It was all too real.
I kept trying
to tell myself that it was all just a nightmare, a figment of my imagination.
But it wasn’t. This is reality, a cruel voice kept whispering in my
head, and I couldn’t shut it out, no matter how hard I tried.
The gray November day
itself reeked of finality, dead, brown leaves scattering across the church
parking lot. As I made my way through the crowd, I caught glimpses of faces I
knew, and then there were the strangers. There were hundreds. The sight of so
many different faces, all looking forlorn and gruesome, made me dizzy. The wind
caught my skirt and pulled me this way and that, the leaves swirled mockingly
about the ankles of the crowd. The whole world spun unsteadily as I fought my
rising emotions. Sinking wearily down on a cold metal bench, I realized that I
hadn't eaten in two days.
It didn't matter; I
wasn't hungry, even now. Just empty. There was a huge difference.
I spotted a
huddle of people I recognized all gathering close to pat and suffocate her.
The victim of a tragic love story. Each of Rose’s comforters leaned close to
offer a tender word and a well-meant piece of advice. Those big brown eyes
shone bright with tears, but were yet perfectly beautiful, with not the
slightest bit of puffiness lining them. She sniffed delicately; nodded
gratefully to all who approached. They each had some well-meant word of solace
to offer, most of them insincere, their minds focused on the latest fashion
from New York, the new ice-cream flavor at Harold’s, the rumor that Jack
Crawford was engaged to Amy Price.
They passed by
one by one, dropping tidbits of reassurance to Rose.
Abigail, her
blond tendrils whipping in the breeze hovered near her friend patting her
shoulder comfortingly, and offering a look of sympathy more sincere than any
words could have been. Her pretty blue eyes, looking green in the gray
afternoon light, were filled with unshed tears. The sight of my dear friend
looking so true in the midst of so much falseness and hypocrisy made my heart
ache with love for her. Abigail, my Abigail. Such a true friend. I saw her
glancing about and knew she was looking for me. But I couldn’t face her yet.
She knew.
And while she was the
most faithful friend one could hope for, she hadn’t always the most tact. I
ducked behind my Ford, with the pretext of extracting my black gloves from the
passenger seat.
I don’t like gloves; can’t see your pretty hands when you
wear them.
The memory of
those words struck the pit of my stomach like a punch.
Why did they come
back to me now, when I most needed to forget? Forcing the thoughts to the back
of my mind, I turned back to the scene in front of the church.
Rose wept
brokenly into a dry handkerchief.
A young woman in a chic Christian Dior
imitation approached with a look of false affliction etched on her face.
“There, there,
darling. Time will heal you….”
Time will heal. Heal what? The wound left when a dog you used to
enjoy kicking finally runs away?
I pinched myself. The
thought was an awful one, judgmental and condemning. I had no business thinking
that way. Closing my eyes, I tried to feel sorry for Rose. After all, she had
lost one of the best men in the world. The trouble was that she’d never
deserved him in the first place.
God, please.
Help me feel sympathy despite it all. Help me, help me.
I knew that the prayer was half-hearted. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her after all
she’d done. But I wanted to want to. I waited, searching my soul for a feeling
of sympathy.
Nothing. My heart
remained stone.
A group of
young men in uniform loitered about the front doors, having a smoke, and
discussing foreign affairs with an air of gloom.
Then the clock
struck two o’clock and ushered the mourners into the sanctuary with its hurried
chiming. Abigail took her place next to Rose, but I saw her glance at James,
who was sitting next to his mother in the front row. I stumbled down the aisle
and took a pew two rows back. The woman sitting next to me wore an enormous
black hat with a feather that would block the view of the people behind her for
ten rows at least. She whispered to her husband who was hastily trying to extinguish
a cigar. The military band began to play.
I drifted in
and out of dream and reality, struggling to shut out the tears, the thoughts,
the shattered hope and the rising despair. It wasn’t my right to despair, to
love him the way I still did.
The color guard
came forward and a man in uniform stood at the podium and spoke words I didn’t
hear. What good were words? They wouldn’t bring him back. My only solace was in
my memories. And now even those were swiftly fading:
His laugh. The
sound of his voice. The way he used to look at me, out of those soulful blue
eyes. I wanted to shut everything out and just sit and remember him. But I couldn’t.
Rose’s perfect little head was fixed in my line of sight, and I couldn’t forget
it all; staring at that beautiful, smooth, almond-brown head of hers, all the
grief she’d caused him came back to my mind. All the times I’d wanted to slap
that beautiful face of hers! Even now, not a single smudge appeared on that
perfect ivory skin. Only a few heroic tears.
My own face was
swollen and pale, my lips covered carelessly in a smeared red tone. The black
lace of my hat blurred my vision into a checkered pattern, but I couldn’t even
care about seeing the soldiers on the stage. Only one face was etched into my
mind as I fought against the growing weakness. In a moment I would cry.
But then a
movement in front of me caught my eye. I saw Abigail stand and walk across to
James, placing her hand in his. She closed her eyes and murmured gentle words
to him, leaving her friend forgotten across the aisle. Rose was left alone. At
last pity stirred in me.
He had loved her. He
had loved her more than anyone; more than me, but I would forget that now and
try to love her too. I stood and walked shakily to the front, sitting next to
her. Rose looked up in surprise, then buried her adorable nose in that
embroidered handkerchief again. I took her left hand in my right and gave it a
squeeze, fighting a losing battle with tears once more. The ceremony progressed
as a cadet walked up and down from the stage, giving folded flags to girls in
black.
Rose accepted the
tattered emblem with an air of martyred suffering. Then laid it on the pew and
forgot about it, probably forever. I dared to finger a spot where a bullet had
penetrated a star. I wondered which state it represented. And I wondered if it
had been the same bullet that penetrated a soldier’s heart.
And my own.
