The Final Service

by Gary W. Moore

  “We wanted to introduce you to our friends,” said Tracey with her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “Why didn’t you two come over?”

  “We were talking.” Rob glanced at his watch when a cacophony of sounds comprised of groups of marching percussionists warming up to prepare for the evening competition reached their ears. “We should probably head into the stadium.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing like the sound of a corps drum line warming up, is there Shadow?” asked Tracey. “Still stirs my soul. Come on guys, let’s go find our seats.”

  Sandy had no intention of sitting anywhere near Steve, and once inside and at their row, she watched where he sat down and plopped herself down three seats over, leaving Tracey and Rob to occupy the middle two.

  Once the competition began, the pageantry of the event captivated the women, who talked, cheered, and relived their youth through the young musicians marching on the field.

  During The Phantom Regiment performance, a man down below on the track caught Sandy’s attention as he watched and loudly cheered the corps. She could not take her eyes off him. He seemed … oddly familiar. An audible gasp passed her lips when she figured it out: It was her father, only twenty-five years earlier. The crowd noise morphed into an indistinguishable roar as a memory from 1970 scrolled across her mind. She was fifteen again, marching across a similar field, with her father’s hands in the air cheering her on from the sidelines. His actions made it obvious that he loved seeing her in uniform. He was screaming like she was a rock star. When she finished and marched off the field, Tom Loucks ran over and hugged her as tightly as his arms would allow. Tears clung to the corners of her eyes. The pride she remembered feeling from that day long ago was overwhelming in its embrace. She had never again experienced that same emotion, at least not as intensely, as she had on that once-forgotten summer evening.

  Finished with its performance, The Phantom Regiment began marching off the field. Sandy held her breath, waiting to see what would happen next. The man locked in her gaze ran to embrace a corps member carrying a sabre. At that, she burst into tears, jumped up from her seat, and ran past the others and down the stairs toward the stadium exit.

  “Shadow!”

  Tracey stood up, but Steve grabbed her arm. “I’ll handle this,” he said firmly before walking briskly down the stairs.

  Tracey started to follow him but Rob stood to block her way. “Stay here, Tracey. This isn’t our business.”

  Tracey shot her husband a look of incredulity. “What? She’s my best friend!” She shoved her way past Rob and flew toward the exit.

  Steve caught up with his pacing wife outside the stadium. Tears were streaming down her face.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and gently shook her. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “I’m trying to understand, but you’re acting like you’ve lost your mind!”

  “Stop!” Tracey yelled as she ran toward them. “Stop it right now!” She pushed her way between Steve and Sandy. “Steve, leave your wife alone! She is going through a lot right now!”

  Steve stepped back and raised his hands, palms out, in mock surrender. “You know what? Maybe you’ve both slipped over the edge.”

  “Hey, buddy!” Steve turned to see Rob trotting in their direction while motioning to him to meet him halfway. “That’s my wife you’re talking to. And you shouldn’t be talking to your wife that way!” Rob paused before adding, “I think your wife is grieving.”

  A shocked look passed over Steve’s face. “Sandy? Grieving for Tom Loucks? No,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He threw up his hands and began walking back toward the car.

  “Go with him, Rob.” Tracey jerked her head toward Steve. “Calm him down. I’ll stay here.” She turned to an obviously distraught Sandy and opened her arms. “Come here, Shadow. What’s going on?”

  “I … don’t … know,” she said between sobs. “There was a man on the track. He looked like … I thought … He looked just like my dad did when we used to march.”

  Tracey held her tight while she cried. “The man did look a little like your father back in the day,” confirmed her friend, “but it wasn’t him, Shadow. It wasn’t him.”

  “I know, of course it wasn’t him,” she sputtered, “but when he hugged that girl … it reminded me … just for a moment. I don’t know. For a split second, I thought it was him.”

  “Grief is powerful, Shadow. You act like you hate him, but the truth is something different. Rob’s right, you know.” Tracey paused a moment to straighten some of Sandy’s hair. “You still haven’t allowed yourself to grieve. There’s no right way or wrong way to do it, but this, well none of this seems healthy. Not one bit of it.”

  Sandy melted into Tracey’s arms and cried as if her tears could wash away years of disappointment and frustration.

  Chapter 17

  Steve tried to focus on the brief he was editing, a small piece of the large pile of work stacked on the right side of his desk. He still enjoyed editing in longhand, but unable to find the right word, and having scratched out several, he threw his pencil down in disgust and leaned back in his chair. The silver-framed 8 x 10 photograph of his family taken the previous spring, upright and proper on the opposite desk corner, used to produce a deep smile and a sense of satisfaction that helped him finish his work. Today it distracted his every thought and lodged a weight inside his chest he was unable to shake off.

  He had spent the morning arguing with a probation officer, the prosecutor, and the judge that his client deserved to get his driver’s license back and be placed on informal probation. The argument was a little unsettling even for Steve, but every client deserves honest and capable representation—and this man had surely paid his dues. Early on in this case, the client’s wife had tearfully confided that her husband began drinking years ago. A single beer once a week progressed to one beer a night, and then wine and hard alcohol. For the last two years he rarely went to bed without a drink on his nightstand. “His habit,” she explained, “was a slippery slope that began innocently, but slowly progressed until it was out of hand. It hurt all of us.”

  “All of us” meant not only his client, but his wife and their three teenage children. A few months earlier, an Illinois State Trooper pulled him over when he failed to use his turn signal. The routine traffic stop for a minor violation turned into handcuffs, the impounding of his vehicle, a DUI charge, and the loss of his license. The good husband and family man with no previous criminal record was also on the verge of being out of a job. He was a pilot, recently promoted to captain for a major airline. Pilots with DUIs risk losing their ability to work. His was a first offense, but his blood alcohol level was double the legal limit and he had refused to cooperate. Neither the FAA nor his airline took those matters lightly. Getting the court to reinstate his driver’s license and drop active probation requirements would go a long way toward helping him keep his job. The judge took the matter under advisement and told Steve he would render a decision within a few days.

  He had done his best and it was now in the hands of the judge. What Steve could not shake, however, were the similarities between his client and his wife. The more he compared them, the more unsettling they became. Sandy started drinking the same way a few years earlier. One glass of wine here, one vodka grapefruit there, until it was more common to find her with a glass in her hand than it was to see it empty. He was more than a little surprised that her drinking had not yet interfered with her job as a teacher. But he also knew that could change in an instant.

  Sandy had never been pulled over for as much as a speeding ticket, but she was a teacher in a small town. He knew that if she were ever found guilty of drunk driving, surviving the damage that would inflict upon her credibility and reputation as a teacher would be nearly impossible. Even an arrest without a conviction could sink her, and teaching was her entire life. Few in the community knew Sandy drank at all. It would only be a matter of time before Bill Buck’s parents share
d the story of their son’s unfortunate dinner at the Richards’ home.

  In a small town—especially in a small town—perception is reality. He knew he had to do something, and soon, but Sandy was not in the mood to hear anything he had to say. He also knew that as her best friend, Tracey was the key to getting Sandy to understand the seriousness of the situation. But he and Tracey were also barely on speaking terms.

  With a final glance at the family portrait, Steve pulled out his cell, punched in the number, and waited for the phone to ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Steve.” The phone was silent for several seconds. “Hello?”

  “Everything okay?” she finally asked.

  Steve sighed. “Yes. Well, no. Sandy need’s your help. It’s important.” He hesitated before adding, “Our family needs your help, Tracey.”

  “Has something else happened?”

  “Nothing new,” he replied, “but her drinking problem, frankly, is out of hand. I know she is wrestling with her dad’s death, and her broken relationship with him.” He paused to hear her reply, but Tracey remained silent. “She’s also seeing someone who probably isn’t there. I think you know what I mean.”

  “Yes. I think I know what you mean.”

  “I don’t know if it’s more one than the other,” he added. “Probably a combination of all of that.”

  “What would you like me to do, Steve?”

  “I can’t explain it. The man at the drums corps competition looked exactly like my father. For a moment I thought it really was.” Sandy stomped down an empty cardboard box and set it on a stack of flattened containers. “And Steve’s reaction frightened me. He’s never been that angry, not at me, anyway.”

  Sam, who was sitting in the rusty brown folding chair along the front of the barn wall, cocked his head and turned his ear toward the open barn door. “What do you want me to tell you, Sandy?”

  “How about that I am not going crazy?”

  “Do you think you are losing touch with reality?” he asked. Sandy remained silent, staring at her friend as if begging for an answer. Sam looked toward the door and Sandy followed his gaze. “At times like these, I think it is best to remain calm and just listen.”

  As if on cue, Steve stepped into the barn.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. Steve stepped several paces into the barn, with Tracey behind him. Sandy took two full steps backward.

  Tracey waved her hand as if to make light of their visit. “Hi, girlfriend. You know we both love you. We just want to talk—and you’re always here working, so …”

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked warily.

  Tracey winked in reply and cocked her head toward Steve as if to say, “This is his idea, so I will let him go first.”

  Sandy slowly turned and looked at Sam, who was seated in his chair nodding his head as if everything would be alright. She turned back to face Steve. “Well? Just say it. You’re both here for a reason.”

  “Okay, I will,” he replied. “I believe your drinking has gotten steadily worse in the past couple months and is affecting your judgment. I think your anger toward your father isn’t a normal reaction to his death. In fact, I think I grieve more for him than you do.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I think you are under a lot of stress—we both know that—and you are … hallucinating.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she replied. Her loud forced laugh that came next went on several seconds too long, echoed through the rafters, and prompted several barn swallows into uneasy flight. She looked at Sam for assurance. He was still sitting in his chair at the front of the barn against the wall, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, his chin cupped in his hands. “Hallucinating?” she continued. “Maybe I’m not the one with the problem, Steve.” An uncomfortable silence followed.

  “Tracey—you don’t believe all this, do you?” asked Sandy. Her friend bit her bottom lip and looked at Steve for guidance.

  “Sandy, you need more help than I’m qualified to give,” replied Steve. “I can see this wasn’t a good idea.” Steve spun on his heels and walked out of the barn.

  “Shadow, I’m … “I’m sorry,” whispered Tracey, who turned and followed Steve.

  Sandy, with one hand on her hip and her mouth wide open, spat, “I am not crazy! I think he needs help, Sam. I’m worried about my husband.”

  Sam offered a small shrug in reply but never took his eyes off the door.

  Chapter 18

  “It was as if darkness had permeated my skin and entered my soul. I was driven to be somewhere, but had no idea why or where I was headed. I just felt pulled by some invisible force. I was breathing like a panting animal.” In her right hand was paper cup of cold water. She took a small sip before continuing. “I felt my bare feet on the ground, cold and wet and I was walking, my steps long and fast. But I had no control of my legs. Then there was nothing under my feet and I fell into a pit of some kind, a long slow drop into darkness.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “No. I don’t think so. My landing was soft. I looked up. I saw the outline of the top of the pit. Beyond was only darkness. I was confused, but I wasn’t afraid. It was like all my senses were heightened. I heard muffled sounds of people talking, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I didn’t recognize their voices. I had no communication or contact with anything. My vision began to go blurry. I was enveloped in some sort of … sack. It wasn’t paper or plastic. It wasn’t hot or cold. It felt the same temperature as my body. I couldn’t tell where I ended, and where the opaque cocoon began.”

  The therapist sat back in her green leather chair and, using a yellow pencil, wrote a few notes on her pad. She looked to be about 50, tall, with silver hair spilling onto her shoulders. A pair of reading glasses hung loosely about her neck on a thin silver chain. She had a kind warm smile, and voice to match. “Go on,” she urged softly.

  Sandy continued. “Even though I couldn’t get out, I sensed, more than I knew, that outside the sack or bag or cocoon, my life was … out of control. Inside, I was safe. And then I woke up.”

  “And?” asked the therapist.

  “And nothing. I woke up.”

  The therapist was quiet for several seconds. “How did you feel when you realized you were awake?”

  “Sad.” She glanced toward the door just ten feet away.

  “If you had to use three more adjectives to tell me how you felt knowing you were awake, what would they be?”

  Sandy thought a moment. “Frustrated. Overwhelmed. And … lost.”

  “Why did you feel this way?”

  “Because all the things I had been dealing with were still waiting for me in the real world. I wanted to fall back into that warm darkness again, into the cocoon. I wish I were there now.”

  “That’s pretty common, Sandy,” she said in her soft comforting voice. “What do you think your dream meant?”

  Sandy frowned. “You’re the shrink. Isn’t that what my husband is paying you to figure out?”

  “How much did you drink before bed the night you had the dream?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic!” shot back Sandy. “And I know alcoholics. My father was one. For many years. And since I’m not, we can move on.” She looked at the door again. I wonder if it’s locked.

  “I didn’t say you are,” replied the therapist in a calm, steady voice. “But alcohol, even small amounts, alone or with medications, can have a profound effect upon how we sleep, how and what we dream, how we perceive our day-to-day life.” She paused before adding, “If you know alcoholics, then you know what I am telling you is true.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You can leave, Sandy,” added the therapist. “I can’t keep you here and I would not try. My hope is that you came to see me because you believe that I can help you.”

  Sandy nodded. “I promised my husband I would come.”

  “How much did you drink before bed?”

  “O
ne glass of red wine.”

  “When was the last time you didn’t have wine before bed?”

  Sandy raised her hand with an open palm. “I don’t drink every night.”

  “I believe you. When was the last night you didn’t have wine before going to bed?”

  “I don’t know,” huffed Sandy as she folded and unfolded her legs and shifted about in the chair in an effort to get more comfortable. “Tell me, doc, do you have heart disease in your family?” When the therapist didn’t reply, she asked again. “Well? Do you? Doctors recommend wine, particularly red wine. One glass per day is supposed to reduce the risk of heart disease.”

  The therapist jotted another note.

  “Write this down, doc. While you’re having open heart surgery, I’ll be having my nightly glass of wine.”

  “Sandy, let’s talk about why you came today,” suggested the therapist, who folded her hands atop her yellow pad and smiled. “I like the way you shared your dream with me—that is very helpful. But you are showing anger with me, and you keep glancing toward the door. As I said, and as you know, you came voluntarily, and you can leave whenever you wish.”

  “I promised my husband I’d see you. And my best friend.” Sandy lifted her paper cup to her lips and drained it. “And here I am.”

  “Will you share with me why they thought it was important for you see a therapist?”

  Sandy sighed deeply, looked up at the ceiling, and then back down at her hands. “I had an incident.” Her lower lip quivered. “I embarrassed my family.”

  “What happened?”

  “My daughter had a friend over for dinner,” she began. “I was carrying a bowl of soup to the table and I tripped. The soup went all over my daughter and her friend. And I broke the bowl.”

  “You tripped or you fell?” The therapist could see tiny tears clinging to the bottom of Sandy’s eyelashes.