The Final Service

by Gary W. Moore

  “Mom! You gotta’ stop judging my friends by their choice of musical instruments.”

  “Dinner is at six. Don’t be late.”

  Steve pulled into the driveway the same time Emiley and her guest arrived.

  “Hi, Em,” Steve said as he climbed out of his truck. He nodded and smiled at her friend. “Bill, right? Are you having dinner with us tonight?” He placed his hand on the boy’s back and turned him toward the front door.”

  Emiley prodded Bill’s arm with her elbow. “Uh, yes, sir.”

  Steve caught his eye and winked at the boy. “Ouch. I’m afraid that elbow may leave a bruise, Bill.”

  “Dad!” shouted an embarrassed Emiley.

  “Something smells better than pizza!” exclaimed Steve as they walked into the house.

  “Hi everyone!” Sandy’s enthusiastic welcome bellowed from the kitchen. Wearing a red “Kiss the Cook” apron and holding a glass of wine in one hand and a soup ladle in the other, Sandy peeked around the wall and nodded toward the dining room. “Come on in!”

  The table had been set with red china plates and matching cloth napkins. Three white pillar candles were flickering in the center.

  “What’s the special occasion, Mom?” Emiley glanced at her mom and then settled her questioning eyes on her father.

  “It’s always special when my family is at home,” she announced. “And we’re celebrating your dad’s court victory!”

  Steve’s wide grin slowly faded when he spotted the empty bottle of wine on the sideboard. “Where’s Sarah?” He glued a smile back on his face.

  “Changing her clothes.”

  “May I speak to you for a moment, honey?” asked Steve.

  Sandy brushed off the request. “Not right now. The food will get cold.”

  Steve gently gripped Sandy’s forearm and pointed toward the kitchen with his other hand. “Just for a second.”

  Sandy pulled away. “Not right now! Geez Steve,” she said too loudly for the small room and the situation “Come to the table, everyone!”

  “What’s wrong with your voice, Mom?” asked Emiley. “You sound like you’re …”

  Steve cut off his daughter. “That’s enough, Emiley.” His tone made it clear he was serious.

  “Supper ready?” ask Sarah as she entered the dining room. “I am soooo hungry.” She stopped and looked around from face to face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sandy,” Steve urged softly. “Let’s step into the bedr…”

  “Let go of my arm!” she shouted, jerking her limb away. Once free, Sandy reached for the blue and white china bowl of homemade potato leek soup sitting on the sideboard. “Come on everyone, sit!”

  Emiley cast a pleading glance at her dad, who offered a slight understanding nod in return. “I guess we better do as the cook says,” he announced. “What can I do to help?”

  “Why is mom acting so weird?” Sarah whispered to her sister. Emiley just shook her head but remained silent.

  Sandy was carrying the soup to the table when she tripped on the edge of an Oriental rug and fell forward, striking her chin on the corner of the table. The bowl smashed into several pieces on the floor, spilling soup everywhere. Some of the hot soup splashed onto Emiley and Bill. Both jumped up and danced around while pulling their steaming clothes away from their skin.

  “Sandy!” Steve was at her side immediately, cradling as she slowly sat up. A bruise was already visible on her chin. “Are you okay?”

  Sandy nodded once, shook her head vigorously, and then buried her face in her hands and cried.

  Chapter 15

  Please, God. Let it all have been just a bad dream.

  Sandy covered her eyes with her left hand, blocking out the sunlight.

  He

  With her right, she reached for Steve but found his side of the bed empty.

  Loves

  The sheets were cold. Had he even slept with her last night?

  You…

  Sandy threw off the covers and sat up slowly. A rolling sensation as if she was on a cruise ship navigating a rough sea washed over her. Her head pounded, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth like a ball of dry cotton, and her stomach churned. Like a newborn foal standing on shaky legs, she eased her way to the bathroom while holding onto the wall with one hand.

  One look in the mirror was all she needed to confirm her memory of the evening before. She touched her bruised chin with her left pinky. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks as the events of the previous evening assaulted her. How could she have humiliated herself like that? How could she have embarrassed her family?

  An hour later, Sandy sat in her car in the gravel parking lot next to the barn, willing herself to climb out and get to work. The Tylenol hadn’t helped much, and her chin was throbbing in unison with her head. The day was already warm and promised to be another scorcher. The barn would be an oven. And then her gaze fell to the passenger seat and the new letter from the Illinois Department of Revenue. Steve had managed to get a 20-day extension for the auction, but even that would probably not give her enough time to finish. With a sigh, Sandy climbed out of her car and entered the barn.

  She spent a few minutes taking stock of what had been done, and all that still needed to be accomplished. Other than a pair of noisy barn swallows fighting amongst the rafters and the hum of a few invisible insects, silence was the only thing she heard. Walking back toward the front, she rounded pile of bags and boxes with the frame of an old bike sticking out between them, but her hopes were dashed when she realized Sam’s chair was still empty. She could have used a friend today.

  “How’re you feeling?” Sandy shot a look toward the door and tried to maintain her expectant smile when she realized it was Steve.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No, I thought…”

  He cut her off. “I know what you were thinking or, I should say, who you were expecting. Steve walked into the barn and scanned its interior. “You’re getting it done.” He nodded his approval.

  “It sure doesn’t feel like it.” Sandy shifted her position to continually face her husband as he walked down the center of the barn, and then around through a channel she had cleared through the stocks before finally returning to face her in front of the empty folding chair.

  The jagged beams of sunlight shooting into the barn captured a haze of hanging dust particles. Steve tried unsuccessfully to stifle a cough. “So, where’s this Sam?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m curious,” he continued, ducking his head and shooing away a horse fly. “What does he do? Just … roll in and help you?”

  “Sometimes.” Sandy swallowed hard. What was he getting at? “But he’s really no help at all. Mostly we talk.”

  “And I’m supposed to be okay with this?” Steve whipped around to look at his wife. “If he doesn’t help, what does he do?”

  “I just told you. We talk. I work and he sits over there,” she replied, pointing at the empty folding chair against the wall.

  Steve walked to the folding chair. “Here? He sits here?”

  Sandy nodded. “Yes.”

  With his eyes locked on his wife, Steve leaned over, ran his index finger across the seat of the metal chair, and held it up in front of her face. It was covered with dust. “He sits in this chair? This one?” pressed Steve, his dirty finger pointing downward.

  A small ripple of anger welled inside Sandy when the implication of his words and actions became clear. “I told you he does. You don’t believe me. It’s dusty in here, Steve.” She walked to the nearest carton, rubbed her finger across it, and showed him the result. “This was clean yesterday.”

  Steve leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead with his hand but said nothing.

  “Honey, I’m sorry about last night,” offered Sandy.

  “Whatever happened goes way beyond last night,” shot back Steve. “I think we may need some help.” He turned
and walked out.

  Sandy was about to call for him to stop when her mouth fell open in stunned silence. Sam was sitting in the chair staring at her. She closed her eyes tightly and used the base of her hands to rub them hard. When she opened them, the chair was empty.

  Oh my God. Am I losing my mind?

  Chapter 16

  The next few days were filled with work, exhaustion, and stress. Lots of stress.

  Steve barely spoke to her, even when they were alone. He made it a point to leave the house before she did, and return home after dinner. The girls completely ignored their mom, Emiley especially, who considered Sandy’s “performance art” so embarrassing she was certain that no boy would ever set foot in their house again.

  Sandy was washing a few dishes in the sink when the phone rang. She picked it up in the middle of the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Ready for drum corps, Shadow?”

  Sandy shifted the phone to her left ear so she could use the towel in her right to wipe down the counter. “It’s a bad idea, Tracey. Steve has barely spoken to me since I fell. The last thing he wants is to spend time with me right now.”

  “Tell him to get over it,” replied her friend. “So you were a little drunk and disorderly. He has more compassion for some of his criminal clients than he does for his wife who had a glass or two of wine while making him a first class meal.”

  “I’m going to try to speak with him later.”

  “I’ll straighten him out!” interjected Tracey.

  “It’s not that simple,” explained Sandy.

  “Sure it is! He’s a man!” Tracey continued. “Communication isn’t their strong suit unless they’re telling us how to fix something. Why can’t they just listen? Women have evolved since the cave days. Men? They’re still Neanderthals. Know what I’m saying?” Without waiting for a reply, Tracey rushed on. “Big strong bodies. Tiny little brains. A scientific fact. Feed me. Take care of my needs. ‘Have something you need fixed? I’ll get my club and beat it into submission for you—after the football game.’ They just don’t get it!” she added, finally taking a breath. “I pity them. Seriously. I really do.”

  “But that doesn’t change my reality,” answered Sandy. “I just don’t think he’s up to being in the same car with me all the way to Dekalb—and vice versa. And … we would have to listen to Steve’s endless happy talk about the Cubs.”

  “Tough. I bought the tickets, and all four of us are going. We’re headed to a drum corps competition at Huskie Stadium. Dang! I wish we were still eighteen and marching. I’d love to put on the red and black and pull that shako down over my eyes one more time. Vanguard forever, Shadow. Remember?”

  Sandy stopped cleaning and sighed. “Oh, how I remember. Easier times.”

  “Rob and I will pick you guys up four-thirty this afternoon. Wear your red and black!”

  Sandy and Steve dressed for the trip to Northern Illinois University’s Huskie Stadium engulfed in an uneasy silence.

  Dressed in white shorts and a red shirt with the Vanguard crest over her heart and “Alumni” embroidered on her left sleeve, Sandy surveyed herself in the full-length mirror on the master bedroom door.

  “Are you really wearing that?” Steve asked when he walked around the corner from their bathroom shoes in hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What’s wrong with it?” She turned her back to the mirror and glanced over her shoulder.

  “You’re forty,” he grunted as he bent over and slipped on his brown loafers. “You were in that silly band when you were a teenager. I don’t care what you wear, but your ongoing devotion to this Vanguard thing is like me still being devoted to my little league team.” Steve stood up and began walking out of the bedroom.

  “Drum and bugle corps. Not band,” she shot back. “There’s a huge difference, you know.” Sandy picked up her compact Canon camera, tossed it into her canvas tote, and followed Steve out to the living room. “Cruelty doesn’t fit you,” she said coldly. “Maybe I’m not the one with the problem.”

  He turned and brushed his finger across the fading bruise on her chin. “It’s not me sporting one of these.”

  “I can certainly arrange one for you!” she hissed through clenched teeth, balling her fingers into a fist.

  “Mom!” shouted Emiley as she ran out of her bedroom. “What’s gotten into you lately? It’s like I don’t even know you anymore! Stop yelling at Dad! He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “It’s okay, Em,” said Steve as he put a hand on her shoulder and escorted her back to her room. “And don’t talk to your mother that way,” he added, kissing her head as she walked in and closed the door behind her.

  “So that’s the new game?” spat Sandy, sarcasm dripping from each word. “Humiliate mom in front of our girls?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Steve with both palms turned sideways. “I was supporting you—not undermining you.”

  “Your chariot awaits!” Tracey shouted as she barged into the kitchen.

  Steve picked up his Ray-Bans from the coffee table, walked heavily into the kitchen and past Tracey without a word.

  “Well, hi there, Tracey, so glad to see you,” she exclaimed.

  Steve stopped on the porch and turned around. “Sorry, Tracey. Hello. I’m guessing Rob’s in the car?”

  “Yup. He’s chomping at the bit to hear music in motion.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, me too,” he replied turning away and making for the driveway.

  Tracey pulled off her oversized white sunglasses. “What did I just walk into?”

  “Nothing,” replied Sandy. “Let’s just go.”

  By the time they turned north onto Highway 47 just a few miles outside town, two very different conversations filled the red Toyota Camry. Sandy and Tracey, occupying the back seat, talked about nothing but music, while Rob and Steve dissected the Chicago Cubs’ ongoing season.

  “Santo is the best color commentator in baseball,” said Steve. “The guy knows the game and describes it in no-nonsense detail.”

  “It’s a crime he’s not in the Hall of Fame,” replied Rob. “He’s the best ballplayer in the history of the game that’s still not in the Hall.”

  “He’ll get in. Someday. The baseball writers will come to their senses.”

  “That’s three Santo mentions so far,” whispered Tracey, who poked Sandy in the ribs in an effort to get her to loosen up.

  “You know, Steve, I was thinking,” said Sandy as she leaned forward over the back of his bucket seat. “You worship a team that hasn’t won the World Series in nearly a century. Seems to me like maybe it’s time to grow up.”

  Rob shot a look at his friend, but Steve didn’t reply or even turn his head. An uncomfortable silence filled the car, punctuated by the rhythmic thump … thump … thump of the tires hitting the seams in the road.

  “You sure know how to kill a conversation,” whispered Tracey. Sandy looked out the window. No one spoke another word until they pulled into the Huskie Stadium parking lot at Northern Illinois University.

  “Look at this!” exclaimed Rob as he slowly navigated through a jammed lot looking for a place to park. “People are tailgating like it’s a football game! We should’ve brought the grill!”

  The other three occupants nodded their heads. “It’s better than a football game or any sporting activity,” offered Sandy. “Drum Corps is a sport for the arts.”

  The fans and families of all the competing units—The Phantom Regiment, Madison Scouts, Colts and Glassmen, and, of course, The Vanguard alumni—occupied the parking lot. The smell of charcoal, chicken, hot dogs, and burgers filled the air, as did good-natured ribbing between the rival groups. It was easy to tell corps loyalty by the style and color of the clothing. Groups wearing red and white grilled next to clusters of supporters wearing green and black, navy and silver, blue and white. Nearby, every group’s inevitable corps flag had been run up a pole or attached to a line and rippled in the hot summer breeze. It
was the same in every direction, as far as the eye could see.

  Somehow Rob found a parking spot. As soon as they climbed out, a small group gathered around a Vanguard flag thirty feet behind them screamed, “Shadow! Tracey!” The girls rushed to greet their friends. Steve rolled his eyes. Rob looked bored.

  “I didn’t think The Vanguard was still around,” joked Rob.

  “They’re not,” Steve answered. “I think they disbanded in the mid-seventies due to lack of funding, but this group doesn’t seem to want to give it up.”

  Rob assumed a more serious look. “Come on, Steve, let’s get in the spirit. We’re not here for us. It’s important to our wives. They love this stuff. We can tolerate it for one evening, for them—right?”

  “We’ve had a rough summer, Rob. And it’s getting worse by the day.”

  ‘What do you mean?” Rob suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  Steve shrugged. “You know Sandy’s cleaning Tom’s old pole barn.” Rob nodded. “Let’s just say she’s not handling it well.”

  “How so?” Rob asked. Both men watched as their wives laughed with a cluster of told friends and other Vanguard alumni.

  “She’s spending every day in that barn, allegedly cleaning.”

  “Allegedly?” A frown creased Rob’s head. “Counselor, I know what ‘allegedly’ means.”

  Steve looked off into the distance at nothing in particular. “I’m just not sure much work is getting done. And I’m not sure she’s alone.”

  “And I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, buddy. It sounds like you’re implying Sandy’s cheating on you? No way!” Rob exclaimed as he shook his head. “No way!” Steve’s only reply was a long glance straight down at his loafers. “I think whatever you two are fighting about may be clouding your judgment,” Rob added. “I’ll ask Tracey. She’ll tell me what’s going on.”

  “Give me a break.” Steve’s laugh sounded forced. “Those two are closer to each other than they are to us.” Steve grimaced and made a Vsign. “We’re not part of their Vanguard cult, remember?”

  The girls returned a few second later, bubbly with excitement and joy. “We haven’t seen some of these people in almost twenty years!” exclaimed Sandy. She said it looking at Rob and avoiding her husband’s gaze.