Oh, gosh, it's okay, Father, I'm just joking,” I said, not quite yet realizing how much trouble I was in, or that we all would soon be in. “I know her. This is Lily,” I said, and then made things worse. “I'm just not used to seeing her, you know, dressed-this way.”
Lily pursed her lips. The whistler whistled. Father Pabich spoke: “Not another note, whistling soldier-or I tell the lady here, and the whole damn ward, just where it was you got operated on.” The man blanched and tried to roll over. “Perhaps a chair for your guest?” Father Pabich asked me. For a second, I thought he meant me to get up and fetch it for her. Perhaps he did, but I didn't move, and he turned and dragged one from beside an empty bed.
“I'm not staying long,” Lily said.
“No,” Father Pabich said, and then, after a perfectly timed pause, added, “I imagine that gets expensive.”
It got really quiet then, except for over at the whistler's bed, where two tiny words floated up: “Jesus Christ.”
“F-F-F-ather,” I whispered.
Father Pabich and Lily stared at each other, neither giving quarter. I saw Lily decide to smack him and then decide to back off. I saw Father Pabich determine to add further insult and then decide to remain quiet. Then Lily spoke, a short string of something I didn't understand. She'd said it so softly, and in such a rush, that I took whatever she was saying to be in Yup'ik. Profane Yup'ik.
Father Pabich stared at her, flabbergasted. I did as well. I was embarrassed how she was reinforcing the fact that she wasn't white-and I was embarrassed that she was cursing him in some Eskimo language that only she understood.
“I'm sorry, Father,” I broke in. “She's-she's Yup'ik, and that's her”-I glared at Lily, but she didn't look at me-“and that's just her way of saying-”
“That I'm an ass,” Father Pabich said.
“Well, no,” I said.
“As are you,” he said. “Yup'ik,” he added, and shook his head.
