She was a renegade chaplain. He met her during his ten month stay at the Veterans Hospital in Boston, when she came into his room unexpectedly one afternoon in the early spring. He was immediately attracted, to her slow walk, her hips rolled gently under her pastel-print dress with each easy step. Her hair was a mane of springy copper coils that hung away from her brow and down her back to the curve of her waist. She was tall and voluptuous, with high cheekbones, an elegant nose and full mouth. The smile of a secret twinkled in her golden eyes. She had come to see how his spirit was holding up after the barrage of tests, the cutting, the nights of horrendous pain, and now the long slow process of rehabilitation.

She stopped in the orange linoleum space between the two beds nearest the door. Mitchell was lying on his bed by the windows, relaxing between therapies. On the bed diagonally across the room, Ruben sat naked except for a crisp white sheet wrapped around the wide girth of his paralyzed lower body. He crushed out his cigarette, something he hadn’t done for other visitors. "Help ya?" He clasped his big black hands. His face was handsome, his silk-black hair was combed straight back.

She stood at ease with her hands in the pockets of her dress. "I’m Julia. One of the new chaplains," she smiled.

"Good God, let’s pray," Mario exhaled.

"We’re having an all night mass tonight," Frenchy said, his tone dead serious as he stroked his greying beard. "Bring the wine, okay? Something red and very expensive. We’ll work it out from there."

Her laughter said she was ready for the four men who had a reputation for immunity to hospital rules. "French or Italian?" Divide and conquer. She knew how to do it.

"Portugese," Ruben spoke with calm authority. "My father’s side."

"Ah, you must be the senior member."

"Lady, these people been messin’ with me so long I feel like a fuckin’ chemistry set." Ruben watched her but she didn’t blink. "I been here since last July. But Frenchy over there is the old-timer. He was layin’ in that bed when I unpacked."

"Gettin’ ta’ be just like home," Frenchy said.

"After me the Dago came," Ruben said.

"Italian-American," Mario said.

Mitchell loved to listen to these guys. They could confuse doctors and rattle the toughest nurses. And each other. They were hardened but they had integrity.

"After the Dago," Ruben said, "Paul Bunyan over there arrived in the big city. We spent Christmas Eve listenin’ to him scream. It ain’t like we had other plans. Welcome to the Zone, lady. What can we do for ya?"

She pointed to Mitchell, his silence suddenly obvious.

"You gotta be kiddin’," Mario said.

Ruben rolled his eyes, his hands were still clasped to keep himself from smoking.

"So she’s not bright," Frenchy said, but she was already past the foot of his bed and smiling even wider as his words fell harmlessly.

There is something about a woman who is truly beautiful, newly arrived among men who are holding onto sanity by threads. Men who had forgotten about sunlight and beauty, their awareness lost in crags of dread, each day less certain. She walked into their room, this radiant woman, and brought them hope. With his eyes Mitchell thanked her for all this.