Three people sat spellbound, as Kristin rose, approached the box and held out her hands. They saw nothing.
Kristin Belmont stared at the handsome face. A thought crossed her mind.
Yes, you truly are Donnie’s father.
Where’s my Abby?
It was a thunderbolt that rocked her. She steadied herself.
She will be here today in the chapel.
Ah!
Young woman, tell my friend he was not to blame.
The light dwindled down. Now only the skull stared at her.
To Witness
The great mural bore testimony to that fateful May day in 1864.
The flags of various states lined the lateral walls.
The Spartan oak pews bordered the nave to the chancel.
“Is everyone here?”
Wedding planners have to be fussy, obsessive–compulsive nit pickers. They are the recipients of countless bridal tears and mother of the bride hand wringing if everything is not perfect.
“Beau, you’re still wearing sneakers!”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s better than poking a thumb in certain people’s eyes.”
She tried to turn furtively. Yes, his parents were sitting in the back. Now, she stared at the chapel in toto and was amazed to see how many of the staff she had gotten to know since working at the institute. And this was only the dress rehearsal.
She smiled, as the women raised hands in thumbs-up salute.
She crossed her fingers. Was that one special person present?
The old lady sat quietly in the back row, her ceil blue dress fitting loosely over a food-deprived body. No one had deprived her. She had, as she was fond of saying, the appetite of a sparrow.
Kristin walked back and hugged the old woman.
“Thank you, Abby. I know it’s not easy for you to travel.”
Abigail Mayhugh looked at Kristin. Would I have had a daughter like this?
“Girl, give this to your young man. It’s been in my family for generations.”
She handed over the aged, marbleized cardboard box.
Kristin opened it, gasped and hugged her again.
“Come on, people,” the wedding planner called out in exasperation. “I know this is just a rehearsal, but practice makes perfect, right?”
Kristin sighed and lined up at the back of a small retinue of bridesmaids.
The wedding planner began to hum the processional music and the party moved forward. As they approached the altar, Kristin stopped and stared.
The mural was swirling in mist. The field of lost shoes was now a jungle.
Two others saw it.
The young army officer, Green Beret cocked to the side, smiled and extended his arms and beckoned.
Abigail stood, her own arms outstretched.
“Lonnie, Lonnie!”
The third observer stood ramrod straight. His right arm came up in full salute. His whisper was heard only by Kristin.
“Forgive me, Lon.”
The figure turned and smiled, and gave an off the forehead salute. Once more he extended his arms, and a second figure appeared in the mural. A young woman in ceil blue smiled radiantly at her lover. He, in turn, placed his arms around her.
The party turned as the sound of a falling object echoed from the back.
“Abby!”
Kristin ran to the back pew and held her in her arms. Beau and Dr. Shepland looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Kris,” Beau whispered, “she’s gone.”
Postscript: Let No Man Put Asunder
The modern day Pieta cast little shadow in the midday sun that May 15th.
Mr. and Mrs. Beau and Kristin Belmont Jensen gazed at Sir Moses Ezekiel’s statue of Virginia Mourning Her Dead.
Beside them stood Martha Miller.
The Cadet Commander read the names of those who had fallen or died as a result of wounds at the Battle of New Market on May 15, 1864.
With each name a cadet stepped forward, saluted, and answered:
“Died on the field of honor, sir!”
The last name and response in the doxology rang out.
Kristin took Martha Miller’s hand.
The cadet paused then called out in strident cadence:
“Lon Ashburn.”
Nathaniel Berkson stepped forward, saluted and replied:
“Died on the field of honor, sir!”
Special thanks to the man who wishes to be known only as “Leonidas,”
and to Mrs. Carole Green, VMI Director of Alumni Affairs who is not, and
is no relation to, the alumni director in the story, except in an amazing
coincidence—honest!—and who is even more gracious than her fictitious
counterpart.
About the Author
R.A. Comunale is a semi-retired physician in family practice and specialist in aviation medicine who lives and works out of his home office in McLean, Virginia. He enjoys writing, gardening, electronics, pounding on a piano, and yelling at his dimwitted cat. He describes himself as an eccentric and iconoclast.
The cat, with a canary-eating grin, comments, “I have a live-in girl friend, a sultry Burmese blue kitty named Eve. Now who’s the dimwitted one?”
~by Oakley
Shoes: Tails from the post Page 11
