Lately, she has been going to him twice a week. On Tuesdays, she brings with her potatoes, carrots, dry red onions and beef bones. She picks herbs from the bushes near his home. Sometimes, when the forest foliage grows thick in the warm months, she finds mushrooms. It all goes in a hearty pot of broth that lasts him for days. Whether he appreciates it or not, she does not know, but it is gone by Friday.
On Fridays, she just goes to him. Another visitor will sometimes tag along to pay respects, but less often as the years have gone by. Levi has always made most people uncomfortable. War hero, damaged, eccentric, the townsfolk keep their distance. There is little patience for the unfamiliar among civilians, no patience for the familiar among recovering soldiers. The Captain is an unlucky fellow in all but death. Always has been. Frankly, it stifles her too, and she is no stranger to strange things, damaged things.
As she comes up to his doorstep, her boots keep snagging on twigs that have fallen off the gnarly branches of orchard trees. When he moved here, the idea was that he would enjoy his well-earned peace and quiet with acres of beautiful forest and fertile farmland. Two bumbling streams cross his land in an intricate snake-like path that she absolutely needs to skip-cross every time she visits. The idea was that he would come and find peace and delight. The idea was that he would recover soon.
She knocks twice, as is custom, and pushes the unlocked door without pause. He is sitting by the window again. It does not matter whether it is Tuesday or Friday, he always sits by the window in the early mornings. She thinks she knows why. The sun illuminates the outdoors like a living thing, young and half mad, casting its rays sideways like it is not fully sure of the position of things. The world is not right yet in the early mornings, but it is so beautiful.
Shadows and white light distort the shape of life outside but not inside, so he sits in the shade. His eyes are the sky after the storm has dispersed, clouds drained of purpose and yet, somehow, there. Grey. He is grey all over, his hair has streaks of it, his complexion is blended with ash in thin, wispy strokes. Yet the bottom half of his face is ever so young. Maybe the words he does not speak keep him young. If his young self is in there or out there, maybe they will find each other. Hiding in the places he searches morosely with his gaze day after day, yes, a young Captain may spring from underneath a rock, lightning fast, with a kick and mocking yell. They could even go back to that day, perhaps, and have a chance to do it all over again. She would spare him all that came after the injury. She would tell him he has permission to not save everyone. It is okay to be rude, to be short, and to die when one's turn comes to die.
She wants to hold his hand, so she does, she encloses hers over his and squeezes for a moment. Then she gets up and goes to the bathroom to bring the clippers and scissors. They need to keep his hair in shape, close shave in the back and sides, blunt chop on top - it is imperative for her peace of mind, and his too, she thinks, to keep his hair in shape. He will recover, she is certain of this, because she knows she would recover. Later, she will read the newspaper and he will read a book on the cultivation of tea leaves in temperate climates. Before the sun begins to set and she must take her leave, she will head to the kitchen to make him a broth. It is a Tuesday after all.