One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan

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СКАЧАТЬ an “O” of surprise, but she cannot form a response.

      “That would be wonderful,” Peri says, “and well-deserved. After all, he is a hero. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.” The woman with the dark hair sniffs, and suddenly her eyes are glossy with tears, her nose red. Without a word she grabs two tissues and blots at her eyes.

      “What happened?” Suz returns with the empty coffeepot. “Did I miss something?”

      “John’s going to get some medals,” says the woman with dark hair. “He’s a national hero.”

      Why? Abby wants to ask. Because he used to be a football player? She turns away from everyone, looking down at the table. John used to sit in this chair. When he wasn’t deployed, he ate breakfast here. They dined at this table, sometimes by candlelight. She presses one palm flat against the wood, knowing that John would not want to be favored. Suz’s husband, Scott, also lost his life in Iraq, but there was no talk of the president attending his funeral. Why do they want to make a fuss over John?

      “I don’t see that we have any choice now,” Sharice says. Leaning against the counter, she lifts her chin and stares off with a lofty expression, as if she can see destiny shining in the distance. “We’re going to have to bury him at Arlington Cemetery.”

      With those words, Abby feels control slip through her fingers like white sand drizzling onto the beach. Having grown up in Sterling, Virginia, she was well aware of the national cemetery at the edge of Washington, D.C., its white-studded hillsides reserved for veterans and the historically famous. Heroes and presidents and Supreme Court justices. It hardly seemed a fitting place for the man she loved, the man who’d written of his doubts recently, of the futility of war, the darkness in taking another man’s life.

      “It would be wonderful to see John honored that way,” Sharice goes on. “A military procession, twenty-one gun salute…”

      “Arlington Cemetery…” Jim Stanton appears in the doorway, his gray-peppered head just clearing the arch—a tall man, like his sons. Since this morning’s news, his skin seems pale, his posture somewhat stooped, contrary to his usual proud military bearing. “I’ve read that they’re running out of real estate there, but no doubt they’ll make an exception for us. John was loved by all. If he’s there, people who don’t know him personally will have a chance to visit his graveside.”

      “It can be tough to get into Arlington Cemetery,” says Sgt. Palumbo, stepping up beside John’s father. “But I don’t think it would be a problem getting John a burial there.”

      “John wanted to be cremated,” Abby says, feeling as if no one is listening.

      Ashes to ashes…he used to say.

      She closes her eyes and suddenly she is viewing a young couple honeymooning in France. The dark-haired young woman walked arm-in-arm with her husband through a flower market, surrounded by towering stalks and colorful blossoms. In the market he bought her a single rose, a powdery shade of coral with a burst of sweetness. The satin petals were smooth against her cheek as she and John strolled through the sunny square of Montmartre, passing an artist at work, a vendor selling homemade jewelry, a kiosk.

      “When I pop off, I want to return here,” he said. “Promise me you’ll bring me back and toss my ashes into the Seine.”

      She laughed, happy to be by his side, amused at the notion of the two of them growing old together. “What makes you think I’ll outlive you?” she teased. “Besides, I don’t think you can dump someone’s ashen remains into a river like that. It’s illegal.”

      “Who would notice?” he insisted. “And then you’ll be free to hook up with a Frenchman, a man who can feed you baguettes and café au lait every morning, make love to you every night.”

      “Every night? When am I going to get my beauty sleep?” she’d argued….

      “Abby? Are you okay, honey?” Suz’s voice breaks into her memory, and she opens her eyes and finds herself back in the kitchen, crowded with people fighting to preserve John’s memory, arguing for their notion of right.

      “I’ve never been comfortable with cremation,” Sharice says. “Leave it to John to push for the extreme.”

      “It’s done more and more often these days,” Sgt. Palumbo says. “The truth is, the space for cremated remains is more plentiful in most national cemeteries.”

      “Arlington Cemetery would be quite an honor,” Jim says, nodding.

      “Abby?” Suz leans close and rubs Abby’s back between her shoulder blades. “Maybe you need some fresh air.”

      Abby nods and follows Suz out to the back patio, where a sunny autumn afternoon resounds with haunting beauty.

      “I can’t do this,” Abby says.

      “What? The military funeral? The in-laws? The mourners who are going to wear down your carpeting and consume all your chips and soda?”

      “All of it,” Abby admits. “I don’t want any of this in my life. I just want my husband back.”

      Biting her lower lip, Suz just nods, and Abby knows that she gets it.

      Chapter 10

      Fort Lewis

       Madison

      Madison can’t take one more minute of this coffee talk. She’s going to scream if she hears one more speech about what a great hero John was or how he made the ultimate sacrifice (like he had a choice!). And if she sees one more person rubbing their hands greedily over the prospect of the president awarding her brother a posthumous medal, she’ll go ballistic.

      No way will she let that asshole present anything to John—not even to John’s memory. It’s the sort of thing that would have pissed her brother off if he were alive, and if they let it happen now, John is going to rise up and haunt them all!

      “This is all happening so fast,” her mother says, fanning herself with a magazine from Abby’s coffee table. “What’s your take on it, Jim? Do you think the Congressional Medal of Honor…really?”

      “I’d say it’s a distinct possibility.” Her father speaks in a lowered voice, probably so people won’t overhear him and know him for the greedy mercenary he is, counting his son’s medals before he’s even buried. He leans close to Mom to add: “Our son died a hero, Sherry.”

      “Oh, my God, listen to yourself,” Madison says, unable to restrain herself any longer. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Don’t you remember that John didn’t believe in this war? He enlisted to stop terrorism and violence, not to encourage more war.”

      “Madison…” Jim Stanton’s voice is a low growl. “That’s enough. Don’t muck this up with your personal politics.”

      “My politics? What about what John believed? That war is wrong. Even back in college he wrote his senior thesis on the cost of war.”

      Her mom is shaking her head. “He did not, and you were only eleven when he graduated. How would you know, Maddy?”

      She points toward the door. “I know because I’ve got it in my room—right СКАЧАТЬ