One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  “I want to go to him,” Abby says. “Wherever he is…in Kuwait? Or Europe? I’ll fly to Iraq if they’re holding his body there. I just…somehow I feel the need to be with him. To meet him.”

  Her announcement is greeted with silence in the kitchen. Suz is the only one nodding in agreement, but then Abby knows she can count on her friend’s support no matter what she decides.

  Sharice pauses at the kitchen counter where she has been consolidating leftover coffee cake and cookies brought by friends. She does not answer but lifts her head, as if a large knot of disapproval is stuck in her throat.

  “Oh, Abby…” Jim Stanton’s voice is laced with worry. “You don’t want to go to Iraq.”

  “Iraq is out of the question. He’ll be airlifted to Kuwait by helicopter in the morning,” says Sgt. Palumbo, checking his watch. “Their morning, which is just hours away. The body will probably leave Iraq before any of us turn in tonight. He’ll be on a Hero Flight with other…fallen soldiers. You may have seen the photos. Each case is draped in an American flag with a special light on it. The remains are taken to Dover Air Force Base.”

  “In Delaware?” Abby asks.

  “Dover, Delaware.”

  “Then that’s where I’m going,” Abby says.

  “But the facility there…” Sgt. Palumbo strains to explain. “It’s a mortuary. They ID bodies, embalm them, and ship them home for funeral services. There would be nothing for you to do there, Abby.”

  “I know it probably sounds strange, but that’s how I feel, and I can’t stay here and just wait for administrative work to be done while he’s over there all…all alone.”

  “Abby…” Sgt. Palumbo shakes his head. “This is not a good idea. Dover is a military facility. They’re—”

  “Don’t worry,” she assures him, “I’m not expecting any special treatment there. I just need to be there, for John. I’ll book a flight for tomorrow, pack tonight, and…” She turns to Sharice. “You’ll tell me if I’m missing something—something important that I should be doing? I don’t have any experience with…this sort of thing.” And Sharice, she knew, had helped other women through it, more than a dozen times in the past few years.

  “Of course.” Sharice’s countenance softens. “But, really, you’re doing just fine.” She looks down at the cake platter. “I suppose there isn’t a wrong or right way to do any of this.”

  It’s the first visible streak of compassion that Abby has seen in her mother-in-law all day, and she is reminded that grief strikes people in different ways, at different times. Sharice has just lost her oldest son; who can fathom the emotional journey that lies ahead of her?

  By the time the visitors thin out, leaving Abby with an exceedingly clean kitchen and half a fridge of leftovers, Abby is sure she has weathered a month of Mondays. In truth, it’s just after seven.

  “I’m taking this one next door for a bath.” Suz nods at Sofia who is playing a game in the living room with a stack of Abby’s coasters, pretending they are plates containing “very delicious foods” that must be kept in a very specific order on the coffee table. “Do you want us to come back and stay with you?”

  Abby remembers the night Suz learned Scott had been killed, how Suz had put Sofia to bed, then spent most of the night on the floor with Abby going through photographs of Scott from boyhood, his college days, their wedding, Sofia’s baptism. She’d been happy to be there for Suz, but right now all she wanted was to be alone.

  “I’ll be okay.” Abby shoots a glance into the kitchen, not sure where her mother-in-law is lurking. “Actually, I just want to be alone right now.”

  “Well, give a holler if you need me.” Suz swoops down and lifts Sofia to her hip. Sofia objects that she hasn’t given out all the delicious foods yet, but Suz promises the coasters will be here next time she comes to play. On her way out, Suz stops to put a hand on Madison’s shoulder to say good-bye.

  Madison’s face is illuminated in the light of the computer, and Abby thinks she looks so mature for her age. On looks alone she could easily be mistaken for a college student, with wise periwinkle blue eyes and honey-blond hair streaked with pale gold that falls in a curtain over her shoulders. But beneath the smooth veneer of beauty, Madison possesses a naiveté that is very much sweet sixteen, a quality that Abby hopes will endure.

  “Here’s something you might want to look at,” Madison tells Abby once Suz has left. Needing to escape the annoying conversations around her, Madison agreed to send out a mass e-mail with pertinent details about John to friends and relatives, and manage the deluge of responses that Abby didn’t have time to handle. “You got an e-mail from a guy named Flint. Wasn’t he one of the college friends at your wedding?”

  Abby nods. “Dave Flint. He was one of my suitemates in college. Suite, as in we shared a set of rooms,” she clarifies with a slight smile.

  “He’s in Iraq,” Madison says. “Is he a soldier?”

  “A reporter. Actually, he likes to be called a journalist. He works for a newspaper up in Seattle.” She leans over Madison’s shoulder to read Flint’s email.

  Abs, sorry to hear about John. There are no words…. I’m on assignment in Iraq, not far from his FOB. Will head over there and see what I can find out. Reach out if you need me.

  —Flint

  “Why is he going over to the base where John was stationed?” Madison asks.

  “Because he thinks the information he can gather will help me,” Abby answers. “Or because there’s a story in it for him. Flint is a good friend, but journalism runs deep in his blood.”

  Madison looks up from the computer, the blue screen reflected on her pale face and hair. “Would you give him John’s story? Not the hero profile they all want to hear, but the real story of John.”

  “I don’t know. I won’t sanction inflating John’s life or death just because it makes for better entertainment, and I’m not sure that Flint would be able to work within those parameters.” She closes Flint’s e-mail, scans a few others, then shares a few personal things about the people Madison is writing to, to help fill her in.

  “Thank you for doing this. I want to get the word out, but I don’t feel capable of sitting at the computer and fielding e-mail right now.”

  “I don’t mind. And you’d better get packed. I got you on a morning flight to D.C.” Madison opens some papers that were discreetly folded closed and hands them to Abby. “It leaves kind of early, but it was a choice of early morning or take a red-eye tomorrow night.”

  “This will be fine,” Abby says, eager to be out of here and on her way. She’ll stay with her parents in Sterling, Virginia, until John’s body arrives at Dover Air Force Base, which is about a half day’s drive from D.C. Staring at the flight itinerary, which shows a short stopover in New York, Abby senses the small segments of reality falling into place around her, like autumn leaves covering her path.

  She’s flying off to meet John’s body. He’s dead.

  This is all horribly real.

  The door to the back patio slides open, and Sharice returns to the house, along with her husband and Sgt. Palumbo. From the way their conversation stops when they see her, she suspects they’re discussing John. Or, more specifically, the many mistakes she’s making by flying to Dover.

  “It just occurred to me that we should place an obituary in the papers,” Sharice says, joining Abby and Madison at the computer. “Would you like me to handle that?”

  “It would be a huge relief,” Abby says honestly. “I won’t have time to do anything here, since my flight leaves early in the morning. But do you think we could get the media to play down the hero angle and point up what a wonderful human being John was? Keep it short and to the point? I’d hate for them to puff him up as a war-loving hero.” Especially since he didn’t believe in this war.

  Behind Sharice’s back, Madison glances up from the computer and rolls her eyes, but Abby forges on. “John would want something simple. As he used to say, ‘Give it to me straight.’”<
br />
  “I’ll mention that,” Sharice says, “though the obit writers will do what they want. No keeping them in line.”

  “I know you’ll do your best,” Abby says, forcing herself to smile. She’s been forcing it so much today, her jaw aches.

  “I’ll say good night now,” Sgt. Palumbo says, “but Abby, I’ll call you on your cell in the morning. We’ll pin down the details for the ceremony over the next few days.”

  “Arlington Cemetery,” Sharice says knowingly. “I’m counting on it.”

  Abby thanks the sergeant and turns toward her bedroom, suddenly feeling exhausted but knowing she won’t be able to sleep. No…sleep is not the thing she needs. What she longs for now is the solace of a hot shower, a chance to be alone and cocooned within the rush of water, a place to let the tears flow freely, to sob and howl without someone patting her back and trying diplomatically to make her stop crying.

  “Well,” she tells Sharice, folding her arms in front of her chest, “thanks for all your help today. I’ll call you from the East Coast.”

  “We’re not finished here. I’m going to help you pack for your trip,” Sharice tells her.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Abby says. “We’re both tired, and I’m just going to throw a few things together.”

  “And then you’ll be across the country without the things you need. Don’t be silly. I’m happy to help.” Sharice marches into the bedroom. “At times like this, you forget to pack important things, and suddenly you find yourself across the country without a toothbrush, or minus your favorite slippers, or, God forbid, without any clean underwear. I remember traveling home when my father passed. The boys were young yet, and Madison wasn’t even born, and when we got word there was no time. We had to throw together a few essentials and jump on an army transport from Okinawa back to the States….”

  Abby sits on the edge of the bed, listening as Sharice talks from the closet.

  “Needless to say, there was no time to pack properly. I threw things into a suitcase and a duffel bag, trying to remember to pack the right dress clothes for the ceremony, as well as coats for the weather. Of course, when we arrived in Minnesota, nothing was quite right. I’d forgotten to pack dress shoes for the funeral. Had to borrow a pair from my sister. Those shoes gave me the worst kind of blister on my heel. Noah was angry about the blue suit I packed for him. He complained that it made him look like sailor boy. And John…apparently, just before we left the house, John dumped out all his clothes and replaced them with his collection of stuffed animals, so that they wouldn’t get lonely without him.”

  She emerges from the closet rolling a suitcase, another bag slung over her shoulder. “So there we are in Minnesota for my father’s funeral and John has nothing to wear. I was so angry with him.”

  “What did you do?” Abby asks, grateful for Sharice’s rare anecdote.

  “I made John wear Noah’s sailor suit. That taught him not to repack.” Sharice removes a garment bag from the closet. “You’d better take your dress clothes. Might as well have what you need in case the funeral is back east, which sounds very likely.”

  And that’s that, Abby thinks as her mother-in-law starts going through the garments hanging in her closet, looking for a suit or a dark dress.

  Thinking of comfort, Abby opens a drawer on her side of the dresser she shares with John and pulls out short white socks and panties, shorts and T-shirts. One pair of jeans should be enough, and she’ll need a sweatshirt. She pauses, then slides open John’s bottom drawer, where her hands dig into his old football jersey, scarlet red with the number nineteen on the front in white. Pressing her face into the soft folds, she inhales his scent, a mixture of salt and soap, a scent that creates a pang of longing deep in her soul. The jersey goes into the bag along with everything else, then she changes her mind and pulls it out. She’ll carry it with her on the plane, burrow into it when she has nowhere else to turn.

  As she closes the drawer, photographs on top of the dresser catch her eye. Two photos from their wedding, and a picture of John in his gray dress uniform, the sky behind him so blue that his dark hair and broad shoulders cut a bold silhouette. That smile…it tugs at her heart, even in a photo. She used to tease him that he could appear in a toothpaste commercial, and he’d flash her a wide grin, saying something inane like, “Brightens and whitens!”

  The black-and-white wedding photos have always reminded Abby of a classic film, one in which the soldiers return from the front in World War II to their joyous wives clad in sophisticated gowns. In one photo, John, in dress uniform, escorts Abby beneath an archway of crossed silver swords. John was so tall he had to duck, and a glint of light off the sword over his head makes it look as if he has a halo. The other photo is a close-up of Abby and John dancing, their eyes fixed on each other, each utterly mesmerized by the other.

  She never imagined herself as a soldier’s wife; the sword-crossing ceremony at their wedding made her feel like a princess, the bride of a knight. “I don’t see myself as an army wife,” she used to tell John, who would roll his eyes and remind her that labels are so limiting and often inaccurate. Abby didn’t want to be married to the military, but by the time John had come to the decision to enlist, she had already fallen for him, and the attraction, like John himself, was so huge and overwhelming and brilliant that she could not imagining spending her life with anyone but him. And now she is a military widow, a tag that seems just as ill-fitting and all the more unavoidable.

  “Slowing down on the job?” Sharice zips the garment bag closed and steps closer to view the photos. “I don’t know if Jim has ever told you, but he’s never been so proud as the day John and Noah enlisted. When John signed on to play for the Seahawks, we’d thought it was over—our family legacy in the military. And then…” She shrugs. “The terrorists attacked, and everything changed.”

  “To be honest,” Abby admits, “it wasn’t a change I welcomed. I never imagined myself as a soldier’s wife. It was a world, a culture, so foreign to me, and I prided myself on being in control of my own life.”

  “I sensed that about you,” Sharice says, heading back to the closet.

  “It’s hard to give up your freedom to ‘orders.’ I didn’t want to be married to the military, but suddenly it became part of John, part of the whole package if I wanted to be with him. And I did. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.” Her lower lip begins to curl as a sob threatens, but Abby bites down on it, tamping down the inevitable pain. Not here, not in front of her mother-in-law, who always seems to be silently questioning Abby’s mettle.

  “Your feelings about military service aside”—Sharice steps out of the closet to make eye contact—“no one has ever questioned your love for my son. We could tell you adored him, and he was just crazy about you, too.” Sharice sighs. “And although you didn’t choose military service for him, you also did not stand in his way. That’s admirable.”

  “I don’t know how you did it all these years, moving across the country when orders came up, being a single parent while Jim was deployed.”

  “You just do it. You adapt.” Sharice picks out a pair of black pumps from the floor of the closet and shrugs. “At least you’ve come to understand the dedication of the military community—unlike the rest of the country. I swear, they believe we sit here on base and hold Bingo tournaments. It’s always been an issue for me, the lack of support for the military community. Too many people don’t appreciate the sacrifices made by soldiers in the armed forces and their families. People just aren’t patriotic anymore.”

  Does Sharice think she’s lacking in patriotism?

  Picking up the photo of John in dress uniform, Abby studies the folds of the American flag flapping in the wind behind him and has to steel herself to keep from choking up. Her eyes still fill with tears when she witnesses the lowering of the flag at dusk here at Fort Lewis. Since 2001 she has not been able to witness a ceremony with the Stars and Stripes without choking up, recalling the image of the firefi
ghters who raised the flag at Ground Zero, the resounding choruses of “America, the Beautiful” that filled sports arenas and hearts at a time when the country was so shaken by acts of terrorism against innocent people.

  Was it patriotism that made her throat tighten in a lump as she watched the soldiers in John’s brigade line up to board their buses, their desert fatigues a speckled sea of muted tones? So many of them, men and women…and which ones would return healthy? Which would lose their lives or come home damaged and traumatized?

  Or was she unpatriotic to want her husband out of the war? Was it wrong to want to keep him here in the States, out of harm’s way? Was it selfish to wish he’d stayed in pro football, playing out his battles on Astroturf a few Sunday afternoons during the season?

  “I’m not sure what patriotism means anymore,” Abby says, surprised at her own honesty in front of Sharice. “But I have to admit, when John got on that bus to go to Iraq, I didn’t want him to be like the other men. I wanted him to be special, protected, as if he had a guardian angel watching over him.” She can still recall the eerie feeling as she scanned the long line of men, some turning to wave, others facing away, anonymous heads. “I knew some of those men would die, but I didn’t want it to be John. And knowing how strong and tall and courageous he was, I was sure he would survive. So sure.”

  “I’m sure he died in a state of grace,” Sharice says, “knowing that he gave his all for his country.”

  Abby suspects that Sharice has it all wrong, that John would be frustrated by his own pointless death, but she doesn’t have the energy to go there. She and Sharice have a long history of political friction, and after heated discussions of the exigencies and tragedies of war have come to a silent agreement not to venture to those dangerous territories in conversation. They agreed to disagree, but here is one occasion in which Abby wishes she shared her mother-in-law’s views. She presses the framed photo to her heart, hoping that Sharice is right, and that John found some peace as he left this world. At the very least, a glimmer of peace.