by J. L. Salter
Kelly presently had her best understanding ever, but along with it were many more questions. Questions for another day, however.
As Coffey watched, Kelly flipped back through her notes and made a few insertions. “Well, I guess that covers it. This should be a big help on getting a fresh handle on things. Thank you, Mister Coffey.”
“Gene.”
“I really appreciate your time.” She rose, turned, and left. She figured Coffey would watched her leave. Most men did.
****
Tuesday — night
After Kelly’s afternoon interview with Coffey, the temperature had dropped. Since Mitch did not come over, she just microwaved a lackluster frozen dinner and sat on her porch in the darkness, looking at the Somerset lights to the south.
Except for an endless array of hills and knobs which clustered along and beyond the Highway 914 loop to the distant east and southeast, Kelly’s rented cabin was higher than most of Somerset proper. To the immediate south, the only greater elevations were various knobs, including Hale and Reservoir — both with radio towers — plus Denham, Smith, Bogle, and Wait. Her rented cabin’s height gave Kelly one of the most scenic views in the area, considering she was not on the shores of Lake Cumberland.
Despite her heavy jacket, the cold was penetrating. Kelly knew she ought to go inside but sometimes lower temperatures helped clear her head. Several of the observations by Miss Dottie and Commander Coffey swirled about her brain.
As much as someone removed by two generations could, Kelly was starting to get a feel for what it might have been like for a young adult in the early 1940s. One theme kept surfacing in her thoughts: What would I have done?
The cold finally got the better of her and Kelly went inside from the darkness. She looked in her folder for Coffey’s business card and phoned him at home to discuss her Uncle Edgar’s wartime experience.
Part Two
Chapter Fifteen
October 10 — Wednesday — morning
About 7:50 a.m. Kelly awoke in her recliner thankful that she’d finally fallen asleep again after a restless, wakeful night. Her hands still touched a borrowed paperback, though it rested face down against her sternum.
Forecast was for clear skies, sunny all day, with occasional light breezes and brief stiffer gusts. After late morning, it was expected to be a very warm day.
Lots of things to do, so no time for her regular library run. Kelly had arranged to meet Pete Henley at a midmorning funeral service, which featured the Post 38 Honor Guard, and attend their luncheon afterwards. Kelly hoped she’d have time for her afternoon workout at the Y, plus she figured to see Mitch sometime.
Along with everything else going on, it was the day of the countywide drill.
Kelly’s phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Mitch. I know it’s still early, but I’m headed toward an interview where I doubt I’ll have any reception.” He didn’t pause for her to respond. “Wondered if you wanted to grab something like a burger later on.”
“Can’t. I’m meeting with a Vet at a funeral and he’s invited me to their luncheon afterwards. He’s going to introduce me to some of the Honor Guard members. Ought to be some good interviews there for my special.”
Mitch’s phone silence made him seem disappointed.
“Hey, why don’t you meet me at the luncheon? Mister Henley said I could bring somebody.”
“As long as I don’t have to go to the funeral first.”
She rolled her eyes, which couldn’t be seen on the phone, and used a patient but tired voice. “No-you-don’t-have-to-go-to-the-funeral.”
“Kelly, you were rolling your eyes, weren’t you?”
“How on earth could you know that? If, in fact, I was.”
“You always have that little tone in your voice when you roll your eyes.”
“Whatever. Enough of your mail-order mind reading. You want to eat lunch or not?”
“Sure, I’ll go. Where is it?”
“Don’t actually know.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll call you when I find out.”
“You did it again, didn’t you?” Mitch’s chuckle came over the line.
“No,” she fibbed. “Just hang up and let me get ready for the stinking funeral.”
****
Kelly checked her bedroom clock: 9:02 a.m.
Since Uncle Edgar’s death in April 1988, the last funeral she’d been to was Aunt Mildred’s — July, five years before.
Kelly didn’t know what to wear. While still deciding, she noticed Perra napping on the recliner and quickly placed the cover on the pet hatch. Don’t want a terrier following the funeral procession.
Not being anything resembling a fashion horse, Kelly’s choices in black were basically between slacks and skirt. If she wore the skirt, she’d have to rummage around for hose. Nope. Slacks it was.
She’d bought those black slacks off the rack, but they looked and fit like they’d been tailored especially for her. Whenever she wore them, Mitch would practically drool over how closely they conformed to her curves. In fact, they fit so tightly, she almost put them back and wore the skirt, but didn’t want to endure wearing hose for the funeral of somebody she’d never even met.
She selected her black pumps — classy and elegant, with the right sense of somberness for this occasion — which were favorites of Mitch’s. She also selected her acceptably dressy pair of flats to change into at the luncheon.
Among her dark-colored tops it was basically a choice between long sleeves or short. She figured the temperature would be mid-to-high-sixties. Long sleeves. In that category, she had two dark tops: deep purple rayon buttoned blouse or rust-colored cotton-blend V-neck sweater. She chose the V-neck.
Her only remaining decision was whether to bring a jacket. After the funeral, she’d go straight to the luncheon where it might be mid-seventies or so. The temperature would eventually become low-eighties, but she should already be at the Y or back home by late afternoon. Skip the jacket.
She brushed her teeth, checked that all the appliances were off, grabbed her keys and carryall, and slipped out the front door before Perra could squeeze through.
Chapter Sixteen
October 10 — Wednesday — 10:00 a.m.
Following Pop’s previous instructions, Kelly drove hurriedly to a cemetery in the Elihu community, to the southeast and beyond the 914 loop.
She spotted Sergeant Chet Walter in his green dress uniform. “Hi, Pop. Thought I was late.”
“Some kind of delay. Hurry up and wait.” Chet cleared his throat loudly. “Casket’s here, funeral folks here, cousins and nephews and nieces all here.”
“So who’re they waiting on?”
“Wife and grown stepkids ain’t here. Out-of-towners.”
“Any idea why?”
“Probably got lost.” Chet looked around. “Happens sometimes in these small county graveyards.”
“Yeah, it’d be easy to miss that unmarked gravel road.”
“Ain’t unmarked… somebody stole the sign.”
No difference to Kelly. “Whose funeral is it?”
“Don’t know him. Vietnam vet. We’re burying them younger and younger.”
A breeze made Kelly wish she’d brought her jacket after all. “Lousy morning for a funeral.”
“What do you mean?”
“They got that big drill thing going. Practically all day as I understand it.”
“Forgot.”
“Drill day. D-Day.”
Chet gave her a look. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“I didn’t mean anything, Pop. I know D-Day was the start of the battle that won the war in Europe.”
He cleared his throat raggedly. “Well, originally D-Day meant the start date of almost any large military operation — not just invasions or landings. But after the air, naval, and land operation along Normandy coast by American, British, and Canadian troops, D-Day has come ta mean June Sixth, 1944, period.”
It sounded like one
of Chet’s presentations to the school classes he and other Legion members often visited.
Chet looked at the deceased veteran’s fresh grave, still open. “I lost a cousin at Normandy. David Wayne Cox. He was in the 101st Airborne.”
Kelly touched his olive drab sleeve. “We’ll just call it the drill day, Pop.” She scanned the faces of those milling around. “Is that your cousin Don over there?”
“I guess.”
“While we’re waiting for the immediate family to show, I’ll go say ‘hey’.”
Don Norman saw her approaching. “Hi, Kelly. Long time.”
Kelly shook his hand. “Did you know the deceased?” She pointed to the faded canopy over the casket, the clay-stained outdoor carpet, and the scratched chromed railing.
“Not all that well. I sold his old house and got him into a new place. Then he got divorced, sold that house with another realtor, and married some Ohio woman. Anyway, I’m just paying my respects to a former client family. Plus, I needed to look at some properties around the Elihu community.”
“How are things in real estate?”
“So-so.” Don shifted quickly from business. “What are you doing here?”
“Assignment. Articles on veterans for next month.”
“Writing up the Honor Guard?”
“Pop calls it the Firing Squad, which makes it sound like an execution.” Kelly chuckled. “No, not the Honor Guard itself. But I’m going to interview Mister Henley and a couple of his shooters.”
“That’d be Master Sergeant Henley.” Don touched his own upper arm as though he wore those chevrons. Then he lowered his voice. “Are you a betting woman, Kelly?”
“Not generally. Why?” She’d also lowered her voice without realizing it.
“If you were, I’d bet you ten-to-one that your hand is on that guy’s knee within about ten minutes of meeting him.” Don pointed to a short, stocky man in BDUs — battle dress uniform.
“The guy in fatigues? Well, Don, I’ll have to say that’s a long shot. He’s not even my type. But I’m not going to take your money anyway. No bet. Sorry.”
“Too bad. It’s a sure thing for me.” Don looked toward the road, probably wondering when the widow might arrive. “Are you going to eat with the soldiers after the service?”
“You know about the luncheon too?”
“Oh yeah. Somebody almost always feeds the entire Honor Guard. Flag detail and bugler included.”
“Is it always at Mister Henley’s place?”
“Sergeant Henley.” Don gave her a look. “Depends. Sometimes it’s at a church nearby. Occasionally the family of the deceased. Sometimes one of the honor guard members — or his wife, really — hosts it.”
“Well, somebody told me old men just eat cheese sandwiches for lunch.” Kelly winked.
“Today’s luncheon ought to be a great meal. When Irene Henley hosts the honor guard, she invites neighbors and everybody. If it stays nice weather, she’ll probably have somebody grilling outside. You won’t want to miss it.”
“What a salesman. I’m going already. By the way, where do the Henleys live?”
“Look for the big American flag, out in a place called the Community.” Don looked around like he was going to point somewhere, but didn’t. “Craziest thing. Considering the national housing slump, real estate in this area is kind of booming. People are building west of there, south of there, and even to the east. But the Community’s in this huge area with hardly anything on it but pasture land. Just a relatively small housing development — only about sixty duplexes now, but they’re expanding — surrounded by trees and a creek bed on one side, and fields all around every other side.”
“How come that huge area’s not developed?”
“Most of it’s owned by the Phenergren family. Nobody knows why they won’t sell any. You have to figure pasture land can’t possibly make as much money as selling tracts for subdivisions.”
“What part of town is it?”
“Ha! Don’t bother trying to use any local maps. If you’ve got four different local maps, they’ll show you four different versions of that area. Funny. They’ll have some parts of town perfect down to a gnat’s butt, but they act like this expanse is uncharted territory.” He was obviously on a familiar tirade. “Out of date maps are tough for real estate business. And sometimes you get really whacked-out results with those Internet maps too.”
“Don, you didn’t get close to answering my question.”
He looked around like somebody just thumped his head with a bent knuckle. “Sorry. It’s south, on the west side of 27. Bordered on the northeast by Great Vista, on the northwest by Pine Mill.” Don squinted and turned his head slightly. “On the southeast by Whiskey, and on the southwest by Naymon’s Lane. All told, it has… I guess about nine hundred acres, maybe a thousand. You know, I could subdivide that with half-acre lots — which is a good size — and there’d be room for close to two thousand homes out there. Imagine.” Don looked like he was dreaming of millions in commissions. “But except for the Community up in the northeast quadrant, there’s only a few houses on the fringes of the roads that border it.”
“So, access to the Henley’s neighborhood is off Great Vista Boulevard. Right?”
Don nodded. “I’d like to sell a few of those duplex condos they’re about to build on that new north loop. Even though there’s a lot of drawbacks living in such an isolated neighborhood.”
“What kind of drawbacks?”
“Need direct roads into and out of a development. People don’t want to live on a busy street, but they want their street to connect directly to major arteries. You don’t want half a dozen turns and as many stop signs just to reach Highway 27. You also want an area that’s relatively level. Hills and curves look pretty in brochures and TV commercials, but having too many is just plain dangerous.” Don held his hand out flat in front of him. “Old folks like those in the Community need flat, level, and straight. Not hills and curves.”
“Realtors always talk about location, but I didn’t realize you’re fanatics about the location being level.”
“Well, think about that neighborhood — you’ll see what I mean when you get there. A short narrow, crooked, hilly road goes in from the northeast and a long narrow, crooked, hilly road comes out in the south. Neither one is a full two lanes wide and no center stripe, of course. There’s no direct connection to 27, which is the only surface with more than two lanes in that entire part of town. No lights out there.” Don paused. “If one of those roads was blocked by a stalled car you couldn’t hardly get an ambulance out there to take one of those old folks to the ER.”
Over Don’s shoulder, Kelly saw a dark sedan drive up the cemetery road. Spitting dust the whole way, it made a screeching stop in the loose gravel. Fussing about a run in her black hose, the obvious widow abruptly exited the driver side and tossed a half-smoked cigarette to the ground. Dust swirled around the vehicle and made her cough raggedly.
One of the funeral directors approached her. “I’m sorry, we waited as long as we could. We thought maybe there’d been some change of plans on your part.”
One of the grown sons got in his face briefly, but Kelly couldn’t hear what was said. He seemed to be complaining more about the lack of directions than his stepfather’s casket leaving the funeral home before they even arrived.
Eventually things settled down a bit. The widow straightened her black skirt, just above knee-length, and took another look at the run in her hose. Seems more concerned about the hose than her dead husband.
The funeral directors quickly organized everyone.
The mostly elderly Honor Guard members rose slowly, stretched stiffly, and lined up. They stood at attention with their rifles at right shoulder arms.
It was a short service. The preacher had never even met the deceased.
“No doubt he was a fine man…”
“I expect he enjoyed his time with family…”
“Living his whole life in this a
rea around Lake Cumberland, I’ll bet he liked to fish.”
“We’re here to say farewell to this man whose sixty-one years seems all too short.”
Not much of a eulogy in Kelly’s book. I hope it’s not a stranger who speaks at my graveside.
The Firing Squad shot three volleys and the bugler played Taps.
The one-man flag detail took the folded colors from inside the deceased’s casket and handed that somber triangle to the widow. She looked perturbed and quickly thrust it toward her older son without even thanking the soldier.
The directors lined up the family and several people came by to shake their hands. A cluster of cousins stayed off to the side and did not speak to the widow or her sons.
There were no tears visible anywhere, except in the eyes of a mangy goat standing in the back of a pickup truck. It was the animal’s smell which first caught Kelly’s attention. She wondered why the goat was tearful and realized he had dust in his eyes. Probably from the widow’s car earlier.
The widow and grown sons piled back into their dark sedan. Abruptly backing up and nearly colliding with the goat’s pickup truck, the widow peeled out, her car’s tires spitting gravel.
“Wow.” Kelly waved through the dust in front of her face. “That’s a funeral I won’t forget.”
Chet was obviously ready to hand in his rifle but nobody was near the dusty station wagon which served as their traveling armory. With his M-1 slung over his shoulder, he trudged toward Kelly.
“I got tied up with Don and didn’t get to meet Mister Henley before the service. Which one is he?”
“Master Sergeant.” Chet pointed with his thumb. “C’mon.”
Kelly followed.
“Pete, this is my,” Chet cleared his throat loudly, “tenant in that cabin I built.”
“Kelly Randall.” She extended her hand.
