by Jane Keeler
He kept his back straight and his face clean, relying on his training more than anything to get him through this tough day. By the time they hefted the coffin onto their shoulders, draped in a flag, he was hardly even there anymore. It was hard to match up these people with the things he’d seen. With John’s final moments, bloody and chaotic in the face of the enemy. Even the ones that had loved him would never really understand. He kept his mouth shut and honored his best friend in silence, staring down into a mound of dirt that steadily grew on top of the coffin.
At last it was over; people started to disperse, spreading out their own ways to their cars and their own reflections. The wake would be at the local bar, but somehow West felt like he didn’t want to go. Like he didn’t want to stand with all those people and laugh and joke about John while he had that image of his blood in his mind.
He looked up and realized there were only a few of them left; himself, his parents and sister waiting awkwardly for him off to one side, Shelley, Mr Andrews and his last remaining son, John’s younger brother. He knew he couldn’t just leave without saying anything; not after the promise he had made to John. He took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and glanced over to his family to let them know he’d be over there soon.
Shelley lifted her chin defiantly as he walked over to her, black net not quite covering the look on her face at seeing him. Close up, he realized she was wearing hardly any make-up at all now that most of it had been cried off. She was dressed well, but underneath it she looked a mess.
“Shelley,” he began, and she sniffed immediately.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she cut him off, voice laced with pain and anger.
“I know you hate me right now,” he tried, but even that was not an approach she would permit.
“You’re damn right I hate you,” she spat, glancing down at John’s grave as if worried that raising her voice might disturb him. She lowered it to a hiss before continuing. “I hated you from the moment John and I got together. You did this to him, you murderer. You led him into this. This is on you!”
West lowered his eyes, struggling to keep it together. “Ma’am,” he tried again at last, quiet and respectful. “I’m aware you don’t want to hear anything from me right now, but John and I made a pact. Whichever of us was to die first, the other was responsible for the rest. I’m offering my help to you. Anything you need, I will look out for you from now on.”
“I think you’ve done quite enough,” she said, just as quietly. The venom in her voice left no doubt as to her emotions on the matter, however.
West bowed his head and held out the dog tags, pooled on his open palm for her to take. She snatched them away from him without a word and stared at them, almost as if she resented the mere fact that he had touched them. West took a breath and walked away, joining his family.
It was true; Shelley had always hated him. West had known that right from the start. He always thought she would come round eventually, once she knew he wasn’t trying to keep John to himself. He thought that maybe it wasn’t him she hated, but the job that they did together. The fact that John left for months at a time to risk his life and there was nothing she could do about it. Now, West had to guess that she just hated him.
Chapter 3
West left it about a week before the guilt over his promise to John made him dare to risk her anger again. Maybe she would yell at him, but that was better than letting down John’s memory. What kind of best friend – of best man – would he be if he let his widow suffer alone?
He knew old man Andrews wasn’t much for emotional support anyway, and John’s brother had already gone back to school. West’s sister, too, was back with her books, or more likely chasing boys from what she’d told him. He couldn’t just let Shelley alone. Even in a small town like Franklin, it’s more than possible for someone to just slip through the cracks without anyone else noticing a thing.
He went out and bought the ingredients for a pasta bake, one of the few home comforts he actually knew how to make. He borrowed his Mom’s baking dish and headed over to John’s old place, berating himself half the way over there about what a bad idea it was. For the other half, he just tried to hurry there as quickly as possible.
When Shelley answered the door, he saw a rapid and immediate change in her. She opened the door as a weary and grieving housewife, satin gown hanging loose around her shoulders over what were clearly pajamas. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed for a few days, and her face, clear of make-up, bore dark circles around the eyes. She looked exhausted, and weak. Then she realized who it was that had rung the bell and flew into a fury all at once, yanking the gown closed in front of her and putting a hand out to slam the door.
“Don’t,” West said, putting his foot on the threshold so that she could not shut him out. “I brought food. I’ll make you dinner and then leave.”
“I told you I didn’t want your help,” she said, sounding half miserable and not quite as angry as the funeral.
“And I told you I promised John,” he said, lifting up the bag of food for her to see. “I’m making you a pasta bake. My Mom’s recipe. Ultimate comfort food. You don’t even have to speak to me, I’ll just go make it and leave it in the kitchen for you.”
She stared at him crossly, a number of different emotions playing across her face as she tried to decide what to do.
“Fine,” she snapped at last. “I’m going to sit in the lounge. Don’t come through.”
West breathed a sigh of relief, and stepped inside as she stomped away. He left his boots by the door and got to work, determined to make sure that it would be the best pasta bake she had ever tasted.
He deliberately made an overlarge portion, probably enough to last her two or three days at least. Digging around for a plate to serve it up on, he found rows of empty cupboards. No food. There were a few dry crackers hanging around, some moldy apples in the fridge, and an almost empty giant-sized tub of ice cream in the cupboard. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. Alright. It was time for him to step up.
He left her the food, calling out that it was ready before stepping back outside. He didn’t want to push things yet by going against what he’d agreed. It was enough just to know she would eat well that night.
The next morning he rose early, and headed out to the grocery store in town. He filled up a shopping cart with everything he could thing of – meat, fruit, vegetables, tins, pasta and rice. Pancake mix and juice. By the time he was done, he had more bags than he could carry to her door in one go, so he placed them all one by one on the step before he rang the bell.
“What now?” she demanded, though this time she sounded just annoyed, not angry anymore. She was still wearing the same clothes and she still hadn’t brushed her hair.
“Shopping,” he said, gesturing to the bags at his feet. “You don’t have any food.”
“I do,” she protested, crossing her arms.
West raised an eyebrow. “The leftover pasta bake doesn’t count.”
She huffed, but she knew she needed the food. After a moment or two she let him in, and left him to unpack everything to its right places. He smiled to himself. At least now he could be sure he was doing right by John.
It took her another three days before she would let him stay for dinner. He didn’t know how to cook much, but it was far better than the nothing that she would make for herself.
They sat in the front room, curtains drawn against the outside world, over two steaming plates of noodles. At first they ate in silence, but she was enjoying the meal, and she gradually began to warm up. He could see she had showered, washed and combed her hair. It had a little of the old shine back in it.
“It’s good,” she admitted, gesturing towards her plate.
“Thanks,” West said, and smiled. “It’s not as good as something you’d make, I’m sure.”
She gave a half-laugh, then returned to her noodles, looking down again. West wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
Clearly he wasn’t helping as much as he thought he was.
He let the silence brew for a while, then cleared his throat just to make a sound. “Remember that summer when John and I were about to go into training?” he asked, quietly. He hadn’t started out with the intention of bringing him up again, but he was grieving too. The memory and the words came without warning.
She nodded slowly, looking across the table as if it was a looking glass into the past. “We were still kids. All three of us,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “That was a crazy summer.”
“Do you remember the party?” she asked.
He nodded his head. Of course he remembered the party. In a small town like this there were only so many parties a bunch of teenagers would get invited to.
“We danced all night,” she recalled, her words pulled back from some distant place in her head. Following her gaze he could almost imagine she was watching some old movie of the two of them, young again.
“John got so mad at me,” West said. “I knew he liked you, but I danced with you anyway.”
“It took him long enough to ask me out,” she said, shaking her head. “I almost gave up on waiting. I didn’t understand why you backed off after that night until later.”
“He was my best friend,” West said.
She looked up at him then. Her eyes were tired still, and red around the edges. She nodded, and he knew she understood that they were both carrying the same grief. That he had never wanted John’s life to end this way. “I know he was,” she said.
Finishing off his plate, West felt a lightness in his heart that was almost unbearably refreshing. He had felt so heavy under John’s loss and her hatred. At least now that she was calm again, now she had recognized that West didn’t put a gun in her husband’s hand, he could relax.
Even at the thought, a tinge of guilt crept in. Was he really blameless? Did he really deserve to be forgiven like that? John was not coming home anymore to decide whether or not he wanted to follow this life. John was in the ground, and it was West who was playing house with his wife now.
“I’m sorry it ended like this,” he said, the only decent thing he could think to say at that point.
“That won’t change much,” Shelley said.
He looked up at her sharply, and saw that she was staring at her food, not eating it any longer. There was some kind of tension about her that made him stop moving his fork. She looked like a bomb about to go off. Maybe she, too, was thinking about how West had persuaded her husband to go on this mission.
“I think you should leave now,” she suggested, calmly and evenly.
“Shelley, I - ” he tried, but she glared at him with an intensity that stopped the words in his throat.
“Get out,” she said, and West didn’t care to argue. He picked up his jacket from the hook by the door, put his boots back on, and left. As the door swung closed behind him, he heard a plate shatter in the front room, and hunched his shoulders forwards against the cold night air.
Chapter 4
Between them, just about all of the residents of Franklin had decided that there ought to be some kind of memorial service for their latest fallen son. Not just a funeral, for lowering the body into the ground – something real to remember him by. A time to remember all the other sons of Franklin who had fallen in the line of duty. It didn’t seem like anyone asked Shelley Andrews what she thought about it, but either way, there was a memorial for John about a month after his funeral.
Shelley was doing a little better; West went round there every third or fourth night to cook up a big batch of something that would last her a little while and to make sure she hadn’t eaten her cupboards bare again. At some point Mr Andrews had made a supply run for her as well, and she was getting by. She alternated hot and cold, blazing at West whenever she felt John’s death the keenest and then letting him sit down and eat once she calmed herself again. It was a rocky time, hard to handle. But, West reminded himself continuously, it was for John that he had to do this.
The day of the memorial was cloudy and overcast, though no rain threatened to fall just yet. A large photograph of John in his uniform – the same one they’d displayed at his funeral – was put up next to a few others, mostly grainy or clouded photographs of young men who had been lost years before. There was a buffet prepared with donations from all over the town, and chairs and tables set up outside; before long, however, the air turned cold, and the residents piled into the town hall.
Shelley was treated like the guest of honor, paraded up and down with old dears touching her hand and being sorry for her loss, even though most of them wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if they saw her in the store. From somewhere she had found the ability to dress herself up nicely, in dark colors and with a little make-up. West kept his distance, but he smiled to see her. Maybe she was starting to get a little better after all.
A temporary bar was set up with bottles and barrels brought in from outside, and the party continued: a celebration of those who had gone before. West found himself getting pats on the back and fervent handshakes from young men, boys who were thinking about joining the military themselves and did he think he could recommend them? He lost count of the times he had to shake his head and say it doesn’t work like that, kid, politely disengaging them and leaving them with worried parents. His own were glowing with pride over their SEAL.
He headed to the back of the room and the drinks table, grabbing a bottle in the hopes that it might at least make the rest of the day a little more bearable. He was halfway down it when Shelley materialized at his elbow, pouring a glass of wine with shaking hands and taking a deep sip as soon as it was done.
“These people,” she said, and shuddered.
“I know,” he said, looking over at the picture of John, still staring at him from all the way on the other side of the room. “I know.”
Before he knew it, he had lost count of the bottles that had passed through his hands. Half the town had filtered away already, their passing interest waning once the free food was gone.
“Maybe we should escape,” Shelley said, finishing off the last of a glass of wine. She put the glass down unsteadily, letting it almost tip over before she righted it.
“I guess you’re right,” West said, looking round at her. She’d had too much to drink. He wouldn’t call her out on that; it was her prerogative.
They sidled together out of the door, past a number of lingering well-wishers who might have delayed them with tails of their old memories or something else equally nauseating. West was glad the town was small enough that he could walk Shelley home instead of needing a car. Neither of them were in any kind of state to be getting behind the wheel.
She let him support her up the road and help her in the door, slinging an arm around his shoulders to keep herself upright. Once the door was shut behind them he helped her to sit down in the lounge, and sat down on the opposite side of the room to catch his breath.
“I never said you could stay,” Shelley said, her voice turning low and sharp.
West braced himself mentally, trying to clear his head a little. “I’m just resting. I’ll go in a second.”
“I didn’t ask you to come here,” she said, and there was something in the deliberate and slow way she spoke that made West think about trying to leave as soon as possible.
“I’ll go,” he said, getting to his feet. He felt a little unsteady, but attempted to walk towards the door without showing it.
Suddenly she was up on her feet too, blocking his way, bristling with anger. “I’m not some pity case you have to check up on all the time. You can leave me alone from now on!”
“I promised John,” West said, not recognizing that this was a very stupid thing to say.
“If I’m such a heavy burden to you then just get out and don’t come back!” she shouted, her voice tense with emotions – rage, sadness, wild passion brought on by the alcohol.
“You don’t mean that,” West sai
d. “Who’s going to look after you?”
“I can look after my goddamn self,” she pushed him in the center of his chest madly, her face contorting with the words.
“No, you can’t. I have to look after you,” West reasserted, taking a stumbling step backwards.
“Don’t think you have to come here,” she yelled. “Your obligation is finished. You’ve done what you promised your precious John, I don’t need you anymore!”
West shook his head, trying to stay calm in the face of her fury. “Have to make sure you’re alright,” he said.
“Don’t you get it, you idiot?” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. “I. Don’t. Want. Your. Help. I don’t want you around anymore! I don’t want to see you ever again!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” West snapped, finally pushed into anger himself. “Why are you saying this all of a sudden? You need my help and you know it.”
“I don’t want the help of someone who is just honoring his dead friend – I don’t want your pity – I don’t want to be your chore!” she shouted, tears springing up in her eyes.
West understood finally, and he took a deep breath to try and process the information. He rubbed a hand back over his close-cropped hair, trying to think past the haze of the drink. “You’re not a chore,” he said quietly. “I like you.”
“No, you don’t,” Shelley said, quietened by his calm but still full of that hurt and anger.
“I do,” he said, trying to grab hold of her arms. “I really enjoy coming to eat with you.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re just trying to shut me up,” she bit back.