Operation Dad

Operation Dad

by

Heidi Vanlandingham

“Mama? Mama, can I stand up now? Can I?” Aiden Nelson begged, hopping back and forth on his feet in his eagerness.

Chandra Nelson glanced down at her seven-year-old’s excited face and gave him a small smile in return. “Go ahead, sweetie. I don’t think the soldiers will mind if you stand.”

His large hazel eyes widened. “Can I salute too? Like Uncle Bobby taught me?”

A knot formed in her constricted throat and all she could do was nod. He was so like her older brother. He walked forward and stopped at the end of the front row. His dark blond hair was just now growing out from the military cut he’d gotten in preparation for Bobby’s homecoming. It had been a month since the military had informed them of Bobby’s death. She had cried for a week then said her goodbye. The passing of each day made the hurt fade, but she would always miss her big brother.

A movement caught her eye and she glanced toward her sister-in-law Becky as she walked toward the black mahogany casket. She raised the white rose Aiden had given her when they’d arrived at Arlington and held it against her dusty pink lips, the outline of her kiss tattooed on the rose’s petal. With one hand pressed against the small baby bump at her stomach, she laid the gift on the casket.

Chandra stared out across the field of white crosses, her gaze drawn to the hazy figure of a lone soldier standing at attention beside the cemetery’s metal park bench, his gray uniform sharp-looking with the many medals hanging on his breast. She moved away from the small group of family and friends, slowly walking toward the bench, and sat beside the soldier’s statuesque pose.

“I’m glad you came. He would’ve wanted you here,” she whispered.

The soldier dropped his hand and relaxed, focusing his quiet stare on her. She looked into his sad gaze and allowed her tears to fall. He raised his hand and placed it over his heart then bowed.

“I know. We will all miss him. Thank you, General.” She watched him glide across the field toward the back central section of the park. Halfway across, he faded from view.

Chandra refocused on her son. He stood straight and tall with one hand pressed against his forehead in honor of his fallen uncle while one of the soldiers knelt in front of Becky and presented her with the carefully folded casket flag. The early morning sun shimmered over his blond curls. Her angel. Her strength. Aiden was too young to understand what this was all about. That his uncle was never coming home.

One month later…

Mark Sutherland stood at the lawn’s edge and studied the magnificence of Washington D.C. He was glad he’d decided to visit Arlington first thing this morning instead of later in the day. During the afternoon, the hazy city smog would obscure the breathtaking panoramic view of the Mall. He would also be peeling off his uniform from the sticky humidity.

“The first tour starts in five minutes. Please gather in the front room and we will begin. Thank you!”

Mark turned to see several tourists already waiting inside the Arlington House’s small foyer. The greeter was an older gentleman dressed in slightly rumpled khaki slacks, kneeling on the cement porch picking up a handful of visitor pamphlets scattered around him.

He’d almost made it to the bottom porch step when a young boy scurried around him and up the steps toward the gentleman.

“Wait, Mr. Olsen! I’ll help you!”

“Aiden! Honey, slow down. You almost ran over this gentleman.”

Mark forced his hand to relax the death grip he had on the ionic-styled column supporting the portico for a more casual grasp and tested his balance. Even after eight months of rehabilitation, his leg was still weak and tended to collapse under his full weight if he didn’t concentrate.

“I am so sorry! Aiden is sometimes too helpful. We’ve been working on the bull-in-the-china-shop thing.” The child’s mom shrugged. “It’s a process.”

The woman’s soft husky voice sent a pleasant chill down his spine. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her beautiful face, even if he’d wanted to. Her face belonged in his dreams. With her dark cappuccino-colored hair styled in a short bob, she bore a striking resemblance to his favorite actress, Kate Beckinsale. With the added bonus of a pale dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

She gently rested her hand against his arm, her dark eyebrows scrunched together in a frown. “Sir? Are you okay? Aiden didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Mark gave himself a mental shake, realizing he’d been staring. One corner of his mouth rose in a grin. “No, ma’am, he didn’t hurt me and yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” With a quick sideways flip of his head, he motioned toward Aiden who was now trying to help Mr. Olsen to a wobbly stand. “Helpful in any form is always good.”

She raised one eyebrow, her lips pushed to one side of her face. He could see the doubt in her eyes and knew she questioned whether he was being truthful or simply had no clue about kids.

Before she could voice her doubts, Aiden’s excited voice interrupted. “Mama? Are you going to stand there all day or come inside? Mr. Olsen said the last earthquake made more cracks. Come on! We gotta see the cracks!”

Chandra turned to her impatient son, who in his anxiousness was bouncing from one foot to the other. “Go ahead.” She chuckled as he turned and rushed through the front door. “But wait for me under the crack above the front stairwell!”

“Awww, Mom!”

She chuckled again. “Aiden?”

From somewhere inside, they heard his dramatic sigh as it traveled clearly back out to them. “Fine—I will. But you gotta hurry, 'kay?”

“Okay.”

Mark waved a hand toward a beaming Mr. Olsen. “After you, ma’am.”

She scurried up the steps, her breathy response skipping back to him, “Thanks! And it’s Chandra. Chandra Nelson—not ma’am.”

He followed a bit slower, forcing his stiff leg to bend and lift. The limp more obvious than he liked, but he found himself relaxing as he followed her inside. Stepping into the foyer of Arlington House was like stepping back in time. The house was small but open, allowing for the cool breeze coasting inland from the Potomac. On his right, a closed-off staircase wound upward to the second floor. Ahead of him and to the left two doorways opened to other parts of the house. The threadbare, handwoven rug underfoot looked as if it had welcomed thousands of visitors to the house—and probably had. 

Chandra loved this house—loved the cemetery. Arlington had been her and Bobby’s playground. She’d been coming here since she was Aiden’s age, but after Bobby’s funeral, she’d been worried that would change. Instead, everything felt right. Her brother was here with her—as he’d always been.

She watched Aiden reverently moving about the office, stopping at each artifact as if he was seeing it for the first time instead of the thousandth. Then, in a blink, he turned back into a seven-year-old and ran head first into the soldier. Again. 

“Aiden! Seriously? Watch where you are going!” She pulled her son from the man’s white-knuckled grip. “I am so, so sorry.” She frowned at his pale, pinched expression. “Okay, this time he did hurt you.” She squeezed her son’s shoulder, narrowing her eyes and pinching her lips together in a straight line then threw a look toward Mark.

On cue, Aiden sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. I promise not to do it again.”

Mark nodded, a tight grimace on his face as if he wanted to scream instead of reassure a seven-year-old. “That’s okay. Accidents happen.” He turned his gaze to Chandra. “Mark. Mark Sutherland. If we are going to keep running into each other, then names would probably come in handy.” He took a deep breath and offered her a smile. “Less awkward that way.”

Chandra smiled in return. “Thank you. Not too many people appreciate an energetic child.”

“I bet. I have four brothers who all have kids. A grand total of sixteen.”

“That’s a lot of kids.”

He turned sideways in the doorway to let her through. That small movement afforded her a brief glimpse of pain as it crossed his face and she hoped the cause wasn’t due to her son’s zest for movement.

Glancing around for Aiden, she saw him trailing after the tour group, which thankfully was led by a retired teacher who would have no problems keeping him entertained—at least for the next twenty minutes or so.

It also gave her a chance to get another look at Mr. Mark Sutherland. He didn’t look much older than she. His tousled blond hair was a long military cut as if growing out. And there was an adorable cowlick that fell across his forehead. His pale green eyes were mesmerizing and unusual. Even without his pressed uniform, his walk and strong physique told her he was a soldier.

“I know a great place to just sit and enjoy a nice cool breeze. Seats are fairly comfy too. Would you like to join me?”

He nodded, relief plainly visible on his still too-pale face. “Lead the way.”

She led him through the house and into the back garden. The moment he hit the gravel walkway, his stride slowed and his limp grew more pronounced. Not knowing what else to do, she slowed to a turtle’s crawl.

They wound the short distance through the partly shaded garden, finally turning off the regular path and stepping into a small oasis bursting with color.

He walked toward the small patio area and sat in one of the rattan chairs and glanced around. “It is magnificent back here. I would never have found it on my own.” He drew in a deep breath and then another. “What is that smell? It’s wonderful.”

She smiled and glanced up. “That would be the Magnolia tree we’re sitting under.” She was relieved to see his color returning to a more natural shade instead of the pasty white he’d sported inside. His tight, pinched look had also disappeared.

“Chandra girl! I thought I heard your sweet voice. Where’s that lively son of yours?”

Chandra chuckled. “Hi Miss Emily. Aiden’s helping with a tour.” She held out her palm toward Mark. “Mark Sutherland, Emily Dougherty. She’s one of the volunteers here at the cemetery.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sutherland.”

He smiled. “Mark, please. And it’s good to meet you too.”

The older lady pulled two Styrofoam cups with straws sticking out of their lids from the basket hanging on her arm and placed them on the small table between the chairs. “Drink up. I’m sure no one will miss a few drinks at the Presidential wreath-laying later this afternoon. She leaned down and kissed Chandra on the cheek and whispered, “I’m so sorry about Bobby. If you need help with little Aiden, just holler.”

Mark reached over and picked up one of the cups and took a long drink. “That hits the spot.”

She chuckled. “You sound like Aiden.”

He twisted the cup, spreading the condensation around its surface. “If you don’t mind me asking, is Bobby your husband?”

He watched her take a drink, her neck long and slender—until she choked. He leaned over and gently pounded her back as she coughed and sputtered.

“Umm—no,” she coughed. “I’m not married.”

“What about Aiden’s father?”

She shook her head. “He left before Aiden was born. We were high school sweethearts who didn’t understand what forever really meant.

Hope surged then just as quickly deflated. He still wasn’t back to normal. His leg was healed, but he still carried the scars, inside and out. Would a woman really be able to look past those to see the man underneath?

“So what do you do?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. And if he were truthful with himself, find out something about her. He wanted to know more. Much, much more.

“I own an online graphics company, designing logos, websites, brochures—anything I’m asked to really.”

She was so beautiful. His eyes followed the contour of her elegant profile and the slight flutter deep in his chest surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything other than self-disgust and resentment.

~  ~  ~

“What do you think, General, sir?” Aiden asked the ghostly figure crouched beside him on the other side of the shrub row. “He seems real nice. And he makes Mama laugh again.” He turned and stared up at the ghost, trying to look serious. “I’m gonna need your help. You’re better at planning things, bein’ a general an’ all.”

Aiden plopped on his rear. With legs stretched in front of him, he leaned back against his braced arms. “She’s been so sad since Uncle Bobby died. It’s been a month and she never goes out anymore—at least until today.” He scowled. “How am I ever gonna get a dad if she won’t even leave the house? I’m tired of being the only one in my class without a dad.”

The shimmery form of the general pointed to the man then to his mom.
Aiden nodded. “You were right back at the house. I did just what you said and ran right into his leg. I didn’t hit him hard but I think it hurt him real bad. I know ‘cause he didn’t yell at me. Only squeezed my shoulders. He’s got really strong fingers too. I can still feel ‘em digging into my skin.”

Aiden twisted his torso and glanced up at the general, unaware of the strange looks from tourists passing by him on the path as he seemed to be talking to himself. “’Kay. Time to begin--. How’d you say that? Oh yea, begin phase two of Operation Dad—wish me luck, General!”

He crawled through the shrubs, enjoying the smell of dirt and freshly mowed grass then bounded over to his mom. “Mama! Did you tell him how I saluted to the soldiers for Uncle Bobby?” He hopped onto her lap then grabbed her almost empty cup, swigging down the last few sips of her drink then chomping noisily on the ice cubes.

“Aiden, really. Do you have to do that with your mouth open?”

He glanced at her, his eyes wide. “Sure I do! My mouth doesn’t get frozen if it’s open.”

She chuckled. “Well, I can certainly understand that.” She scooted him off her lap and turned him to face her, gripping his slim hips and holding him still. “Okay, little man. Take my cup to Ms. Emily. If you’re really polite—in other words you wait until it’s your turn—tell her I said you could have a refill. Think you can do that?”

He gave her a saucy grin. “Sure I can, Mom. Just watch me!” He scurried off, dodging plants and statues in his haste for more lemonade.

Mark laughed. “I don’t think he understands the word ‘careful.’ What salute was he talking about?”

The moment the words were out, he wished he’d never asked. Her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears and her perfect little chin quivered. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry, Chandra.” He handed her his handkerchief, unfolding her hands and placing it in her cupped palms. She stared at it for so long, he wondered if he’d made another mistake.

She finally looked up, her thinly arched eyebrows bunched together in a frown. “You’re definitely a soldier.”

He straightened, staring at her in surprise. “Excuse me?”

One side of her mouth rose and she held up the handkerchief, pristinely folded and bleached to a brilliant white. She wiped away her tears with her other hand and replied, “Only grandfathers and soldiers carry handkerchiefs this immaculate.”

She handed it back to him then reached into her skirt pocket and held out an almost identical handkerchief. He watched her fingers gently smooth out the wrinkles, trying to make the small, white square as it had been.

His heart swelled, each beat feeling as if the organ was going to burst any second. Meeting Chandra and Aiden had been a nice surprise but his gut told him it was more than that. They were a gift. His gift. No matter how long he had to wait until she realized it too, he would—because she was definitely worth waiting for. 

“My brother Bobby was a soldier. He was killed while defending a small village in the Paktika Province in Afghanistan. We buried him one month ago today. Bobby taught Aiden how to salute and stand at attention before he deployed.”

Mark closed his eyes, his own pain a deafening roar in his head. There had been so many funerals—fallen comrades and childhood friends—all lost to war. He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She watched him rub his leg, which he’d done off and on since they sat down. This time, though, his knuckles turned white and the movements appeared more agitated.

“Is that how you were injured?” she forced the question from her suddenly dry mouth, hoping she wasn’t asking the wrong question. Knowing what to say, especially to men, had never been easy for her. She’d grown up with Aiden’s father, but when he’d run off after finding out she was pregnant, she’d retreated back into her shy shell. With Mark, though, talking didn’t seem quite so hard.

He was so handsome and for some reason, even though she’d just met him, she felt drawn to him. Comfortable. And the way he looked at her made her feel pretty. When the sun glinted through the trees above them, his blond hair looked sun-kissed. It reminded her of a picture she’d seen in some magazine—of an Oklahoma wheatfield just before harvest. Her fingers itched to brush the hair off his forehead then brush it back so she could do it all over again.

He still hadn’t answered her question, and her heartbeat sped up as her worry grew. “Mark—I’m sorry. It was inappropriate of me to ask—”

“No. It wasn’t. I—I haven’t talked anyone close to me about it. The army informed my family I’d been injured, but they don’t know I’m stateside.”

She frowned. “But why?”

He closed his eyes again, drawing in a deep breath then letting it out slowly as he finally leaned back into the comfort of the chair. “Pride. Stupid male pride.” He opened his eyes and met her steady gaze. “My unit was assigned to the Sangrin District in Helmand Province to help the British stop the drug highway running through there. We got too close to an IED and six of my men died. I almost lost my leg. I didn’t want my parents to see me until I could walk again.”

Her tears surprised her. She hadn’t realized she was crying as she clutched her fist to the pain radiating in her chest. Because of Mark. He stood and pulled her into his embrace. He stared into her eyes and held her face in his cupped palms as if she were as fragile as an egg.

“You are so beautiful. You make me want to believe in myself again. To trust in who I am. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I do now.”

She smiled, lost in his pale green eyes. “I knew you were special when not once but twice you let my son run right over you and never said a word.” The moment his lips touched hers, her toes curled and she knew she’d finally found her own hero.

~  ~  ~

“Well, General, we did it, didn’t we?” Aiden asked, sipping his lemonade. He watched his mom kiss Mark. Excitement bubbled upward, making standing still impossible. “Thanks, General!” he yelled as he raced back through the garden, empty cup in hand.

The ghost watched as Aiden was pulled into their hug. He pulled down on his jacket, the old uniform still pristine. He slowly raised his arm, resting his hand against his brow and saluted young Aiden one final time. Pivoting, he slowly made his way back down the path to the Tomb of the Unknowns. His home.  

Arlington Waltz

Arlington Waltz

By

Linda Basinger

            Jennifer Arden made her way across the sea of white crosses in Arlington National Cemetery. She breathed in the perfume of the fresh-cut roses she carried. Her husband Jim would have loved these, cut from the bush they’d given her parents to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Never did it occur to her that one day she’d be bringing bouquets from that bush to Jim’s grave. But here she was. She visited every Wednesday.

            Jim had been gone a little over two years, but a painful lump still arose in her throat when she approached his grave. Sighing, she pressed the bouquet to her heart.

            “I keep hearing how it’s supposed to get easier, Jim. Hurt less.”  A tear trickled, unchecked, down one of her cheeks. She sniffed. “It isn’t, though. It – it just isn’t. Maybe it never will.”

Finding a crumpled tissue, she blew her nose. “I’ve done all I know to do. Everything the counselor told me to try, too. I don’t know what else there is.” 

She arranged the blooms in the vase attached to the stone. “I brought these from the bush we planted for Mom and Dad. God, that was such a perfect day. A peace rose,” she mused, “planted with our hopes and prayers for a quick end to the war in the Middle East. Ironic, me bringing them to you here, a place of peace and tranquility. But the war just goes on and on.” 

Pulling bottled water from her purse, she watered the bouquet. “I think I’m making my friends and family crazy because I can’t seem to stop grieving. Your parents have even suggested that I consider taking off my rings. They think that would help me feel free to find a way forward. To go on with my life. They say you would want me to move on. Oh, love, I know you’d want me to get on with my life. But I don’t know -- I just don’t know. Maybe when the time is right…”

The soft breeze carried a low, soft-spoken male voice to her.

“I’m sorry, man. I should be the one in there, Gary, not you.” 

The voice sounded familiar. She pictured one of the soldiers she visited when taking hand-made gifts to Walter Reed. Why did this particular man, a sergeant, stand out in her memory so vividly?  He’d lost the lower part of his right leg, but there were many amputees. And she’d visited a lot of soldiers and veterans over the last year. Her counselor thought the visits would help her recover from the soul-wrenching grief that refused to release its hold on her. Clearly, the counselor was wrong.

The voice continued from a short distance behind her. “It’s just not right that I’m the only one of the squadron to get out alive.”  He coughed. “I saw your folks last week. They told me to stop thinking I should have been killed, too. But, Gary, man…”

She heard him choke back a sob. Knew she couldn’t turn around now and risk him knowing she’d overheard his outpouring of grief. Hearing him clear his throat and start talking again, she turned slightly to see who’d made the comment.

The man stood a slight distance to her left and on the row immediately behind her. He was tall, and jeans clad. From his bearing and posture it was clear to her that if he weren’t active duty now, he’d been recently. It might be the sergeant. The jeans could be covering a prosthetic leg. She decided to speak to him, but before she could, he turned and left. His smooth and easy gait convinced her it could not be the sergeant she’d met at the hospital. She suddenly became aware of a twinge -- something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Disappointment?  Over not seeing someone she didn’t even know?  Hmm. Maybe she should rethink Jim’s folks’ suggestion.

****

Standing at Gary Sylvester’s grave, Eric Wyatt mentally chided himself. Good God, man – pull it the hell together. You sound like a little kid. He looked up from Gary’s cross to refocus. At that moment, a woman at a grave just ahead of him turned toward him ever so slightly. The light breeze blew wisps of her soft brown shoulder length hair away from her face. Immediate recognition jolted him. He took in a sudden, short burst of air.

His beautiful angel, his inspiration!  She’d visited the hospital several times while he was still in a wheelchair. Often bringing hand-made gifts to the GIs, it always made his day to see her. He’d dreamt of dancing a slow, tender waltz with her. It was his motivation. He’d endured pain and frustration, and worked his ass off countless hours to master using his artificial leg. He’d managed to bring his stride to near perfection. He owed part of it to her, and knew he should thank her.

The sun glinted off the diamond on her left hand. Hell. He’d known all along she was off limits. Still, his fantasy of dancing with her had worked miracles. With it, he’d conquered his physical wounds. Maybe one day he could stop the nightmares, too. The medics kept telling him it was PTSD. He knew better. He was just weak. And it was unacceptable.

****

Jennifer brought flowers with her to the cemetery the next Wednesday. She wasn’t too surprised that no one else was in her vicinity.
            “Jim, I brought peace roses again.”  She’d just started talking about family news when she heard a man’s voice. It came from about the same place as the previous week. It wasn’t the same voice, though.

“Survivor’s guilt,” he said. “A kind of PTSD. He won’t accept it, though. Thinks he’s just being weak.”

She turned subtly, so as not to stare. A rather frail-looking, pale older man stood at Gary’s grave. He leaned heavily on a cane. Jennifer thought he was none too stable on his feet, and wondered if she should see if he needed some assistance. Maybe he should sit.

She thought she heard the old gentleman say something about love, but about that time a carriage drawn by six white horses in the distance distracted her. Carrying a black casket draped by the American Flag, it took her back in time two years. Seconds later, an intense reflection from the afternoon sun assaulted her eyes, ending her reverie.

The old man was gone. So frail an old man couldn’t possibly walk away so fast. She walked to the grave he’d been visiting. Searching in all directions for depressions that would have been made in the grass by a cane, she found nothing. As heavily as he’d leaned on the cane when he stood at the grave, it would definitely leave marks. It was almost as though he’d dematerialized. Could the stories of the ghost of the unknown be true, she wondered. She saw a single red rose on Gary Sylvester’s grave. It lay on top of a piece of paper which said, “Changing of the Guard, Tomb of the Unknowns, 10:30 Wednesday.” 

The next Wednesday, Jennifer arrived at Jim’s grave earlier than usual. A single red rose lay there.

“Jim,” she began, “I’m taking this as a sign. I think you’re telling me it’s time.”  She stabbed her fresh-cut rose bouquet into the vase. For the first time, she realized she didn’t have to talk around a painful lump in her throat. Yet another sign. Dabbing away threatening tears, she placed her wedding rings in her purse. Then she picked up the single red rose, and headed to the amphitheater.

Jennifer scanned the crowd, trusting that her intuition would guide her if nothing more substantial did. It was easy to spot him near the middle of the crowd. He stood proud and tall, waving his red rose aloft to get her attention.

“Sergeant?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Eric Wyatt. Or at least I was last month. Now I’m just Eric Wyatt. He smiled broadly and extended his hand.

She took his big hand in both of hers, feeling vulnerable without her rings. Even so, it was time for her to begin living her life again. She’d never been so sure of anything, and she beamed up at Eric.

“Jennifer Arden,” she said. “I remember you from the hospital.” 

His eyes, turquoise under mahogany lashes that matched his thick hair, gave her hands the once over. Then they took on a dreamy quality. “I remember you, too, Jennifer.”  He smiled broadly. “Better than you might ever imagine.”

The ceremony interrupted their banter. It brought tears to her eyes, as usual. She noticed Eric also allowed a few tears to moisten the corners of his eyes. She remembered how rigid and stern he’d seemed at Gary’s grave just the week before.

Maybe, she thought, he’s making some progress, too – like me.

He put his arm around her. “I’d like to take you to dinner this evening,” Eric said.

She smiled up at him. “Okay. Sounds fun.” 

In her peripheral vision, she caught a fleeting glance of the old man, a red rose in his hand, near the tomb. But he vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

****

When Eric escorted her onto the Potomac dinner cruise, she was glad she’d dressed up. The gleam she saw in his eyes told her he definitely approved.

“D.C. at night is gorgeous” he said, “but not as beautiful as you.”  He took her right hand in his and brought it to his lips, delivering a tender kiss. We’ll be cruising by a lot of the most notable places in town,” he added, “Including Arlington.” 

His arm draped protectively around her shoulder as they were shown to their table. Mmmm. He smelled so good.

Once they were seated, he reached across the table to hold her hands in his. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

Oh no, she thought. Please don’t say something bad. Her eyes widened. At his questioning look, she said, “Please. I – I just don’t want anything to mar our evening.”

He rubbed the top of her hand gently with his thumb. Gave her a lopsided grin. “Since the first time you visited that group of us at Walter Reed, I’ve thought of you as my angel. My inspiration.”

Now her eyes grew even larger. A big smile stretched her cheeks. “I never imagined,” she said.

“Thinking about you got me through a lot of hours of hard, frustrating work learning to get around with this.” He slapped his prosthesis.

“Oh,” was all she managed to say.

“I needed to thank you,” he said.

Her shoulders drooped. So that was it. A thank-you dinner, and that’s all. She’d foolishly let herself believe he might have feelings for her. “I see.”  She said.

Jennifer pasted on a fake but cheerful smile during the delicious meal. There was even wine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received such sumptuous treatment. She should have been happy.

            The band began a slow waltz. Eric rose, extending his hand toward her. “Jennifer, may I have this dance?” 

            Her eyebrows rose toward her hairline. He could dance with his prothesis?

            As if he could read her mind, he added, “Trust me, Jen.”

Swirling gently around the small dance floor, she found herself humming along with the music. Good Lord – she hadn’t done that in years. Another sign, she decided. His arms around her felt so good. So right.

“Fantasizing about you, about us, dancing like this, is what got me through,” he whispered. “I think that’s when I fell in love with you, Jen.”

“Oh, Eric.”  His words went straight to her heart. She nestled her cheek against his shoulder, loving every tender moment of the slow waltz, of being in his arms. She was ready to move on, to find a new love. With Eric.

“Jen, do you know that guy?” Eric gestured toward their table.

“What guy?” 

“An old man. He’s putting a red rose on the table.” 

Jen smiled softly. “Do you believe in ghosts?”  

That Others May Live

That Others May Live

By

Silver James

     “I’m not a cripple.”

     “Never said you were, son.”

     Lt. Scott Bryan glared at the cab driver. Why wouldn’t the man take his money? He couldn’t stand people feeling sorry for him.

     The man twisted in the front seat and gestured toward the patch on the sleeve of Scott’s uniform. “Son, I was at Hamburger Hill in sixty-nine. I wouldn’t have made it if a helicopter full of PJs hadn’t pulled my ass out. I give a lot of you boys from Walter Reed free rides. Just my way of sayin’ thanks.”

     Scott cleared his throat but the lump that formed didn’t go away. He simply nodded and put the twenty back in his pocket. Struggling, he managed to extricate himself from the back seat without assistance. The doctors in Kandahar saved his legs but even after six months of physical therapy, he still walked with a cane. Leaning down to peer in the front passenger window, he offered a smile. “Thanks.”

     The cabby saluted and drove away as Scott turned to face the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery. The gold locket in his pocket burned a proverbial hole. He should have made this pilgrimage months ago. Instead, he’d hung onto the necklace as a sort of good luck talisman. The photo of the girl inside kept him pushing through the pain and exhaustion. It was wrong of him. He’d made a promise to a soldier as the man lay dying on the bloody deck of Scott’s helicopter—to return the locket to the girl back home. Only the helo had been shot down on the way back to home base after leaving the hospital heliport. His teammates had died, but Scott survived though horribly injured. Now he had scars—inside and out—and bum legs to show for it.

     He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering the now-familiar square pendant. He’d wondered who the girl was. Wife? Girlfriend? Did she mourn her soldier? He was half in love with the picture. He’d spent hours during physical therapy fantasizing about her. He didn’t care that she belonged to a dead man—a man he’d failed to save. That was his job. That others may live. The creed of the United States Airforce Pararescue Jumpers. He was supposed to save all those broken bodies he and the other PJs retrieved from the battlefields, flying them by helicopter back to a hospital. But he hadn’t saved this one and he hadn’t fulfilled his promise to get the locket home. 

     Two enlisted men passed him, both saluting smartly and pulling him from his reverie. He raised his hand to his forehead in response. Time to get this finished. He inquired where to locate the grave and set off, his gait uneven, to find it. He had an apology to make to the ghost of the man buried there.

****

     Emily Kane looked around to make sure no one paid her any attention. Sinking onto the grass, she crossed her legs Indian style and reached out to trace the name on the headstone. She had no more tears to shed so she simply sat, soaking up the early April sunshine.

     “Decoration Day is coming next month, Jeff. Remember I told you that Grandpa had your name added to the family stone back home?” She tried to laugh but the sound came out strangled and forced. “I keep reminding them that it’s called Memorial Day now, but you know how they are. They’ll put out a flag and lay a wreath. Grandpa will be wearing his American Legion cap and vest and he’ll salute right proper.”

A tear rolled down her cheek but she ignored it. “Ah, damn, bubba but I miss you.” More tears followed.

****

     Scott watched the woman. His heart hurt so much for her. He’d recognized her as soon as he walked up but he hated to intrude on her grief. He could make amends now, if he retreated to the entrance and waited for her. He would approach her and offer the return of the locket, just as Jeff Kane had requested. Fighting the urge to go to her, to offer comfort, knowing he only wanted to hold her as he’d dreamed of doing all this time, he backed away.

     “Easy there.”

     Startled, Scott spun around so quickly he teetered off-balance. Regaining his footing, he stared at the man who’d seemed to appear from thin air. The soldier’s gaze fixed on his shoulder patch and then the gold bar on his collar.

     “You okay, sir?”

     “Yeah. Yes. I’m good. I didn’t mean to plow into you.”

     The soldier stared over Scott’s shoulder. “She comes every week, you know.”

     Turning toward the girl sitting at the grave, Scott felt his heart lurch again. “She must love him a lot.” His mouth felt as dry as Afghanistan’s deserts but he managed to get the words out.

     “Yessir, I think she does. They were close.” The man glanced at him. “You should go introduce yourself, Lieutenant. She’d like that, knowing you were there, that you tried to help.”

     “But I didn’t. He died.”

     “We all die, sir. Sooner or later. She needs t’know that he was thinking of her, remembering home.” The man clapped Scott on the shoulder and gave a gentle push. “Go on now. I think you need to go introduce yourself, sir. She’s a real sweetheart.”

     Still wobbly on his bad legs and cane, Scott shuffled toward the grave and the pretty girl. Her hair, a dull blonde in the photo, glistened beneath the spring sun with shades of blonde and red. When he stopped beside her, he recognized the sprinkling of ginger freckles across her nose and cheeks but her blue eyes were far beyond anything her picture conveyed. She shaded those luminous eyes as she glanced up. She offered a curious if wavery smile as she watched him.

     “Uhm…” Scott shoved his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the locket. “I’m…uhm…”

     She glanced at his patch and a look of confusion replaced the hesitant smile. “Can I help you?”

     “My name is Scott. Scott Bryan. I…uhm…I’m a PJ and I…” His uncertainty surged as her eyes widened.

     “Were you there? With Jeff?” She jumped to her feet and her hand landed on his arm. Warmth spread straight to his heart. “We heard from his CO that he’d been picked up after the IED, that the PJs came for him in their helo and got him to Kandahar. Was that you? Oh my gosh but I’ve dreamed about meeting you, about thanking you.”

     She all but gushed in her excitement. All he could do was nod before she started babbling again. She finished by saying, “I’m Emily. Emily Kane. I…could I buy you a cup of coffee or a piece of pie or something?” Emily looked so pretty and so full of life. Scott couldn’t resist her.

     Thirty minutes later, they shared a table at her favorite coffee shop. She had something frou-frou, he had plain black in a ceramic mug. He loved the sound of her voice. Hell, if he was honest, he’d admit he loved her—no matter how inappropriate those feelings.

     “Jeff was an absolute jerk when we were growing up. And heaven forbid when a date came to the house to pick me up. He’d answer the door with a shotgun in his hands.”

     Her words finally penetrated his guilt-induced haze. “Wait…what? Dates?”

     Emily tilted her head and squiggled her nose. Scott had the insane desire to kiss its tip. “Uhm…yeah. Dates. I dated in high school. And my jerk of a brother decided he needed to scare off any potential boyfriends.”

     He stared at her for a long moment, realized his mouth was gaping, and snapped his jaw closed. “Jeff was your brother?”

     She nodded, looking bemused. “Yeah. And?”

     Scott didn’t breathe for a minute, despite the hammering of his heart. Then he started to laugh. He couldn’t stop. Within moments, he was crying through the laughter, feeling foolish, forlorn, and for the first time in months, hopeful.

     Emily reached over and cupped her hand over his. His fingers automatically laced through hers. How many times had he envisioned doing just that? He couldn’t count. Didn’t need to. When he finally regained control, he pulled the locket from his pocket and slid it across the table.

     “I thought you were his wife. He asked me to return the locket to you. It was really important to him. It was all he could think of, talk about, until I agreed. I planned to take it back to him, the next time we had a run to the hospital, but we crashed. And by the time—” His voice broke and he swiped his free hand over his eyes.

     “Shhh,” Emily soothed. “It’s okay.”

     “I have to say this. I found out Jeff died. I didn’t save him.”

     “But you tried.”

     “But I didn’t save him.” He couldn’t face her any longer, couldn’t stand to see her condemnation of him, so he dropped his chin to his chest, refusing to meet her eyes.

     Taking his hand in both of hers, Emily ducked and tilted her head so he’d have to look at her. “I tucked that stupid locket into his duffle bag as he was shipping out. He never mentioned anything so I figured it had dropped out and gotten lost.” Her smile remained strong even though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But it didn’t. He found it. Kept it. And made sure it got back to me.”

     They drank coffee. Talked. Held hands. Shared secrets. He admitted how he’d fallen in love with her picture, how thinking of her had seen him through his rehabilitation. She told him of growing up in Georgia, of coming to Virginia for college and staying, unwilling to go home where everything reminded her of her brother and best friend.

     Hours later, she drove him back to Walter Reed Hospital. Emily left him with a kiss and a promise of seeing him soon. They dated, became sweethearts, and visited Jeff’s grave every week. As Memorial Day approached, Emily scored tickets for the Presidential wreath-laying ceremony from her boss, a senator.

Memorial Day dawned overcast and chilly. Scott dressed slowly, making sure each part of his dress uniform was meticulous. His shoes glowed from the spit shine he’d put on them the previous night, his medals—including his Purple Heart—lined his chest in precise rows. Emily picked him up at the hospital and they joined the throngs at Arlington.

     They found their place in the reviewing stand—on the front row. People came up to Scott, thanking him for his service. The lump in his throat had grown to the size of fist and if Emily hadn’t been there, holding his hand, gazing up at him with adoring eyes, he would have bolted. He didn’t deserve praise. The ghosts of all the men he hadn’t saved lined up in his mind. Each one demanded recognition. He freaked out as the echoes of explosions and the clatter of chopper blades and small arms fire warred with the stench of blood and guts and the moans of broken men.

     Someone bumped his arm, a gentle nudge he almost didn’t feel, but it was enough to pull him back from the brink. He was surprised to see the same soldier who had urged Scott to meet Emily appear beside him. The man winked when Scott glanced at him.

     “You were right,” Scott whispered. “She is a real sweetheart.”

     An anticipatory stir ruffled the crowd. The soldier tapped the USAF Pararescue patch on Scott’s shoulder. “That others may live. That means you, too, sir.” He glanced pointedly at Emily, who was so engrossed in the pomp and ceremony she paid no attention to them.

     By habit, Emily slipped her arm through Scott’s, distracting him for a moment. When he glanced back at the soldier, the man was walking toward the Tomb of the Unknown. Before he could say anything, the ceremony began with members of the Old Guard executing their measured march. The soldier leaned against the Tomb watching. As the honor guard passed, another man joined him—a man who looked very much like Jeff Kane. Both men gazed straight at Scott, and saluted. He saluted automatically then watched as they disappeared.

     At the end of the ceremony, with the wreath in place before the Tomb, and with the last wavering notes of “Taps” drifting away on the breeze, Emily rose on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.

     “Did you see them?” she asked.

     His gaze returned to the Tomb. “That others may live,” he murmured. He cupped Emily’s cheeks in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “I’m ready to start living, Emily. With you, if you’ll have me. I love you.”

She blinked rapidly and he recognized the hope shining in her eyes. “Are you…are you…”

     “Will you marry me, Emily Kane?”

     “Absolutely, Scott Bryan.”

     As they walked off arm-in-arm, the two ghosts leaned against the Tomb. “I think she got a good one, Sergeant Kane.”

     “Thanks to you. Hey, I don’t even know your name.”

     “Yeah. That’s the way it works, Sarge.” The Ghost of the Unknown shrugged and offered a wry smile as he faded into the white granite of the Tomb.

GHOST OF THE UNKNOWN

 

Arlington National Cemetery—sacred ground and home to the spirits of generations who made the ultimate sacrifice to keep America free. A somber place filled with orderly rows of white tombstones and the sound of Taps. A place of grief and, strangely, peace. A place where warriors can finally rest. A visitor would never expect to find life and love there. Unless they meet the Ghost of the Unknown.

Join the Wild Okie Writers in celebration of Memorial Day for tales of remembrance, of respect, and the affirmation that love conquers all and soothes the hearts of weary warriors.

 

Click the sidebar titles for entrance into Arlington National Cemetery.