Callahan of Maples

"Alright now," Nurse Pauline cuts in sharply. "It's time to get you up for the day."

Reluctantly, I slide out of bed and into the white cotton shirt and brown pants she has laid out for me. She and the two orderlies escort me to the washroom at the end of the corridor, where we wait behind the rest of the nurses and their wards.

One orderly follows me in when it's my turn, turning his back only slightly while I relieve myself. He keeps a close eye on me while I brush my teeth, whistling the new Paul Whiteman tune I'd overheard the other day. My reflection is a sorry sight in the mirror. My light blond hair is half limp from sleep while the back of it stands on end, and even my usual pallor looks sickly today. I spit in the sink and swipe my tongue across my lips. My blue eyes, the sole bright spot, find the orderly's in the mirror.

Time for our daily argument.

"Ms. Pauline," he grunts, and she sweeps through the doorway on schedule.

She eyes me expectantly. "What is it, Carlisle?" We've come to my first name quickly today. Usually I need to vex her for an additional thirty minutes at the very least.

"I'd like my pomade," I say. "And a comb."

"Now, now." Her voice is level. She has risen to the challenge. "You should have thought of that before you threw your sedatives on the floor yesterday. It took three nurses to clean up that mess and we're already understaffed as it is!"

"Fine," I give in. "But I hope I get a chance to tell Doctor Fitzgerald and his staff why I look so unkempt today."

"Do as you'd like, Mr. Callahan. It will not make any difference to me," says Nurse Pauline, her tone clipped. The matter is laid to rest and I won't weasel any further. It would only worsen my circumstances.

"I'd like my mess hall privileges back, then," I say before I can stop myself. "Despite what you might think, I'm capable of being social when I'm in the mood."

She sighs and leads me out of the washroom. "I hardly consider you and your companion to be social creatures, Mr. Callahan. You're the quietest pair I've ever seen in all my life."

I allow myself to be herded back to my room, where I am permitted to gather any items to entertain myself for the day, provided they pass Pauline's careful inspection. I reach beneath my bed and lug out my slim suitcase, its brown leather cracked and its handle warped from age. It was my father's and the only thing he left to me before he passed. He had wanted me to use it for travels to exotic places, on my honeymoon, for  my first business trip. Instead, I had used it to transport my valuables from my home in Chicago all the way to Willard in New York State. I had expected the staff at here at Willard to lock it up, but Doctor Fitzgerald insisted it was crucial for me to keep sentimental items near.

I flip up the tarnished silver latches and open the case. I sift through the books I've read too many times, the words that used to be my dearest companions and favorite pastime, past my old house key, and down, down, down to the bottom. Two small metal discs clank against the side, my dogtags from the Great War. They dangle from a piece of filthy twine, swaying as I hold them up. Major Carlisle J. Callahan, 77th Division is stamped across the front of one, the other bearing my date of birth: 8. 23. 93. I'd worn them in France, they were my identification if I was killed. A part of me now wishes I had died there, shot in a hail of bullets while I led my battalion over the top of the trenches. I could have been a war hero. I'd painted Chicago, Illinois, USA - Callahan on the back of my jacket just for the occasion. I stuff the dogtags in my pocket for the day.

The final piece of my old life is my marriage license. It is poison, a cruel reminder of how I brought everything upon myself. I'd loved Lillian more than I could possibly say. Her soft hair black as ink, her smile, her beautiful gray eyes. We'd married quickly and against my father's wishes. As the priest of our church, he had urged us to wait a few years longer, but he had performed the marriage anyway. The license was wrinkled and bore many indentations from my thumb over months of handling. The calligraphy proclaimed that I was officially and legally bound to Lillian on September 19th, 1917.