Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  Finally, on Sunday, June 19, Sally attained the desired information. Just as the Polks had the funeral participants on standby, Sally had a plan to be implemented. Order flowers, book a room at the Hotel Strasburg and travel to Strasburg for the funeral and a visit with the family.

  Sally’s parents weren’t happy about her scheme. “Too risky for a young girl to travel that far on her own and stay in a strange place.”

  “It’s something I have to do,” said Sally.

  Another bone of contention was the length of her stay. “As long as it takes,” was not a satisfactory answer. Sally was determined to be there for everything: visitation, funeral, and an in-home visit with Buddy’s parents. And she reminded her parents that, “I’m 20 years old, a grown woman.”

  “How do you plan on getting there?” complained her father, Howard.

  “Granny’s car. She told me I could use it for as long as I needed.”

  “Should have known she had her nose in this,” replied Mary Duffy.

  Nobody in the family could have related to Sally’s grief more than Lulabelle Duffy. She arrived at the library soon after her granddaughter discovered the Northern Virginia Daily news article that reported Buddy’s death. Sally’s love for him was never in doubt but the scene at the library expressed the depth of her feelings. Her grandmother believed that attending the funeral and meeting with his family would help give her closure and put her on the road to healing.

  The Road to Strasburg – Monday, June 20

  This would be Sally’s longest venture away from home. At 2:00 p.m. she began her journey. Just getting away from her tiny bedroom helped give her an emotional boost. She had spent most of the 3-week wait in solitude. Her dad marked a Texaco road map and gave her $50 to cover expenses. “No point in blowing all your savings on this trip,” he said. Howard also checked the tires, the oil, and filled Lulabelle’s car with gas. “Call us when you get there,” he said and then gave her a hug.

  Driving down Main Street in West Point she passed the Dime Store where their romance began. In fact, there were many reminders of their precious time together. The Diner where they shared their first meal. The park where they spent an entire afternoon laughing and talking about anything and everything. The street along which they walked hand in hand. Briefly, it was the summer of ’53 all over again. When the tears returned, she forced herself to change her focus. The trip. The hotel. The new scenery. Whatever it took to keep her mind from falling back into the pit of despair.

  Heartaches have triggers. When you think you’ve got it under control, something comes along to reactivate the pain. Sally turned on the car radio and it seemed like every song the DJ played was aimed right at her broken heart. That’ll be enough of that, she thought, quickly reaching for the off button.

  What helped her more than anything was to think about ways she could lift the spirits of Buddy’s family. She was resolved that her visit wasn’t going to be morbid or sad but positive and encouraging, a lofty goal indeed for someone who had never been to a funeral.

  She felt like she already knew them. In recent days, she had practically memorized Buddy’s letters. To help her feel more comfortable while visiting with strangers, she had brought a yellow cake with buttercream icing, baked by Grandma Duffy. Even though she had done her homework, she worried about how she would be received. Sally purposed to confine her conversation to concern for the family and what she loved about Buddy. She still hadn’t made up her mind on how much to divulge about the extent of their relationship.

  There were no superhighways in 1955. In fact, all of the roads on which she would travel were 2-lane. Even passing on a double line was risky. Oncoming vehicles were frequently hidden by a hill or curve. Sally gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her hands were cramping. And road signs were often unreliable. Occasionally they would be turned to point in the wrong direction. How they got that way was a mystery. Most theorized the culprits were mischievous teens.

  To make matters worse, unfolding and folding roadmaps added to the frustration. No way to read that oversized paper albatross while driving which resulted in frequent stops in unfamiliar territory.

  Two hours into her trip she noticed that her gas gauge indicated that the tank was half empty. Her dad warned her to always keep a half a tank of gas. “You never know how far it is between service stations when you’re on the road.”

  “Stuckeys. Straight ahead,” declared the billboard. “Hey, America. Come on by.”

  Think I will, thought Sally. But she wasn’t happy when she saw that the price of gasoline had gone up to 25 cents per gallon. That was two pennies more than her daddy paid in West Point. Highway robbery for sure.

  Near Front Royal, she noticed a foul odor like rotten eggs. Her first inclination was that there was a problem with Granny’s car. Again she stopped at a service station for a professional opinion.

  “What can I do you for you, pretty lady?” said the attendant whose big smile revealed a significant absence of teeth.

  “Well, I want to ask a question…but it might sound kind of stupid.”

  “Ain’t no stupid questions around here. What’s on your mind?”

  “I noticed an awful smell,” said Sally. “Think it might be coming from my engine.”

  The man laughed. “Oh, no mam. That ain’t your car. That’s the Viscose plant. Smells like that around here pretty much all the time. We’re used to it. Don’t even notice it. What else will you be needin’?”

  “How far to Strasburg?”

  “20 to 25 minutes. Just be sure that when you cross the bridge to hang a left.”

  “You’ve been real helpful. Thanks.

  “No problem at all. Have yourself a fine day, what’s left of it.”

  When Sally saw a sign indicating that Buddy’s hometown was just 12 miles away, she was proud of herself for traveling so far on her own. There was an excitement that didn’t make sense. After all, he wasn’t going to be there. And then it hit her. He was there. But how could she possibly see him like that?

  New questions raced through her mind that caused her to feel a sense of panic. What if the family shunned her? What would happen if she fell apart? How would his family and friends react to the girl that no one knows? Weeping uncontrollably. Acting like a fool.

  At 5:15, Sally arrived at her destination. Strasburg was everything she expected and less. Buddy’s prideful description made it seem bigger but, for sure, it was quaint, sleepy, and basic.

  The first order of business was to find the Hotel Strasburg. Buddy said that it was similar to the West Point Hotel and rumored to be haunted. Just what I need, she thought. A ghost to keep me company.

  The driving instructions given by the hotel clerk seemed easy enough. “Highway 55 out of Front Royal becomes King Street in Strasburg. Look for the Virginia Restaurant on the right, turn left onto Massanutten, and we’re just a block away on the left. Can’t miss it.”

  There was no one to be seen when she entered the hotel lobby but there was a sign with instructions to ring the bell on the desk, which she did. More of a thud than a ding. Instantly, a short man with a bald head and a crooked red bowtie popped up from behind the counter. About scared her to death. “Oh, my. Didn’t see you there.”

  “Help you?” said the clerk.

  “I have a reservation.”

  “Name?”

  “Sally Duffy.”

  “Been expecting you. Strasburg ain’t exactly a summer resort. You’ve pretty much got the hotel to yourself. Street view or back view.”

  “Is one better than the other?”

  “If you don’t mind watchin’ old man Harris getting’ his morning paper in his skivvies, you’ll probably like it best in the back. The street lights up front can be a nuisance.”

  “Sounds like it might be more fun in the back.”

  “Suit yourself. Follow me.”

  The old hotel was in serious need of a paint job and a skilled interior decorator. The floors creaked with ev
ery step and the little man carrying her heavy suitcase huffed and puffed so loudly that she wondered if maybe she should take over.

  The clerk opened the door to Room #212. “Virginia Restaurant opens at 7:00 for breakfast and stays open ‘til 10:00 at night. Gets pretty hot in here during the day. Helps to keep the windows up. Will you be needing anything else?”

  Sally pulled a quarter from her purse and thanked the clerk. “How do I get to the Stover Funeral Home?”

  “Head back the way you came. It’s a straight shot. 5 minutes from here.”

  The visitation was scheduled from 6:00 until 8:00. Her plan was to wait until about midway through the event so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The black dress that she bought on sale at the Leggett Department Store in Williamsburg wasn’t exactly to her liking but the best she could find. With it, she would wear a blue scarf, Buddy’s favorite color, and the black hat and veil that Granny Duffy gave her. She wondered why it was necessary to add to the darkness of an already depressing situation by wearing black. Whoever came up with that rule anyway? Just putting on that dress made her want to cry.

  There was a musty odor in the hotel room, not so much repulsive as a nuisance. The curtains by the window occasionally moved, as if breathing from the gentle breeze. Sally opened her suitcase and began removing its contents, all the while thinking about Buddy. This was his town and soon she would walk where he had walked and hopefully meet some of his family and friends. From a side pocket in her travel bag, she removed a small stack of letters held together by a ribbon. He had written her nearly every day since his surprise call on April 21st. Sadly, some of the letters arrived after she learned of his death, one of which he penned on the day he died. But the one that intrigued her the most was written on May 6th. That’s when he declared his love for her. But there was a line of that communication that troubled her when she first read it. Now it seemed prophetic. ‘Please don’t forget me. This is a dangerous world that we live in.’ It was like he knew or, at least, suspected that something terrible was going to happen.

  Stover’s Funeral Home – Monday, June 20

  At 5:45, the immediate family arrived at the funeral home. Woody parked his car along the sidewalk that led to the entrance. Helen sat in the passenger seat and Charlie and Mable were in the back with Dickie seated between them. There had been considerable discussion as to whether a 7-year-old should be allowed to view his uncle’s corpse. Woody didn’t think it was a good idea. Helen disagreed which led to a compromise. Dickie was to attend the visitation but kept from the funeral.

  In her purse, Helen carried a generous supply of smelling salts for anybody who would need it and her Kodac camera. She was flying solo on the picture taking project. Her parents and Woody thought it was a morbid and stupid idea. Her ‘you’ll thank me one day’ response did nothing to dissuade them.

  Charlie was the first to get out, walked to the other side of the car, and opened the door for Mable. She sat there momentarily looking straight ahead, delaying the inevitable. “Come on,” he said, fighting back tears. Slowly Mable joined him on the sidewalk while Woody did his part to gently coax Helen out of the car.

  “Dickie, you hold my hand, and don’t let go,” commanded Helen as she stepped from the vehicle. Woody was thinking if the child wasn’t already frightened then he sure was now. And then she barked a directive to her husband. “Here, Woody. You carry the camera. And stay right by my side in case I pass out.”

  Somewhere in time, a Hollywood producer must have had a hand in creating the ambiance for funeral homes. Just inside the lobby, the production was well under way. The bitter-sweet aroma of flowers, the faint sound of organ music, soft lighting, red velvet drapes and furnishings, and a funeral director dressed in black. Undertaker Elmo Dellinger was tall and lanky, a dead ringer for Abraham Lincoln. All that was missing was the stovepipe hat. His speech was low pitched, at times musical, and sickeningly sweet. “Welcome. As I said when we met a few days ago, I am sorry for your loss and we’re here to help you in any way possible. After you have viewed Mr. Polk, you can then decide if you want to leave the casket open for visitors.”

  Helen immediately jumped to the conclusion that the open or closed casket option meant that his head was disfigured from the wound. “You can close it right now if he doesn't look good.”

  Elmo Dellinger was a professional. He had spent the better part of his adult life dealing with emotional customers. He was as skilled as an automobile salesman at overcoming objections. “Well, I think you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done. That’s just an option we offer everyone, no matter the cause of death.”

  Helen persisted. “I want to remember him the way I knew him.”

  “Yes, mam, as well you should.”

  Woody felt obligated to apologize for his wife’s behavior. “She’s just real upset.”

  “And has a right to be. There’s nothing more painful than losing somebody you love,” said the director and then he turned his attention back to the family. “I’ve worked here for going on 17 years and in all that time I have never seen so many flowers come in for anybody. You son was dearly loved by many people.”

  From the lobby several rooms were visible and each was named after Shenandoah Valley landmarks, like Blue Ridge and Massanutten. The funeral director led the family into the Shenandoah River Room and closed the door to give them privacy. Reverend Smith was already there, standing at the head of the casket, patiently waiting to do his part in comforting the bereaved. Despite her overwhelming grief, Mable still took notice of the sea of flowers and plants stacked to the ceiling. “How wonderful. Look at this Charlie. Most flowers I ever saw in one place in my life.” On a table beside of the pastor was the family’s favorite photograph of Private Polk, the one in which he wore his dress uniform. There was something in his smile in that picture that was so warm and comforting that it prompted Mable to reflect, “He’s smiling down on us like he wants us to know He’s OK.”

  Helen couldn’t look at the casket and took a few moments to view the cards on the sprays of flowers. “Here’s one from the Marine Corps,” she said going from one to another. “This one’s from Mildred and Houston. Oh, look at this one from Uncle Bill and Aunt Edna.”

  Her distraction was keeping the family from their unpleasant mission and again Woody intervened. “Now, Hon, they’ll send us all the cards after the funeral and you can read them then. Your mom and dad are waiting.”

  “Who is Sally Duffy?”

  “There’s bound to be lots of names of folks you’ve never heard of. We need you over here right now.”

  Mable broke away from the group and stood in front of the casket. Briefly, her tears subsided while she looked down at him like a mother lovingly looking at her sleeping child. And then she reached out and patted his hands that were folded against his chest. “Why did you have to go and leave me? I love you so much.” With those words, the weeping returned and she bent over and kissed his forehead. “I’m so glad you didn’t suffer.”

  Charlie was now by her side, clinging to the casket to steady himself. Mable took hold of his arm and the two of them wept so loudly that Dickie pulled on his dad’s coattail, signaling that he had had enough. Woody reassured his son, “It’s OK. Just a little while longer.” Mable patted Buddy’s chest one more time and was then seated in a chair by his picture.

  “Be strong for Dickie,” said Woody, trying to help Helen to face her fear. He stepped ahead of her and looked at his nephew. “It’s OK. He looks just like himself.”

  Finally, she squeezed Dickie’s hand and pulled him forward. Her eyes zoned to the purported area of the wound, above his right temple. “You can’t tell,” she said relieved to get that terrible vision out of her mind. In fact, she did so well, Woody was surprised. She was even able to encourage Dickie. “He’s not really here. He’s in heaven with Jesus.”

  What did that mean? Dickie was looking right at his Uncle Buddy. How could he be there and with Jesus at the same time?”r />
  At 6:00 o’clock, the funeral director, returned. “Mr. and Mrs. Polk, would you like us to close the casket before we bring in the visitors?”

  Mable looked up at her husband who was standing behind her. “What do you want to do, Charlie?”

  “It’s up to you,” he said while wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Leave it open,” said Mable. “Would it be alright if our pastor prays with us before you open the door?”

  “Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  Reverend Smith stood by Mable and asked the family to join hands. “Let’s pray.”

  Dickie still hadn’t gotten over seeing his Uncle Buddy lying in that box they called a casket. While the pastor prayed and all eyes were closed, he sneaked a peek. At that moment, he thought back to his fun times with his uncle. He recalled the tickling sessions and how quarters would magically appear in his pocket. How he wished that he and Buddy could run and play with Inky in the backyard again. And then he looked back at his family with their heads bowed and all that sadness. For three weeks he obediently stayed out of the way, but he just couldn’t take his Mammaw’s tears any longer. As soon as Reverend Smith said “Amen,” Dickie ran to his grandmother, put his arms around her neck, and hugged her as hard as he could. And then he hugged his granddad, and mom, and dad. “You’re going to be happy again,” he said with confidence. “I promise.”

  “He’s right,” said the pastor. “One day you will laugh again.”

  “And I’ll get my faith back?” asked Mable.

  Reverend Smith put his hand on Dickie’s shoulder and answered Mable’s question. “Yes, mam. Faith is like winter. The plant-life we love goes dormant for a while but then comes springtime and it comes back, bigger and more beautiful than ever.”

  The funeral director was still waiting patiently to open the door. “Shall we let them in, now?”