by Rinker Buck
Back at the funeral home, Laura Richardson had lingered for forty-five minutes, getting some paperwork out of the way before she faced what she knew would be a difficult few days with the funeral. From the door of her viewing chapel, she switched on the lights and took one last look at Shane’s casket up front, and then crossed the vestibule for her front door.
The prospect of Powell at night from her funeral home entrance had always pleased her. The floodlights from the parking lot nearby on North Absaroka Street cast interesting shadows and highlights on the cottonwoods in the front lawn, and there was a nice stretch of well-porched homes that formed a quaint depth of view toward the prairie. She’d come here from New Mexico to finish raising her children and to declare her independence as a single mother. Leaving work late at night like this, often, she felt satisfaction about her success. And church tomorrow. Father Johnson at Saint Barbara’s. She needed the refreshment of Mass before she could face burying this marine.
As she was locking her front door, Richardson felt the presence of someone approaching from behind. When she looked over her shoulder, a Powell policeman was crossing First Street from the empty parking lot of the Community First National Bank. She could tell without asking why he was there, because the officer’s demeanor made it clear. He had been waiting at a respectful distance for her to close and lock up. He would remain at the entrance to the funeral home all night, occasionally patrolling out back, too. Someone should be there until dawn with the marine.
Richardson didn’t know the police officer’s name. She didn’t know if he had been assigned this job by the police department, or just elected to assume a post outside the funeral home all night on his own. Maybe the officer just wanted to do this for himself, to get closer, somehow. Everyone in Powell had been emotionally needy, on edge, since the news arrived about Lieutenant Childers. She didn’t know for sure.
But she knew what she felt when she looked into the officer’s face. She felt deep gratitude for him, for Powell, for Captain Kevin Hutchison and how all this had been handled so far. It had been such a demanding week. But she was the funeral director in town and this moment required restraint, not a show of emotion.
The officer spoke first, and then Richardson replied.
“Did you just bring Shane home?”
“Yes, officer, and thank you. He’s home. Shane is home.”
THE SANDS OF RUMAILA
On Sunday morning it was sunny but blustery outside, with scattered clusters of pink and gray cumulus beginning to form out over the Beartooths. Inside the Childers house, the mood was expectant but calm. Joe, Judy, their children, and guests were all vaguely aware that Shane had been scheduled to arrive late the night before. But Laura Richardson and Captain Hutchison inspired such confidence in the way they handled these matters that the family was content to wait for Hutchison to visit and see what he said. The atmosphere around the dining-room table, where the family was dawdling over breakfast, was friendly and warm, with everyone using second cups of coffee or more helpings of eggs and coffee cake as an excuse to catch up with in-laws and friends. For the moment, they were all talked out about Shane. Five grandchildren chasing around the house and colliding on the stairs contributed to a feeling that was more like a family gathering for the holidays than for a funeral.
Later, after breakfast was over, Robert Reagan arrived from his motel and began holding court out on the front patio. Sam Childers and his brother-in-law, Richard Brown, were there with a few other men—one of Judy’s brothers, and some Shoshone Back Country Horsemen. They all found Robert to be a soothing, entertaining presence, his therapeutic sarcasm quite welcome. Like many of those gathering for the funeral, some of the men continued to be concerned by Judy’s stoic reaction to Shane’s death.
“Robert, I just don’t know what we’re going to do here,” Richard Brown said. “Judy isn’t showing any reaction yet. Shouldn’t we be worried?”
“Oh Lord, here we go,” Reagan said. “What are you? United States Army or something? Figures. I know Judy. When she blows, she blows. And make no mistake about it. She will blow.”
“Yeah, but, Robert,” Brown said, “she’s not showing any reaction.”
“Oh Christ, do I have to tell you everything, kid?” Reagan said. “If you’re based up in the Aleutians and there’s volcanoes all around, you don’t sit around and watch for eruptions. They blow when they blow and then you do something. You don’t watch your freaking grass grow, do you? Judy’s going to blow and it will probably be a doozy but let’s just chill until then.”
“Robert,” Brown said, “maybe someone should talk to Judy?”
“Oh, sweet,” Reagan said. “Are you volunteering for that job?”
“No, not particularly,” Brown said.
“Well good, because neither am I,” Reagan said. “Just listen to your Uncle Robert here. Chill your butt until she blows and everything’s going to be fine, just fine.”
“Okay, okay!” Brown said. “I’ll try and relax about it.”
Earlier, at the Lamplighter Inn in Powell, Captain Hutchison had woken with a pleasing thought. He suddenly remembered that during a phone call earlier in the CACO drama his mother had told him that he “was chosen” to help the Childerses, as if his selection were divinely inspired, or that there was something inherent in his personality that made him fit for the job.
In fact, he now realized, there was something that made him particularly appropriate for the job. He was the marine captain from the family who had “put the fun back into dysfunction.” Growing up in his amusingly blended and sometimes fractious clan had prepared him for many things in life, and that included feeling comfortable in a large, extended family like the Childerses. In some respects, compared to his own family, the Childerses were practically cupcakes.
There had always been one thing that the Hutchisons did particularly well—meltdowns. It was insane what happened sometimes on those blended family vacations, who was melting down for what reason. Still, they always had fun. This was the family baggage, he thought, that had prepared him so well for the marines—after growing up a Hutchison, running some crazyass rifle platoon at Lejeune was a snap. It wasn’t that he was hardened or repressed about family relations, in fact he was quite sensitive. But his threshold for people acting out or displaying other personal eccentricities was very high. It was just something about himself that he knew. Hutchison had great proficiency training in managing meltdowns.
So, while he was worried about confronting Judy Childers that morning with the clear plastic bag of Shane’s personal effects, he knew there was no way to anticipate her reaction. He might face the same situation when describing the state of Shane’s remains. The only way to control his side of the equation was to carefully rehearse what he would say. That’s what he knew about managing meltdowns, or preparing for them when one could reasonably be expected. Rehearse your own part, position things as directly and as sympathetically as you can, then go with the flow, embrace and respond to the melt.
It was his old “putting the fun back into dysfunction” proficiency training kicking in, Hutchison realized. That’s why he had automatically begun rehearsing his lines for Judy last night.
“Judy, you’re going to see your son tomorrow, but he’s not the son you remember. Okay? May I explain?”
So as he took his morning run, showered, shaved, put on his uniform and then went over to the Skyline Café for breakfast, Hutchison repeated his line like a mantra. He didn’t want to forget it under stress.
“Judy, you’re going to see your son tomorrow, but he’s not the son you remember.”
When Hutchison arrived at the Childerses, a few of the men were still standing outside talking with Robert Reagan. Hutchison said hello and asked them how Judy was doing, and they told him that everyone seemed to be having a relaxed morning, considering the circumstances. When Hutchison went inside, they all had the sense to wait out on the patio because they knew that for the first time Judy would be co
nfronting the news that Shane was home. The issue of finally seeing him could not be put off much longer.
Joe, Judy, and their children were still in the dining room, drinking coffee and discussing their plans for the day. Hutchison decided that it would be deceitful and just prolong Judy’s agony to delay handing her the bag containing Shane’s picture ID, his watch, and lanyard flashlight.
Biting his lip, Hutchison looked boyish and hurt handing her the small bag of personal effects, presenting it to her as she sat at the table. Judy wasn’t surprised to receive the bag, but she wasn’t prepared either, at least not when she saw Shane’s military ID card.
Her eyes welling with tears, Judy looked first to Hutchison, then to Joe, and finally started to cry.
“He’s not coming back, is he?” she moaned, looking up at Hutchison’s face. “Up till now, I just thought of Shane as on deployment.”
Hutchison knew that it was best to be direct. She was saying it now, “he’s not coming back,” and it was his job to reinforce what she could now see and was indeed holding in her hands.
“Judy, you know how hard it is for me to say it,” Hutchison said. “You know how sorry I am. But Shane’s not coming back.”
Judy repeated that several more times, sobbing now, the tears running down her face.
“He’s not coming back. He’s really not coming back.”
“He’s not coming back, Judy,” Joe said. “It’s time we all faced that Shane’s not coming back.”
Joe was crying now too, uncontrollable tears, but mostly in response to Judy’s sorrow. He was not sobbing or breaking down. There seemed to be an important emotional equation to the moment. He’d exhausted himself with tears and a monstrous weight of grief all week, and now he was played out and had faced that Shane wasn’t returning. So he could be there for Judy now, and he did his best to comfort her, wrapping her in his arms and crying too. In their adjoining chairs at the table they seemed to form together a portrait of desperate coping.
Joe helped Judy open the clear plastic bag, and they shared in their hands Shane’s watch and his lanyard flashlight, talking about how these objects reminded them of him. It was just unbearably difficult, yet strangely comforting, too, to hold Shane’s watch and his lanyard flashlight.
Sandra Childers was crying now too, and her husband, Richard, had joined her. Soon, other shivers of crying had passed through the rest of the house as some of the Childers relatives who had arrived realized what was happening, and it lasted a long time.
But everyone felt better when it was over. In all the details of bringing the West Virginia relatives to Wyoming, the marines coming in and out, and friends arriving unpredictably, it had been easy to become distracted from what this was really all about. Shane’s strong personal force and his aura of invincibility had also contributed to the deferred emotions—they all couldn’t believe at first that he was gone. But now the initial personal effects had arrived, and they were all facing it. Shane really, really wasn’t coming back.
Hutchison stood at the edge of the family in the dining room and talked quietly with some of the men for a while. He wanted to give Judy some time. He could see that she was really unbending now, allowing herself to cry and to be comforted by Joe. She was Judy Childers and for more than thirty years she had been the quiet force holding the family together, while Joe was away on his Seabee trips. Now it was her turn to be needy and exhausted by sorrow for Shane and she was indulging that. Finally, cried out for the moment, she returned the personal effects to the bag and looked up, her face puffy from weeping.
Hutchison joined Judy and Joe, and, gently, waiting for the right moment, he brought up the difficult subject of the condition of Shane’s remains. “Judy, you’re going to see your son tomorrow, but he’s not the son you remember.”
Then he explained everything, about the effects of dehydration on a body, and Shane’s long, arduous ride home from a field hospital in Kuwait. Everyone discussed it calmly, and Hutchison felt emotional himself for a bit, because he was so proud of the way the family was handling everything. But there was also something else happening, which was palpable in the room. The emotional center of gravity, authority over decisions, was shifting to Joe. Yes, he was never going to be a great detail man who spent much time filling out CACO forms or filing for insurance. He grieved by telling stories and then hitching up his team. But he was so open and generous, so uncompromisingly honest about his emotions, that the family was ready to follow him as soon as he was ready to lead. Instead of crying now, he was frequently sitting silently, just pondering events and the next decision. Now he was considering what Hutchison had said about the remains, that Shane did not look particularly good but was presentable. Joe spoke up with his eyebrows raised, his chin slightly out, and his eyes clear and earnest.
“I just think we all need to be realistic about this,” Joe said. “I don’t want to wake up some morning a few months from now and expect to see Shane come diddly-boppin’ down the lane to see us. We have to accept that he’s gone, and an open casket will help us.”
When he spoke the inflection in Joe’s voice was not insistent. Instead, he was seeking consensus. But he did feel that it was best that they not have a private family viewing today, because they all needed to recover first from the knowledge that Shane was finally back. Maybe he’d hitch up the team later and take all the grandchildren and visiting aunts for a long hayride. They’d spend time together as a family, visit and have dinner, and gird up for the stress of the wake tomorrow.
Joe easily persuaded them. The other family members didn’t want to live the rest of their lives either with the dream of a phantom Shane diddly-boppin’ down that lane again. He was just so powerful a figure in their lives, a model that couldn’t be forgotten, that they had to confront his remains. They had to see him to accept his death.
Later in the morning, when Laura Richardson called from the funeral home to find out about their plans, Joe informed her that the family would not have a private viewing today. Tomorrow, at the large reception and wake, they would have an open casket.
Judy was markedly changed in her demeanor for the rest of the day. She spent most of her time on the couch in the family room, letting some of the Childers aunts sit with her, or attend to the house, while she quietly talked and coped with her grief. When she felt like crying, she did.
Relieved by the release of emotion, and freed for the day from any real funeral responsibilities, the family went about its activities. One mixed party of Childers cousins and visiting marines headed off for some sightseeing—the Buffalo Bill Dam and Yellowstone National Park. The Childers uncles wanted to get into the Buffalo Bill Museum in Cody, which was known to house an excellent rifle collection, while their wives hit the downtown crafts galleries and outlet shops. Many of the visitors who had hurriedly dropped their lives to travel to Wyoming still needed something to wear to the wake and funeral—a better pair of dress shoes, a tie to go with a new suit—and they scattered too, mostly for Cody. Their place around the house was quickly taken up by newly arriving Childers relatives, old marine friends of Shane, or more Shoshone Back Country Horsemen. The house was never empty and Judy announced plans for a big midafternoon supper, cobbled together from the generous donations of cooked meals that were still arriving from the American Legion women’s auxiliary or Judy’s Avon friends. But she let the other women in the house do all the work while she remained on the couch.
This was just the excuse that Joe and Robert needed to put together an old act. The two old Seabee pals headed off in Joe’s battered pickup for Powell. Robert needed film for his camera and wanted to buy a western-style belt, and Joe wanted to show him around town. They could check out the town, and down at the Big “R” feed and tack store there were some real pretty cashiers who were decent flirts. They just needed a fun goof-off together and so they got lost in town for a few hours, joyful for each other’s company.
They’d been doing this for years together, ever since Vi
etnam was over and, on and off, they were stationed together as Seabees. Chase across the base all day Saturday shoeing horses together, welding someone’s flatbed trailer, or making extra money building an extended kitchen deck for a friend. Often they were still out carousing somewhere an hour or two after they had promised Judy they would be home. Over the years a strict protocol had evolved concerning the placement of blame.
“All right, let’s just say that I’m out somewhere with Joe and he’s the one who’s acting out, it’s Joe who has screwed the poodle,” Reagan said. “Doesn’t matter. It’s Robert’s fault. That’s the program and that’s my relationship with Judy. ‘Robert, this is your fault.’ It’s automatic. I’m always the one who screwed the poodle.”
In the afternoon, when the big supper was prepared and everyone around seemed ready to eat, Joe and Robert weren’t back yet. Judy dragged the phone over to her place on the couch and dialed around Powell until she tracked them down. She made it clear that they were expected home posthaste for the meal.
When Joe and Robert finally blew in, Judy got up from the couch and faced them, standing near the dining-room table. Joe got the “I’m pretending my husband doesn’t exist” treatment and she didn’t even look at him. Instead, Judy squared off for Robert.
“Robert, this is your fault. You kidnapped Joe and you were late.”
“Oh, now, c’mon here, woman, let’s not argue about it, okay?” Reagan said. “We just went in to town because I needed a belt.”
“Robert, it’s your fault. You kidnapped Joe and got lost in town. The day before my son’s wake.”
“Judy, now look here. I wasn’t driving the vehicle, okay?”
“Robert, it’s your fault. One hundred percent.”
“Well, let’s just get it back down to fifty percent, Judy, okay? I was just the passenger on this deal.”