And a concern.
When all of this sinks in, when the awful, cold truth really hits her after the fanfare dies down, she and Noah could maybe help each other.
Maybe…if the real Noah shows up.
Chapter 31
The Columbarium
Abby
By the time the funeral procession reaches the columbarium, Abby is in a panic. Her heart races, her throat has gone dry, and her palms are moist with sweat.
Her heels scrape over the paving stones, grinding the truth through her marrow. This is all wrong, and it’s all her fault. Why didn’t she stand up for what John would have wanted? Why did she let Sharice have her way?
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the columbarium itself. In fact, it’s lovely and dignified. An open array of walls form angled courtyards that open to stone arches and fountains and trees. Not a dark musty crypt, but a charming, serene structure.
Which makes her utter revulsion that much more surprising.
This place is majestic—a very dignified place of rest.
So why does it seem so wrong to leave her husband’s ashes here?
Why does she feel the impulse to snatch that urn from the caisson, kick off her shoes, and run like crazy over the grassy lawns, away from this pomp and circumstance, away from all these people who very kindly came to show their respects but did not really know John at all?
The impulse to flee with her husband’s remains is strong because he does not belong here. John loved his country, yes, but he lived so many lives before he was a soldier. He was a kid who loved to build things, a Boy Scout, a football player, friend, humanitarian. The definition of John was evolving and everchanging—a work in progress—and it pains her to see him defined in death solely as a soldier.
Silence shivers through the huge group of mourners as the honor guards face the back of the caisson. One of the white horses nickers softly, tossing its head.
The soldier lifts his arms and reaches his white-gloved hands toward the urn.
“Wait!” The word puffs out despite the lack of air in her lungs. Abby staggers forward and touches the urn. “I…I need a minute alone. One last good-bye.”
The soldier’s face remains stoically set but Abby detects a flicker of movement in his eyes beneath the shiny visor of his cap. He has probably never encountered an insane widow before. Maybe he’s wondering if he should hold fast to the urn. Defend the ashes! Have distraught family members ever dropped them?
A small gasp cuts the air, and Sharice’s face looms into Abby’s line of vision. “Abby? It’s time to let go, dear.”
But the honor guard does not seem to notice Sharice; his acute attention is on Abby. “Of course, Mrs. Stanton,” he says quietly. He grasps the urn with one hand, then offers Abby the crook of his other arm, which she accepts, sure that it is the kindest gesture anyone has made toward her.
The soldier escorts her around a wide stone wall to another world where green vines curl up to the edge of the red-and-gray stone path and green shrubs provide a modicum of privacy.
He places the urn on a low wall. “Take all the time you need.” He sounds sincere, as if it really doesn’t matter that a hundred or so people are waiting on the other side of the wall.
She bows her head, her eyes transmitting thanks as he takes two steps back, then cuts a sharp about-face and disappears beyond the wall.
“Abby?” Suz’s eyes are wide with concern as she peers around the corner.
“Come, quick!” Abby motions wildly and her friend scurries over. “I can’t go through with this,” she whispers tearfully. “I can’t leave him here. Not because I can’t let go, but because I don’t think this is the right place for him.” She covers her mouth with one hand, as if to censure her own words. “I didn’t have the heart to steal Sharice’s thunder, but now I just can’t do this!”
“It’s okay! We talked about this.” Suz’s voice is soothing, her hands in motion as she places her big black handbag on the ledge and unzips it.
“What am I going to do?” Abby gasps. “There are a hundred people on the other side of that wall, all of them waiting for me to give him up.”
“Not to worry.” Suz reaches into her bag and holds up a Ziploc bag filled with…gray ashes?
“What’s that?”
“We’ll do a switch. You’ll take John’s ashes home with you and we’ll leave these inside.”
“But what…is that Scott?”
“No, just what I could scrape out of my vacuum at home.”
“You brought those from home?” Abby cannot believe the premeditation that has gone into this exchange, but Suz is a woman of action, and she discussed Abby’s concerns with her more than once.
Suz opens the urn. “Okay, there’s supposed to be a liner in this thing. And I’ve heard there’ll be bone chunks…not just dust.” As she talks, she sticks a pen inside, trying to separate the liner from the urn. “Am I grossing you out?”
Abby shakes her head. “You’re going to make me laugh.”
“Easy peasy,” Suz says, jabbing the pen down deep. It slips, sending a small cloud of white dust up between them.
“Oh!” Abby bites back a laugh. “Maybe we should just ask the honor guard to shove the Ziploc bag in the vault.”
“Wise-ass.” Suz manages to extract the liner, which she quickly seals into a plastic bag and tucks into her purse. Seconds later, she plunks the vacuum dust into the urn and closes the lid. “There.” She brushes her hands against each other. “And I thought this trip would give me a break from dusting. What do I know?”
“Hey…” A voice calls from behind them.
Abby’s head snaps up, but it’s just Madison, who crosses the flagstones and joins them.
“What are you guys doing? Rolling joints or something?”
“Joints?” Suz’s brows rise. “Do people still use that terminology?”
“We had one last thing to do for John,” Abby says, “but we’re all finished.” She squeezes Madison’s hand. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Abby lifts the urn, takes a deep breath, and heads back to the waiting crowd, flanked by Madison and Suz.
“You did the right thing,” Suz says, patting her big purse.
Moments later, after the urn is stowed and a lone bugler plays taps, Abby knows that Suz is right.
She did the right thing.
Abby lets her eyes soften, and the dark silhouette of the bugler against the pale wall of niches seems poetic. She recalls the words to this song, which she sang as a girl in scout camp while the color guards lowered the flag at the end of the day.
“All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.”
Wherever his ashes end up resting, she prays his spirit is in a better place.
“Go with God,” she whispers. “Safely rest.”
Chapter 32
Washington, D.C.
Sharice
From her station near the door of the reception hall in this historic old wing of the Smithsonian, Sharice feels surprisingly nauseated. Isn’t that the sign of all her planning coming to fruition? She’s read that film directors often take sick after they complete production on a movie; it’s as if the body succumbs to the necessary demands of a grueling shooting schedule, and then, the minute the dream has been fulfilled, the body hollers for fair compensation.
Her hands are moist and tacky as clay, having squeezed the palms of half of Washington, her feet are raw from standing in heels, and her jaw is frozen from forming the regretful smile of the mother of the deceased.
“So kind of you to come.”
“John thought so much of you.”
“Thanks for being so thoughtful.”
Good Lord, she’s a walking Hallmark card.
Now that the demands of planning John’s funerals are at bay, Sharice will be forced to think about the reality, that her oldest son is really gone, and that’s too painful.
Activity at the reception has waned, though the hall is still
half full of friends, military personnel, and media. Off in one corner she recognizes a group of John’s friends from Rutgers—Spike Montessa and Marco Arechiga among them. Both boys seem to have found success, wives, suburban homes. The guys from the Seahawks have already departed. As they said their good-byes, Sharice nearly lost all composure at the sight of tears in Killer Kelly’s eyes. To see a hulking, grown man like that break down…it’s too much to bear, especially knowing what a good friend he was to John.
And where is her family? She hasn’t seen Noah for quite some time, and she hopes he hasn’t departed without saying good-bye. Abby sits at a table with her parents and friends, and she spies Madison sitting on a bench near the mirrored wall, talking with a young woman. Is that a friend of Abby’s? The woman looks familiar but Sharice can’t place her.
She spots Jim at a table by the window, talking with friends. When she joins him, their friends, Lt. and Mrs. Briggins, are saying their good-byes. Sharice hugs Laurel Briggins, then collapses into a chair. Under the long tablecloth, she pushes off her shoes and winces over the pain. The nerves on the bottom of her feet feel like they’ve been pounded into a pulp.
“My feet are killing me.”
Jim cocks an eyebrow. “I won’t say it.”
“Please, don’t,” she says, not wanting to hear “I told you so.”
They had an argument that morning over her choice of shoes—dramatic black heels that elongated her legs. She tossed off the comment that women’s shoes had to be designed by men as torture devices, and Jim had pointed out that she might want to wear something more practical, as it was going to be a long day. And she had lashed out that she was not going to go down in history as the hero’s mother who sported old grandma shoes. Then she burst into tears, and Jim had approached her from behind, kissed her cheek, then escaped into the shower.
Of course, the argument wasn’t really about shoes. Their arguments never were about the matter being discussed—mundane things like who left the car without gas or why they were eating crackers that contained trans fats. The thing that was eating away at them was always a few levels beneath the surface, the hideous beast of the deep that could not be broached because you would run out of breath and the pressure would crush you.
Today, it was about John…everything is about John now. She and Jim had both awakened before the alarm went off in that strange hotel room, with a feeling of foreboding. Sharice herself would have given anything not to have to play out this day.
But sometimes you don’t have a choice.
“I’m glad Madison finally found someone to talk to,” Sharice says. “She’s really been a crab on this trip.”
“It’s got to be hard for her, too,” Jim says, defending her. “She was close to John, and she’s still a kid. Sixteen. I can’t imagine going through something like this at her age.”
“You almost did,” Sharice reminds him. “Weren’t you just seventeen when you signed up? Half of the guys from your neighborhood had already been to Vietnam, and some of them didn’t come back.”
“That was different. Different times.” He picks at the edge of the label on his bottle of beer. “Maddy’s under a lot of stress.” He glances up. “We all are, darlin’. You’re going to be mad at me, but I let her have a drink. A Harvey Wallbanger.”
“Jim!”
“I figure it’s better she goes through me than sneaking around.”
“If she got one drink from you she probably charmed the bartender out of two.” Sharice rubs her feet together under the table and sighs. She can only hope that no one noticed Jim slipping an alcoholic drink to their daughter.
“She’s a good kid.” He defends her, again.
“A good kid who just tied one on at her brother’s funeral.”
“Sharice, honey…” He leans over the table. “Take a deep breath and let yourself relax a little. You’ve probably had the roughest day of anyone here.” He squeezes her hand. “Want a Harvey Wallbanger?”
She lets out a breath, a pitiful attempt at a laugh.
She senses a change behind her—a few guests departing—and she glances up to see Abby joining them.
“Sharice.” Abby’s head tilts. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Jim rises and slides a chair over for Abby. “Sit, please. Join us.”
As Abby smoothes the skirt of her new black dress to sit, Sharice notices a run coming up the heel of her daughter-in-law’s dark pantyhose. Girls today, they just don’t know how to dress up anymore. When she was in her twenties you didn’t go anywhere without clear nail polish in your bag to fix a run.
“Everything went so smoothly because of you. It was obvious you thought through every small detail,” Abby says, drawing Sharice’s attention back. “I don’t know how you did it, but I’ll always be grateful.” She pops out of her chair and leans down to hug Sharice.
“No one can multitask details quite like Sharice,” Jim says.
“I was happy to do it. You know I always have to keep busy.” Sharice pats Abby’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me be involved.”
“It worked out well, I think,” Abby says, moving back to her seat. “I can’t believe the level of media attention John attracted. Did you see all the cameras there today? It’s hard to believe people care so much.”
“If there’s any silver lining here, it’s that John was recognized as a hero.” When Abby puts a hand up to stop her, Sharice just smiles. “I know, you’re uncomfortable seeing him put on a pedestal, but that boy always followed his convictions. Having known him, you’ve got to admit he was as stubborn as they come.”
“Yes, yes, John did have a mind of his own. That’s not it.” Abby presses her hands to her lips in prayer position. “It’s the hero thing. There are some details of his death you need to know.”
Sharice’s teeth clamp tight, bracing herself. She can listen to what Abby has learned.
“Abby?” Jim scratches his jaw, inquisitive. “What is it?”
“It seems that John’s death was not combat related. Someone in his own unit shot him, maybe by accident, maybe deliberately. My friend Flint has been helping me track down the whole story.”
At first, Sharice does not comprehend. Abby’s words are just non sequiturs tossed in the air, unstrung and lacking in meaning.
“Wait a second,” Jim says. “Where did you get this information?”
“Flint was embedded in Iraq. When John was killed, he visited John’s company for a while at Camp Despair. He spoke at length with the soldier who was with John when he was shot.”
“Fratricide?” Jim’s eyes narrow; he is skeptical. “That would have to be reported.”
“Or deliberately overlooked,” Abby says, a frightened look in her eyes.
Sharice is still wading through the viscous news. Does this mean John’s death was unnecessary? His life taken because somebody aimed their rifle in the wrong direction? A foolish mistake. Not an act of heroism.
And now that he’s gone, is it worth muckraking? No amount of investigation will bring him back, but it might harm his reputation. Will they strip him of his medals? His Purple Heart, Medal of Valor?
Abby sighs. “I’m sorry. I know this is upsetting, but I wanted you to know before I started to pursue things. I want some answers from the army, some sort of investigation.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Sharice asks, her voice surprisingly void of emotion. “Why tarnish John’s reputation now, when you don’t even know what happened? You don’t have the facts yet, do you?”
“No,” Abby admits cautiously.
“And you may never know what happened over there,” Jim says wistfully, his eyes distant. “You really can’t know, unless you’re there.”
“True, there are things we’ll never know,” Abby says, “but right now the most difficult task is getting the army to give me a detailed account of what happened that day in the warehouse.” She rubs her temples, then lifts her head, resolved. “I know John wo
uld want the truth to be known, and I’m not going to stop until I get to the heart of this. He would want me to pursue the investigation.”
Abby rises, resolute. “I’m going to start making calls tomorrow.”
And ruin everything, Sharice thinks. Everything my son lived for will be gone…
“Sharice…Jim, listen. I’m sorry if this causes you further distress.” Abby squeezes her eyes shut. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to pretend I never heard this and just let it go. I want peace, for all of us. But I keep grappling with it in my mind, and the only answer is that I have to find the truth. It’s what John would have wanted.”
She steps forward and touches Sharice’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
In that moment, Sharice sees her own reality warping in that rare distortion that happens once or twice in a lifetime. It happened when she was a kid, the day JFK was shot, and a stranger flagged her mother down in the parking lot at the commissary to ask if it was true. All of the shows she watched on television were cancelled for days. A neighbor ran out of her house in curlers, tears streaming down her face, wanting to talk, looking for consolation because suddenly, the world was not as it was supposed to be.
Reality wrinkled again the day that terrorists hijacked four commercial flights and crashed them on U.S. soil. That September morning, she’d slept through the first attacks and awakened at 9:30 West Coast time to a world in crisis, TV journalists with more questions than answers, and skies empty except for the fighter jets circling from McChord Air Force Base.
And now, again…three times in one lifetime, reality shimmers and bends like fired glass. Her son is no longer a hero; he is reduced to a victim, a life lost in a costly error.
A mistake.
She looks across the table for help, but Jim is already gone, curled inside. Here is another topic to be added to the list of things that will not be discussed.
“I can’t believe it,” she says.
“Well, I can.” He stands, the action tugging slightly at the tablecloth as he heads off to the bar, leaving Sharice alone.
One September Morning Page 18
