One September Morning (16 page)

“True.” Chenowith nods. “Can I get you to step outside, Mr. Flint?”

Outside the bungalow, the buffeting winds are full of sand. Chenowith presses against the side of the building that provides the most shelter.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, talking to my men without clearance from the Public Affairs Unit,” says Chenowith. Flint has his number. A recent college graduate of West Point. A by-the-book leader. “At the very least, you should have come to me first.”

“It wasn’t convenient.” After three months here, Flint is beyond apologizing. “You’ve got some men in there who need help, Lieutenant.”

“The army has provided us with a field therapist, who happens to be assigned to that platoon. And I won’t have my authority undermined by some pop psychologist reporter scrambling for an easy story. I’ll make sure you’re provided transportation on the next convoy out of here. Is that
convenient
enough for you?”

“I’m just saying, you lose one or two of those guys to suicide, it won’t look good for you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on out here, and I don’t have time to baby a soldier because he misses home or he’s afraid of getting killed.”

Flint puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Nobody said it was easy. And I imagine you’re already under scrutiny over Stanton’s death.”

The young lieutenant pulls protective goggles over his eyes, effectively shielding his reactions from Flint. “Why would that be?”

“Isn’t his death under investigation?” Flint asks.

“That’s standard procedure.”

“But there’s been the suggestion of friendly fire.”

“It’s my understanding that the investigation will rule out friendly fire.”

“But was that what happened? Was Stanton’s death an accident?” Flint suggests. “A weapon discharging by accident? That would be your bad luck, one of your guys taking out a famous hero like Stanton by accident. The Great American Hero, loved by all.”

“Spare me the accolades. You can save them for your article.”

“Not a fan?”

“John Stanton was a rebel bordering on anarchist. He was telling those men in there that this war is illegal, that it’s a travesty. And that’s your Great American Hero?”

A bead of sand whips into Flint’s left eye, and he recoils in pain.

“I’ll let you know when that convoy is ready,” Chenowith says, moving away from the bungalow into a cloud of dust.

Dover Air Force Base
Abby

“A
re you the woman the MP called about from the gate?” The corporal rises from her desk chair and pulls a sweater close over her well-pressed uniform shirt, warding off the overactive air-conditioning.

“I’m Abby Fitzgerald. My husband is here. Or…his remains are.” Having argued her way past the Military Police at the gate of Dover Air Force Base and into the mortuary without security clearance, Abby now wonders if the battle was worth the effort. Now that she’s here, the whole thing seems a little morbid. She journeyed here, for what? To be here for John. Is she the only distraught widow who has come to the morgue driven by some crazy, protective instinct?

A sign over the door catches her eye.
ALWAYS WITH HONOR
. It gives her goose bumps, realizing that John is not the only fallen soldier to come through this facility. From the Iraq invasion alone, there are now more than two thousand dead. The staff here has done this before.

The other cubicles are surprisingly empty, but then Abby suspects it’s probably lunchtime and this woman was the unlucky worker who had to stay behind and answer phones.

“We don’t get many widows here,” the woman says as she drags an office chair from another cubicle. She pats the seat of the chair, and Abby sits. “To be honest, we’re a mortuary. This is just a stopping place for the soldiers’ remains. We don’t conduct any ceremonies or public events here. Formal services are held at the final destination, usually the hometown of the service member. But ma’am, you should have been counseled on this by someone in the field. Our public relations work is left to local casualty assistance officers. Weren’t you contacted by someone at home?”

Sgt. Palumbo…Abby can still see the consternation in his brow when she told him she’d be coming here. “I met with a CAO, but I chose to come here. I wanted to be here, for my husband.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, I truly am.” Behind the woman’s gray glasses with designer “Bs” on the frames, Abby detects a flicker of sympathy. “But I’m not sure how I can help you today.”

“I’m not sure, either.” Abby pulls her purse onto her lap, feeling as if she’s swimming through a surreal dream. “I guess I came here because I couldn’t stand the idea of my husband arriving back in the States all alone. I know that probably sounds crazy, but I feel like, like I’m his only advocate here and…” Tears streak down her cheeks now, but she’s determined to see this through.

“Ma’am?” The woman hands Abby a box of tissues. “I am so sorry about your husband. Was he over in Iraq?” When Abby nods, the woman sighs. “How can I help you? First, let me tell you that we take our work seriously here. Our mission is to work with dignity and precision and sensitivity. Each day begins with a prayer from our chaplain, and we know what we have to do here, and that’s get the remains of our troops home.”

Abby nods. “I appreciate that. Can I…can I see him?”

Instead of answering, the woman wheels her chair around to the computer. “How about I give you an update on what stage of processing has been completed? What was his name?”

“John Stanton.”

As the woman taps the keyboard with fingernails that remind Abby of a saxophone reed, Abby searches the desk for a nameplate, but the office is not set up to receive visitors.

“Okay, yes. I found him. His remains have arrived and are being processed, but we’re not ready to release just yet. Let me see something.” More clicking of nails. “The thing is, we have a few extra steps to go through that wouldn’t happen in, say, a normal funeral home. I see here that he has already been scanned, which they do to all the remains to make sure no unexploded ordinance is present. His personal effects have been secured and inventoried.”

Abby thought of John’s journals. He loved to write. “It’s the best therapy,” he always said. She saved every letter he wrote. There were three boxes of them in their closet at home. “Can I pick up his journals today?”

“I’m not authorized to release his possessions, ma’am. But everything will go to you with his remains. The thing is, we have a very detailed process here, and for the protection of the family and the fallen service member, we follow it to the letter.” She nodded at the monitor. “I see that the remains have already been identified.”

“That’s something I thought I could do,” Abby says, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I guess I thought I could help identify him. For closure, for me.”

“I can understand you thinking that way, ma’am, but we use other sources, digital X-rays, dental records. DNA if need be. And it says here that your husband’s ID was positive. They were able to use his fingerprints.”

His fingerprints…

More tears sting Abby’s eyes. He was left with his hands intact, unlike so many troop fatalities she’d read about. His hands…the palms that used to run up her bare arms over her shoulders, the fingertip that would lodge in the cleft of her neck. She grabs a fresh handful of tissues and presses the white mass to her face.

“Okay.” There’s more tapping on the keyboard and clicking of the mouse. “Ma’am? Your husband’s autopsy has already been done. It looks like they’ll be embalming the body today, and then sometime tomorrow it will be ready for shipment wherever you choose. Which is Arlington, Virginia. I see you’re to have burial in Arlington National Cemetery.”

Abby shakes her head. “It’s been suggested, but I…” She leans forward, wishing she could see the information on the monitor. “No, I didn’t make that decision yet. It must have been his mother and…he wanted to be cremated.”

“That’s an option, if you wish,” the woman says. “We take care of that here, and an engraved urn will be carried to the place of interment.”

Abby straightens, galvanized by Sharice’s interference. “I want him to be cremated,” she says. “How can I make that happen?”

“I’ll get the paperwork done for you right now. If you’re his next of kin, all we need is your signature.”

“Let’s do it.” Abby stands and steps behind the woman to view the computer screen. “And I’d like a copy of all the records you have on him.” She wants to see what other requests Sharice has made. A twenty-one-gun salute? The U.S. Army Marching Band?

The woman shoots a look of alarm over her shoulder and minimizes the file. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is classified information. I can’t release it to anyone.”

“Not even my mother-in-law?” Abby asks.

“Ma’am, unless she’s employed here at the mortuary, she’s not going to see this file.”

“I guess that’s some consolation.” Abby returns to the chair and asks the woman her name. Cpl. Heighter pulls her sweater close, taking a moment to look Abby in the eye, which she’s been avoiding through most of their conversation.

For the first time Abby sees compassion in the woman’s eyes and recognizes the caring soul of a patriot, a daughter, a sister…a human being. “Thank you, Corporal Heighter.”

The corporal nods and excuses herself to expedite the paperwork.

When she’s gone, Abby gets up to pace. She checks the terminal, but John’s file isn’t even listed there anymore. Damn. She checks over her shoulder—no sign of Heighter—and moves the mouse to click on an icon. A file opens, but to get any further she needs to put in a password. Damn.

Abby closes the file and paces again. Her jaw clenches at the thought of Sharice making plans for John without consulting her. Okay, she did ask for Sharice’s guidance, but she didn’t expect to be bowled over on major decisions.

Keep your perspective, she tells herself. What would John want?

John wanted to be cremated, his ashes spread in the River Seine.

“This is where I want to be when I’m gone.”
She hears his voice, a memory clear as a bell, and suddenly the scent of flowers is strong. She stops pacing, the bare wall before her blurring into an explosion of color—the flowers in the marketplace at Montmartre.

You wanted Paris, and your mother wants a hero’s funeral, Arlington Cemetery.

How could Abby deter her in-laws?

Just then a small machine on a credenza against the wall hums to life, and papers roll out. A printer. Abby checks the other cubicles. No one in sight. She picks up a page and sees “JOHN STANTON” across the running head.

It’s John’s file.

Her fingers fumble for the pages, collecting and stacking them with lightning speed. Her eyes skim photographs of the body—a little sickening, but she’ll go over it all later when there’s time. Quickly she folds the papers and tucks them into her purse before Cpl. Heighter returns.

She signs off on the request for cremation and thanks Cpl. Heighter for her assistance. Outside, a cool breeze breaks the heat of the September sun, and she rolls down the windows of her car and stares at the folded papers in her purse.

There will be time to go through them later, when she’s not so rattled.

For now, she has a call to make, albeit reluctantly.

“I thought we all agreed on Arlington Cemetery,” Sharice says. “I’ve already booked our flights out there, and Sergeant Palumbo says he can organize a ceremony just about any day next week.”

Next week? Of course. Abby winces, wondering how things could have moved so far without her input.

“What are the other options?” Sharice asks. “None, really.”

“He wanted to have his ashes spread in Paris.”

“You can’t do that. It’s illegal.”

Abby squeezes her eyes shut in frustration. John’s adventurous nature must have been a reaction to his mother’s cautious approach to life. “All right. We’ll bury him at Arlington Cemetery, but I’m having him cremated. I just signed the paperwork for it.” On this point Abby will not defer. Granted, John’s mother understands military culture, but Abby is beginning to gain confidence in the negotiation of her husband’s last ceremony.

“But I already ordered a horse-drawn caisson to carry the casket,” Sharice says. “It’s really quite lovely.”

Abby sighs. “So it will carry the urn.”

The silence on the line makes Abby wonder if the call has been dropped. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.” Resignation gives new weight to Sharice’s voice. “I’ll have to make some adjustments. Jim and I have been looking at cemetery maps, and we’ve narrowed down the plot.”

“His ashes won’t need a plot,” Abby says. “Look, my parents aren’t far from Arlington. I’ll take care of choosing the spot from this end.”

“Fine. I’ll handle the rest with Sergeant Palumbo. Call me if you need any other advice?”

Abby ends the call, dropping her cell phone onto the console of her mother’s car and sinking down into her seat in defeat. “But he wanted his ashes spread in Paris,” she says, annoyed at her mother-in-law.

“It’s okay.”

That voice…she glances around, but there’s no one there. Weird, but it sounded like John.

“He’s haunting you,” she says aloud as she starts the car.

The song playing on XM Radio, “Paris Through a Window,” is about seeing Paris for the first time. “From an obscure Broadway musical,” the deejay explains.

As she passes by the MP booth and pulls onto the highway, Abby thinks back over the strange events: the strong scent of flowers, the printer coming alive and spitting out John’s file, the voice. She wonders if John really is haunting her. Why? Certainly not to terrify her, like the ghosts of horror flicks. She has read that sometimes the dead remain on earth in some incarnation until something important to them is resolved. What might that issue be for John?

During the trip back to Virginia, she imagines that John is with her, asleep in the backseat.

And somehow, his presence so close in the car does not seem morbid at all.