The Soldier's Mirror
Page 17
Chapter 17
The next few days were a flurry of activity. I never realized how much paperwork was involved when somebody died. I thanked God my father had been so organized; he left me a file labelled ‘THINGS TO DO UPON DEATH’. He had all the information I needed in there; from contact phone numbers of people to call, to his list of investments, even a number to call to cancel his library card, of all things.
My siblings arrived from out of town while I met with the funeral home people to work out the details. As usual, my father had nearly everything paid for and arranged in advance. Everything went smoothly on the day of the ceremony, my two older brothers and some family friends speaking fondly of how my father had touched their lives. It was a sad day when we finally laid him to rest.
The next day the whole family met at my father’s place and everyone pitched in to get things packed up and in order, with everyone taking a family keepsake or two. I was glad of the help; there’d still be plenty for me to do from this point on to get all his affairs in order.
My brothers left town and after putting my sister on her plane to fly to the other side of the country, I returned home and crashed on the couch, exhausted from the hectic activity of the past few days. Since my father had died, this seemed like the first minute I’d had where I didn’t have to be somewhere or doing something. As I closed my eyes, I thought about that last night in the hospital, and what he’d asked of me. It wasn’t long before I hauled my tired ass off of the couch.
“Honey,” I called to my wife, “I think I left some paperwork I need at my Dad’s. I’ll just take a run over there and pick it up.”
“Okay. Do you want me to go with you?” she answered from the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be back shortly.”
I grabbed my toolbox from the garage and drove back to my Dad’s. I went down the stairs to the basement and flicked on the light in the unfinished part. There wasn’t a light in that area under the stairs, but the light over the laundry room next to it gave me enough illumination to see what I needed to do. I pulled the boxes of Christmas decorations out of the way until I had exposed the angled piece of drywall he’d talked about. It was just a rough unfinished piece, with no paint or drywall mud on it. I could see that it had been screwed in place instead of nailed, providing easier access if necessary. I pulled the proper screwdriver from my toolbox and proceeded to loosen the screws. It was cramped in the triangle under the stairs and a little awkward to get at some of the screws, but eventually I had them all free and pulled away the sheet of drywall.
Leaning upright between two of the wall studs was a black plastic tube, with a screw-on cap at one end. It looked like the kind of tube an architect or draftsman would use to carry drawings in. I picked it up and stepped out into the light. The tube was covered with a fine coating of dust, as if it had remained untouched for a long time. I wondered when the last time was that my father had actually looked at it.
Knowing the light here in the basement was pretty bad, I took the tube up to my old childhood bedroom that my father had used as his den for many years. Besides his desk, he had an easy chair and a little TV in there. I think it was more of a place he could use to get away from my mom and watch the ballgame in peace as opposed to doing much office-type work.
I turned on the overhead light, flicked the switch on his desk lamp and swung it into place over the middle of the desk. With my heart starting to race, I unscrewed the cap of the plastic tube. I peered inside and could see a cylinder of what looked like some kind of fabric resting against the sides of the tube. I turned the tube sideways and gave it a little shake. Whatever was inside slid to the open end. My fingers were trembling as I reached forward and drew it all the way out. I could see the canvas-like weave through the light-colored back of the painting. It finally came completely free and I set the tube across the arms of the easy chair behind me. I placed the piece of canvas on his desk and slowly unrolled it.
“Oh my God,” I thought to myself as I looked down at the colorful painting before me. I was no art expert by any means, but my wife had dragged me to a few galleries and exhibits over the years. Through osmosis or whatever, I had managed to pick up a little bit of knowledge along the way; enough to know that what I was looking at had been painted by Vincent van Gogh.
The painting was beautiful; vivid yellows, blues and greens in van Gogh’s inimitable style. It was a picture of a man walking down a country road, a straw hat on his head, his arms loaded down with what appeared to be painter’s materials. I wondered if this was some form of self-portrait.
The house creaked and I turned quickly, on full alert. For some reason I pictured someone following me here and knocking me over the head to steal the painting. Settling myself down, I realized it was just the typical sound an old house makes. Knowing there was nothing more I could do here, I decided to go home.
I turned to pick up the plastic tube and accidently knocked it off the chair where I’d left it. It fell to the floor, open end hitting first. When I bent down and picked it up, something slipped out of the opening onto the floor. I reached down and picked up a little piece of blue fabric. I brought it into the light of the desk lamp and stopped dead in my tracks. I realized what I was holding was the blue handkerchief my grandmother had given my father the night before he left for the war; the handkerchief that was meant to protect him and bring him home safe.
I felt my throat start to swell up as tears came to my eyes. I hadn’t cried since his death; we all knew it was coming and I’d been so busy over the last few days. But now as I looked at the delicate blue handkerchief, I couldn’t help myself as the tears started to roll down my cheeks. I cried, I cried like I hadn’t since I was a child. I cried for the burden of guilt my father had carried for Johnny all those years. I cried for those men in his unit he had known and cared about; those who had died both during the war and at home later. I cried for all those young men who had left their homes at such an early age to fight; to fight for the freedom that we now took for granted. I cried for myself, for the shame I felt for not understanding what the heroic efforts of those men had meant before now.
I dropped to my knees and laid my head on the edge of the desk, the handkerchief clutched tightly in my hand. I cried for my father, I cried until my tears ran dry.