November Song

 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.