Souvenir (6 page)

The family led the casket out, Joanne supported on either side by her daughter and granddaughter, each of them towering over her. Joanne disappearing beneath their arms as they encased her, her bent and thin frame bowed under the weight of her grief and their youth. As Clay watched, he saw her face from forty years ago. Full, fleshy, smiling, dark hair framing her clear white skin. He looked at Addy, conjuring up her face from the same time. The light brown hair, bright hazel green eyes, thin nose, full lips, the long graceful neck she always showed off with her treasured strand of pearls. As he looked at her, she turned and smiled at him. Only the right side of her mouth moved. She pulled her left hand onto her lap with her right as she turned to watch the procession.

Clay looked at his hands again. They used to be beefy, a strong grip bred of a lifetime of work, hoisting boxes, stacking cartons of liquor, carrying a rifle. Now they were husks, aching, thin, spotted with age. Whatever happened to his strength, his ease of movement, his will to act?

“C’mon, Dad,” Chris said, standing up. He took his mother under her arm, supporting her by the elbow and helping her stand. Clay grabbed at the pew in front of him, pulling himself up, and fumbling, trying to help his son. Addy was already on her feet, steadying herself with her good arm as Chris stood behind her, holding her under her left arm.

“Ahm okay,” Addy said, slowly and deliberately, like they taught her in rehab. She nodded her head forward, telling Clay to get a move on. Addy didn’t waste words these days, they were too hard to get out. In the aisle, she took Clay’s arm as Chris stood by her left side, his arm under hers and enfolding her hand in his. Addy moved slowly, but she moved, mostly under her own power. Step, drag, step, drag. It took all of her concentration, but she could do it. She had to remember to use her whole body to move that leg forward. Her steps had a rhythm to them, and if she remembered the tune she could do it. Some days the tune was jumbled, and she couldn’t trust herself going from one room to another. Those days were awful, humiliating. Today everything was clear, the tune played throughout her body, step, drag, step, drag, and she moved down the aisle, past the empty pews, husband and son on either side of her, proud of her accomplishment. Proud she was still here. She squeezed Chris’ hand, then realized it was only the memory of a squeeze that she felt. That hand was heavy, a weight at the end of an arm that had some feeling, but it only went so far. Her hand seemed too distant, the journey too far for her will to reach. Oh well, there are worse things. Worse things indeed.

Chris drove, his unmarked State Police cruiser leading the procession with lights flashing, along with the motorcycles from the Meriden police. Chris had come up from the Meriden force, one of the first classes to graduate from the new State Police Academy built on the outskirts of the city. As a patrolman, Chris had worked under Bob, and that made for complications. It was easier when Chris joined the Staties, fewer occasions for Bob to come between them. There had been a time when Clay wondered if Chris would have preferred Bob as his father. He had naturally spent more time with him, gravitated to his circle of police pals, away from Clay and his work at the Tavern. Reason enough for that, Clay thought.

The ground at the cemetery was damp, wet with the spring thaw. Chris wore only his suit jacket, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the promise of release from the cold and dark. Crocuses were popping up in front of tombstones where the sun warmed the stone, bright dots of color scattered among the gray markers. Clay and Addy were bundled against the lingering chill, thick wool coats and gloves aiming to do what their bodies no longer could. Clay looked at his son, saw the light breeze blowing his jacket open, and shivered, feeling the wind on his own ribs.

Chris stepped in to help his mother to one of the folding chairs as Clay walked behind them, too old to lead, but not feeble enough to need help. Not the graveside front row, but the second. They weren’t front row candidates, the odd shifts in relationships, the secrets, the collisions of honor and duty with the bonds of friendship and family thrusting them into an honorable but secondary position here, behind the cousins from out of town, but in front of the police chief. Their intimacies, though troubled, trumped simple rank.

Addy looked up to Clay, then down to the empty seat next to her. Chris stood aside from his sentinel position to let his father through. Clay signaled no with his hand, and Addy nodded her understanding. It wouldn’t do to sit as Bob was lowered into the ground, his friend, the twenty-two year gap in their relationship notwithstanding. Bob was a comrade, one of the lucky ones, who came home to live a life and be buried in a satin-lined coffin, surrounded by friends and family, and in his best suit. Clay would stand, all right. Stand as he did so often, from Belgium to Meriden, from pits hacked out of frozen earth and marked with a helmet and an up-ended M1, to the precisely cut graves in manicured cemeteries, under sunny springtime skies.

A plane droned overhead, a Piper Cub, probably from Markham Municipal Airport, some guy out for a joyride, or maybe a lesson. Clay craned his neck back, watching it climb and level out. He couldn’t hear a plane without looking up, following it, tracking it, judging altitude and distance. He shook his head, still angry, still not able to understand after all the years gone by. How come those fucking Me-109s could get up with all that cloud cover, but our planes couldn’t? Still fearing that next snarl of engines coming over the treetops. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.

Prayers floated out of the preacher’s mouth, blown away on the breeze that flapped the pages of the little white book he held in his hand. Clay felt the wind on his face as he turned to look for the bugler, standing apart, away from the firing party, separate from the mourners. He had been to funerals where it was only a recording, and he was glad today wasn’t a busy day for the Army graveside teams. His pal deserved the real thing.

Mournful, haunting notes sang to him. Taps. Squeezing his eyes shut, trying to keep the sound at bay, Clay felt his body tremble. He ran thoughts through his mind, busying it with everyday details, trying to remember what they needed at the store, when his next doctor’s appointment was, how much money he had in his wallet, anything to fill it up, outlast the song, drown out the emotion, drain it away, leave nothing, nothing, nothing.

Silence, broken by a curt command, the sound of heels turning, palms slapping wood and the metallic snap of seven bolts.

Fire.

Clay kept his eyes on the casket as the seven shots rang out. Are you hearing this, Bob? Did you ever think you’d make it this far, having the Army give you a song and a salute, or were you certain some Jap bullet had your name on it?

Fire.

Knowing it was coming again, Clay still flinched. Can’t help it, Bob, you know that. Were you surprised to find yourself home, alive, the victor? Did you wonder about that, about living? If making it out alive wasn’t maybe the most terrible loss of all?

Fire.

Jesus Christ!

“You okay, Dad?” Chris whispered as the smoke drifted over the tombstones and the firing party returned to their positions. Clay looked at him, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open.

“I—it caught me off guard, that’s all.”

He shook off Chris’s hand on his arm. Who the hell did he think he was anyway, his nursemaid? The sudden movement left him unbalanced and he wobbled, slipping in the damp grass, regaining his footing after a brief flail with both arms. He felt his face flush, his mouth turned down in a grim frown. He wanted to go home, fed up with this foolishness. Bob was dead days now, put his body in the ground and be done with it. He didn’t look at Chris, or Addy. He watched as the folded flag was handed to Joanne, who cradled it in her hands.

“Let’s go,” Clay said, and stalked off to the car. Chris could take care of Addy, he’d only be in the way.

Bob and Joanne’s house was filled with people. Joanne’s house now, Clay corrected himself. Wonder if she’ll move. Florida? In with her daughter? Or will she stay here, with the memories embedded in the walls along with the family photographs and pictures of Bob in uniform? A small snapshot in a standup frame stood on the mantle. A black and white, nearly faded, of Bob in khaki, standing in front of a tent, a big grin spread across his face.

Clay sat next to Addy on the couch in the living room. Folding chairs were everywhere and people scurried busily between rooms, trays of food, bottles of liquor, cakes on platters, all being transported to the kitchen and then dispersed throughout the house.

“Clay, ah could eat somethin’” Addy said. When she said his name, she had to roll it around so it would come out right. It sounded like two words, Cla – ay. Clay smiled, hiding his secret wish that Addy might recover, speak clearly, walk easily with him. He felt ashamed, but couldn’t stop himself from wishing it. He patted her knee, pushed himself up and off the couch with a grunt, and walked through the narrow archway into the kitchen.

Nodding at people he knew he should know the names of, Clay shuffled along in line, paper plate in hand, scanning the mounds of food set out on the kitchen table. Addy liked little bites, things that were easy to chew on one side of her mouth. Especially in public. He chose chicken salad for her, a small roll with roast beef for himself. He wasn’t hungry, but it gave him something to do.

In the living room, Joanne was in his seat and Addy was holding her hand.

“…blessin’. Coulda been so much wor…wor…been so bad,” Addy said to her. Some words defeated her entirely. Clay was never certain if she couldn’t say them or couldn’t remember how they ended. Either way, she was right. Bob was too young to go, but who was to say a sudden stroke now was worse than a lingering disease five years from now? It had been quick, out on the sidewalk on Colony Street, right after a cup of coffee at his favorite diner.

“I know, dear,” Joanne said, “I know. Like Marcy Stevens, her husband had brain cancer. He wasn’t the same man after the operation, and she cared for him day and night. I don’t know if I could—” Joanne stopped, suddenly aware of Clay standing in front of them, holding two plates of food. She hesitated, not knowing what to say next. It wasn’t her place to comment on the ability of people to take care of each other, not with Clay and Addy.

“Here, Clay, sit down,” she said, halfway up before he put a hand on her shoulder.

“You stay, Joanne,” he said, as he handed Addy her plate. “I can eat a sandwich standing up. I’m not that decrepit.”

“Yet,” said Addy. She smiled her odd half smile, as if she wore that theater mask, half comedy, half tragedy.

“Sweetie,” Joanne said, leaning her shoulder against Addy’s, “I’m glad you’re here. I can use all the laughs I can get.”

“You an’ me both,” Addy said, raising a forkful of chicken salad to her mouth. That cracked them both up, it was so funny in a sad and unintended kind of way. Clay smiled, felt good for the first time that day. The grieving widow and the stroke victim, yukking it up. Good for them. He grabbed an empty folding chair and pulled it over, put his plate down on it.

“Can I get either of you a drink?” he asked.

“What are you, a bartender?” Joanne asked. For some reason, this was even funnier than the last crack, and they hooted. People turned their heads, wondering who was disrupting the solemn occasion. Joanne cupped her hand over her mouth and buried her head on her knees. Clay, worried she was sobbing, put his hand on her shoulder. She popped up, looked around the room, looked at Addy, and they started all over again.

Sometimes you just gotta let them laugh at you. Like that time they took over some K Company foxholes outside of—where was that—Durier, maybe. Kraut artillery was dropping all around them, and everyone raced for the foxholes. Clay jumped in the nearest one, landing right in a pile of shit. The foxholes were about five yards apart, but everyone heard him yelling and cussing. The previous occupant had taken a crap into an empty D-Ration box, common enough when getting out of your foxhole for any reason meant a sniper’s bullet or an artillery barrage. Usual practice was to toss the box out, but this guy must’ve done his duty right before pulling out, and left it, maybe because he forgot or maybe he was a real bastard.

The whole squad laughed at him for two days. All they had to do was look at him and they’d burst out laughing. He was mad at first, then irritated, then he gave up. If it was good for a laugh, so what? He came back with a scotch and soda for them both. A good bartender knows.

He sipped his own drink, good bourbon from a bottle he had given Bob for a birthday present last year. It stinks when your whisky outlives you. He looked at the empty glass and was about to get another when Joanne leaned forward from the couch. She was laughed out now, eyes red with tears, spent. She rubbed her hands together, massaging aching knuckles and trying to bring back any of the warmth they had once held.

“Clay, I want you to know how much it meant to Bob that you two patched things up, or whatever happened. Maybe you just put it aside, I don’t know, and I don’t care. You were there when he needed you. You both were.” She turned and grasped Addy’s good hand. “You were a good friend to him, Clay.”

He couldn’t speak. He took her other hand and the three of them sat there, faces set in grim smiles, connected to each other through death in more ways than Clay dared count. After twenty-two years of not speaking, of not acknowledging each other on the street, at ball games, restaurants, anywhere their paths might cross, Clay had heard the news. Bob and Joanne’s boy Gary, their oldest, had been killed in a car accident. Clay drove over to their house, this house, with Addy nervously standing behind him. She and Joanne had not been party to what had driven the men apart, but had drifted apart themselves, the gulf between their husbands too great for them to bridge alone. The house had been full then too, cops and casseroles wall to wall. Clay found Bob and said, “I’m sorry, Bob,” and it was all over. Clay and Addy entered their grief and stayed on, as if the intervening decades were just a blip, a little misunderstanding that no one even remembered.