Ever After

by Karen Kingsbury

  Because Bo was right.

  These guys needed Justin more than anyone in Iraq needed him. And now he was never coming back, never going to play another game of hoops with them again, never sit on the steps of the center and shoot the breeze about girls and school and the reason he believed in God.

  She didn’t dare look. Didn’t open her eyes to see how the guys were reacting. She heard someone slam their fist on the table, and another boy kick a trash can. At least that’s what it sounded like. And that’s when she knew she had to look, because she was doing this for Justin. He wouldn’t have run from the raw pain that filled the room.

  He would’ve embraced it.

  She opened her eyes and looked around. They’d all scattered. Bo stood, face to the wall, his hands behind his head. Softly, he hit his forehead against the brick again and again and again. She could hear him saying, “No way … not my homeboy.”

  In the other corner, two guys had dropped to a pair of chairs, their heads all the way back, eyes focused on the ceiling. No tears, no anger, no emotion. Nothing. She shifted her attention. Dexter was gripping the trash can. He picked it up with both hands and slammed it against the cement floor. Other guys were responding like Bo, their faces to the brick wall, shutting out the world.

  She knew where to start. She went to Bo, and when she was close enough, she put her hand on his shoulder. She had no idea how he would respond, whether he would spin around and shout at her or knock her hand off him and run from the building. God … the peace You’ve given me, give it to Bo. Let me show it to him. Please, God …

  She dropped her voice so only he could hear her. “Bo?”

  Slowly, she felt the tension leave his shoulder, and then the rest of his body. He turned around, and she saw that he’d skinned his forehead on the bricks. But that wasn’t all. He was crying, weeping like a little boy who’d lost his best friend. Or the only dad figure he’d ever known. Anger twisted his features again, and he thumped his chest, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. “I told him not to go.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t give him a chance to push her away. He was a tall kid, almost a foot taller than her, but she didn’t hesitate. She put her arms around his waist and embraced him.

  At first she thought he might pull back, but then what was left of his hard exterior fell away. He hung his head on her shoulder and wept. “Why? Why him?”

  Emily couldn’t turn around and see how the others were handling this, the sight of their leader breaking down. But she didn’t have to. She heard footsteps behind her, and first Dexter, then the two future enlistees, came up and put their arms around her and Bo. A minute passed and the others joined them, so that she was surrounded by a group of crying tough guys whose whole world had come undone in as much time as it took her to tell them Justin was dead.

  When the crying subsided, when she was sure they were at least stable, she took a step back and pulled a handful of cards from her coat pocket. “The service is Saturday.”

  Bo took a card and fresh tears spilled from his eyes, angry tears. He shoved the piece of paper back at her, his words so many rocks. “I ain’t got no car, pretty girl.”

  “Yeah. How we supposed to get there?” Dexter let his card hang limp in his hand.

  Emily hadn’t thought about that. She looked over her shoulder at the office. Through a window, she could see a man working there, but apparently he was only filling in — someone displaced from a desk job at the city. Not someone passionate about the kids. Never had she heard about him interacting with the teens. Justin had told her the guy was there more for security than anything else, at least until they could find a full-time counselor. Still, he was in charge. Maybe he would have an answer.

  “Can you all be here that day, meet here three hours before the service? Say at about ten o’clock?” She hoped so. The idea that they wanted to come meant more than they could know. Further proof of Justin’s impact on their lives.

  The guys looked at each other and a few of them shrugged. “Yeah … of course.”

  “Okay, just a minute.” She hurried to the office door, knocked, and then entered before being asked. She explained the situation and asked if the man could provide a city van or a bus, some way for the kids to get to Justin’s service.

  The man behind the desk looked at her, his face blank. “For a funeral?” He set his pencil down and gave a sad laugh. He pointed out his office window at the kids huddled together near the ping-pong table. “Those kids see more death than you want to know about. Drug wars and gang fights. One more day, one more funeral.” He shook his head. “I wish I could help, but my hands are tied. They cut the budget again this year. Cut the pay for counselors — which is why we can’t get someone in here to work with the kids.” He frowned. “No way I can get a van or a bus.” He looked back at whatever he’d been working on. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  She ground her teeth together and stared at the man. That was it? No offer to make a phone call or see if there was money somewhere to help the guys? How did people get so calloused? And no wonder the teens looked forward to Justin’s visits. At first she’d figured he was probably one of lots of volunteers, another great role model for the teens. But she was beginning to understand. He was probably the only role model they had. And now he was dead.

  Without saying another word, she whipped around and shut the door behind her. The guys were watching, waiting for an answer. The sketchy hope in their eyes broke her heart. She locked eyes with Bo. “A van will be here at ten o’clock.” She looked at each tear-stained face, one at a time. “For sure.”

  Before she left, she took one more risk. “Justin’s death has left a lot of hurt behind. I wonder — ” she held her hands out to either side — “I wonder if all of us could just take a minute and pray.”

  Dexter smiled, even though his eyes were swimming in tears. “Justin was always trying to get us to pray, man.”

  “Yeah.” Another stepped forward and took Emily’s hand. “Too bad it took this to make it happen.”

  With only the hint of reluctance, the others stepped forward. Bo took one hand, and the rest fell in and formed a circle. He squeezed her fingers. “Can I say it … can I try, I mean?”

  Emily could almost picture Justin, somewhere in heaven, getting a front-row seat for this. She couldn’t talk, so she did what she could. She squeezed Bo’s fingers and nodded.

  He closed his eyes and hung his head, and around the circle the others did the same thing. Emily kept her eyes open. She wanted to savor this, the way Justin would’ve done if he were here.

  Bo cleared his throat.“Okay, God, so like … we’re all here and we’re really ticked off. Ticked don’t even cut it.” He sounded like he was talking through a clenched jaw. “I just have to ask if You’d please let people know what a good guy Justin was. He was our homeboy, and, I don’t know.” He sniffed. “Like a brother, I guess. I know he never shoulda gone, but he did. And now he’s with You.” His voice broke, and for a moment there was only the sound of his muffled sobs. “Take good care of him. Give him a hoops game like we used to play. With some good comp. And be with his girl. Because she’s being strong for us guys, but inside I know her heart’s breaking in half.” Another sob stopped him, and he struggled to find control. “Heck, all our hearts is breaking in half.”

  He released Emily’s hand and wiped his cheeks. Then he took hold of her fingers once more. “Thanks for helping him find his way here in the first place. None of us’ll ever be the same. You know, gangstas and stuff. Justin wanted better for us than that.” He paused, as if he wasn’t sure how to end the prayer. “That’s all. Amen.”

  Emily had attended church all her life. She’d grown up active in Sunday services and Sunday school and midweek Bible studies. In her twenty years she’d heard hundreds of beautiful, eloquent prayers.

  But none had ever made her feel as close to God as this one.

  The prayer of a grieving teenager whose first words to God came from a
heart that was broken in half.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lauren had never covered the sending-off of a dead soldier back to the States before. She’d seen the pictures, of course. Her magazine once ran a special about how bodies were lined up unceremoniously in the bellies of planes and brought back to the States in what amounted to covert operations. As if the commanding officers were trying to keep the picture of human loss from the public eye.

  As she stood on the tarmac, with Justin’s company lined up on either side of the walkway, she had no choice but to admit the obvious. If this was a typical send-off, they’d gotten that story wrong. The reason the military hadn’t paraded reporters in for a closer look at flag-covered coffins wasn’t because there was something to hide.

  It was out of respect.

  Every fallen soldier, every body that left the Middle East in the cargo compartment of a plane, in a box with a flag over the top, mattered deeply to the military. She could see that much simply by watching the proceedings taking place.

  A color guard made the presentation of the flag, and every eye in the company was on the red, white, and blue. Then, when the flag had been properly presented, a group of Justin’s closest friends carried the coffin to the far end of the aisle. On either side, soldiers moved in unison, their fingers lifting to their brows and staying that way. In a frozen salute.

  Lauren studied them, the look in their eyes as they bid their comrade farewell. How could the United States be anything but supportive of these young men? If they needed more supplies or more manpower, then someone better get on the ball and get it to them. She caught herself. If she meant that, then what about the comment she’d made to Scanlon?

  An ache spread through her chest.

  Why did everything about the war have to be so complicated? All along she’d thought it was either her way or Shane’s. A person could either be for the war or against it. But now neither answer seemed right. The only thing she’d really decided was that every U.S. citizen should support the young men fighting for freedom in the Middle East.

  Every single citizen.

  And if even a single American felt disdain for soldiers because of a story she’d written, then shame on her.

  The procession started to move, and Lauren could barely watch.

  Joe Greenwald, Justin’s bunk mate, held the front end of the coffin. Lauren had met him earlier, when she first arrived. Joe was a big teddy bear of a guy, but there was no denying the wetness on his cheeks. When the coffin had passed by, when the men had carried it up the stairs and into the plane, they went for the next one, and finally the third. Each body was going back to a different base, but the first leg of the journey started here.

  Finally, Joe was given his release orders, papers stating that because of his injury, a gash in his head that had taken nearly thirty stitches, he wasn’t required to return to Iraq. Lauren found out that this was Joe’s second tour. Same as Justin. Now he would go back to the base and decide whether he wanted to enlist for another four years — make the military a career choice, the way Justin had decided to do.

  Not until they were on the plane and the doors were shut, did Lauren take her seat next to Joe and say the words that had been building in her heart ever since she arrived at the base. She turned and studied the young man’s face, the pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Joe. About Justin.”

  “Yeah.” The soldier’s lower lip quivered. “Me too.”

  “You and he were good friends?”

  Joe nodded. He looked across to the window on the other side of the plane, and for a single instant, he glanced over his shoulder at the flag-draped casket a few feet away. “Best friend I ever had.”

  “I wish I’d known him better.” She turned to face him. “You were with him that day, with all the Iraqi kids, weren’t you?”

  Joe managed the hint of a smile. “Which day?” He chuckled and soothed his finger and thumb along his brow. “Oh, that Justin. There were never enough hours.”

  “My daughter says he was like that at home too.”

  “The volunteer work.” Joe shook his head. “If I wasn’t his roomie, I would’ve thought he was an angel or something.”

  “Messy?” Lauren winced.

  “The worst. Dirty shirts hanging from his bed, stuffed in the drawers.” He shifted positions and looked straight ahead, seeing into the past. “I’d tell him, come on, man. Isn’t it easier just to wash the clothes rather than work so hard to hide ’em?”

  They were quiet for a while as the plane gathered altitude and settled in. Lauren wouldn’t talk to him the whole time. He needed rest, no doubt. Time to think and grieve. But she wanted him to know her thoughts — in case he had any preconceived ideas. “My daughter, Emily … she loved him very much.”

  “I know.” He leaned back, his eyes distant. “He’d read me her emails. I’m not sure I can face her.”

  “She’s hurting, but she’s strong. She’s had a lot of loss in her life already. Things that happened when she was just a baby, when her father and I were separated.”

  “Right.” He looked straight ahead again. “Emily talked about some of that in her letters.”

  “Really?”

  “All about you and her dad and stuff.” Joe looked at her. “Justin was happy for you, Ms. Gibbs. He thought maybe God was changing you, softening you. Something like that.”

  “He has been.” Lauren still didn’t have all the answers, but her response was an honest one. “It started that day when I saw the two of you handing out bags and tossing a ball with those kids. I kept thinking,‘Why isn’t that the picture I have in my head when I think about soldiers?’

  He gave a sad nod. “Lots of people have the wrong picture.”

  “My stories lately … I hope they’re helping some readers see things more clearly.” She fell quiet. Then she remembered something Joe had said a few minutes ago. “What you said earlier, about facing Emily … I’m not sure she knows you’re coming. We never talked about it.”

  “Good.” He made a tight line with his lips, and his eyes grew watery. “That’ll give me more time to figure out what to say.”

  Lauren tilted her head. “What to say?”

  Joe opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He shaded his face with his hand and looked down at his lap. When he finally lifted his eyes, the pain there was so strong, she could feel it.

  “Joe?” She didn’t know if he needed a hug or a touch, but neither one seemed right.

  “Justin … he was lying there … dying.” He twisted his face up, fighting the tears, angry. “He made me promise to talk to her, to … to be her friend.” He swallowed hard. “Only … how am I supposed to do that when every time I look at her, I’m going to see the other part of the picture?”

  Again Lauren wasn’t sure what he meant.

  In light of her confused look, Joe reached down and pulled a red book from his bag. “This.” He handed it to her. “Emily made him a scrapbook.” His emotions took the upper hand for a few seconds. “Every night … Justin would look at it. I mean every night. He musta showed it to me a dozen times, until finally I opted out.”

  Lauren looked at the book in her lap and stared at the picture on the front page. It had dirt smudges and worn areas. Joe wasn’t exaggerating. Justin must’ve spent hours in the book for it to look this way.

  “See?” He pointed to the photo on the front. “Every time I look at her, I’ll just see the other half of the picture. Justin. Because he’s supposed to be the one coming home to her.”

  Lauren tried to absorb it all. Her heart was heavy for the young man beside her. He’d been through so much in the last few days. Riding along beside his best friend, a routine trip across the city, and suddenly being cast into the street, his vehicle ripped apart, bodies lying all around. He’d knelt there and watched Justin’s life drain away and then he’d made a promise. A promise he had no idea how to keep.

  “Something else.” Joe reached into his bag again and pulled out a smaller
object, a photograph. He held it out so she could see it. “He had this thing laminated, crazy guy.” He laughed, but it came out more like a sob. “Carried it with him in his boot. And wouldn’t you know … he was holding it when we hit the bomb.” Joe pulled the photo closer and looked at it. “Had it in his hand the whole time he was dying, only …” He hung his head, too distraught to speak.

  This time Lauren didn’t hold back. She took gentle hold of his arm, fighting the sadness in her own heart. The scene the young soldier was describing was gut wrenching, but more than that, it gave her a window to how much Justin Baker had loved Emily.

  Joe’s shoulders shook for a time, and then he exhaled hard and looked up. “Sorry. I think I’m getting past it and then … I don’t know.” He looked dazed, his eyes numb. “So Justin was losing strength fast and … I took the picture from him, held it up so he could see it.” Joe looked at the photo once more. “It was the last thing he saw before he died.” He brushed his knuckles rough and hard beneath his eyes. “Right after I promised to talk to her, to be her friend.”

  Lauren took the picture from Joe and studied it. The lamination had kept it intact, but even so, it was slightly bent and smudged. The single thing Justin had kept with him to give him hope about the future, about a time when he would be back in Tacoma, taking Emily on dates to Puget Sound and living the life of any other twenty-two-year-old kid.

  But that was just it. She ran her thumb over the photo. Justin wasn’t any other kid — or any other soldier. And nothing she could say would ease the pain of his loss. She returned the picture to Joe and settled back in her seat to look through the scrapbook.

  In the brief year that she’d known her daughter, Emily had always seemed mature for her age. Almost more like the adult than either she or Shane or their parents. It was Emily who doggedly hunted down information about Lauren and Shane, determined never to give up until she found them. It was Emily standing strong beside the two of them in the hospital room when her grandpa — Lauren’s father — was dying of cancer last December. Emily was a planner, an organizer, a peacemaker.