Gertrude Washington
Gladstone Drive
Ravinia Heights
Dallas, Tx 75211
He pasted the zip code into Google Earth. Moments later, a God’s eye view drifted across the screen, a congested strip of one-story wooden houses in a neighborhood of gray and brown roofs. The scene seemed to fit, that the photograph was taken beneath one of these roofs. But this was a long way from North Carolina and a steep drop down the social scale from the Putnams’ place on it. It made no sense.
Scott took a deep breath and punched the number into his cell. It rang a tortuous age before picking up.
“Yes? Hello?” a voice tentatively answered, a woman.
“Hi,” he replied, flustered. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for someone called Julianna. This is going to—”
“Devil!” the voice suddenly spat. “I dunno how you got this number. Won’t do y’all no good, mind!” She was practically shrieking down the line.
“Wait—”
“Ain’t nothin here for you but me and a world o’hurt, if you wants to come collect. I’ll be waitin for ya! I ain’t scared. Just you stay away from my girl and her baby. I’m fixin to call the cops back there and let em have your sorry ass. We did’n do nothin for to come to this. Go back and tell that Satan to leave be! Me and my Lord be’s waitin for you, so just you go head and come!”
The line went dead.
Scott looked at his cell. The outburst which had poured from it made it feel like an alien artifact in his hand, one which connected to the strange skewed universe his world had become in the last twelve hours.
Chapter 11
2002 – Boston
Saturday February 16
The sound of gunfire woke Scott, a volley of shots cracking through the morning still. He leaped from bed and parachuted himself into sweatpants as a second volley fizzed outside. A third whipped past, and as he stepped from the bedroom, a distant bugle began to sound ‘Taps’.
He walked to the guest room and knocked.
“Come in. We’re decent,” his father yelled.
Hud Jameson, in an undershirt and PJ bottoms, stood looking through Julianna’s picture window, peering into the interior of Cedar Grove Cemetery. The boundary trees were bone winter bare and the cemetery was blanketed by a fresh overnight snowfall.
Scott glanced at the bed. Debra—his step-mother—sat propped against a heap of pillows, her full mane of blonde bed-hair spread across them. The sheets were drawn to her neck and she greeted Scott with a coy grin.
“Mornin Sugar,” she drawled, a faint twinkle in her bleary-boozed eyes.
“Morning Debra. What’s going on?”
“Military funeral, looks like,” Hud answered. “First of many to come, I reckon.”
Deep within the cemetery, Scott saw seated and standing figures, dressed in sober greens and blacks which stood in sharp relief to the white ground. A line of immaculate black limousines and polished sedans waited dutifully behind a lead hearse on the cemetery’s main avenue.
“What time is it?” asked Scott.
“Little after Eleven.”
“Jules shoulda been back by now. Church gets out by 10:30. Did she come up?”
“I have no idea how she was even capable of getting up this morning,” Debra groaned “It’s Saturday, for Gawd’s sake. We went shot-for-shot and I am plain done-in for. Oh to be young, eh Hud?”
“Maybe she’s driving easy with the snow,” Scott suggested.
His father prodded his finger against the window. “Hey, is that her down there?”
Scott followed the direction and spotted Julianna alone on the cemetery’s outer path. Her back was to them but Scott had no trouble identifying his wife; she wore her distinctive military-style grey woolen coat, knee-length above black boots—her Cossack coat, Scott called it, all buckles, buttons, and epaulettes. She stood distant from the funeral party, watching the proceedings centered around the coffin now.
“What’s she doing down there?” said Scott.
As though she sensed them, Julianna turned and looked up in their direction. Beneath her fur-brimmed hat, she smiled and waved a black leather-gloved hand.
“Your wife has better ears than an Iowa cornfield,” his father said. “You’ll not slip a trick past that one, kiddo.”
“I’ll be right back,” replied Scott.
He pulled on a hooded SUNY sweatshirt and donned socks and sneakers. Outside, the sun sparkled in the blue sky but the cold was sharp. His face tightened to the palpable icy moistness the instant he stepped into the bracingly chilly morning. He crossed Spring Pond Road and stepped over the narrow footpath traversing the Pond itself, slipping into the southwest corner of the cemetery. As he reached Julianna, she put a gloved finger to her lips and took his hand.
In the middle of the mourners, the honor guard commander, imperious in his own dress-green military overcoat and peaked cap, commenced presenting the folded flag to a middle-aged couple in the front row. He bowed solemnly toward the gentleman seated and both men held the flag in unison, as the commander addressed the group in a firm voice which carried across the cemetery.
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the military Joint Chiefs of Staff, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, I present you with this flag as a token of appreciation for your daughter’s honorable and faithful service.
“This flag of the United States of America is a living memorial to the courageous thoughts of our comrade, the one we came here to honor today. The blue field represents the sky that overlooks our land and denotes the watchfulness of God, our Heavenly Father.
“There are fifty individual stars held together in this field of blue, symbolizing the unity of the United States of America, but also the unity of God and man, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters.
“The red stripes tell us of the blood, sweat, and tears that were offered by our comrade’s devotion to the freedom of this country. The white stripes boldly proclaim the peace that she helped bring to future generations. This is her flag! The flag that she loved and served with courage and unwavering commitment.
“So now I present you with this flag, in honor of our departed comrade, Staff Sergeant Sharon Carlin of the 7th Transportation Battalion—Orient Express!”
The commander stepped back and slowly saluted Mister Carlin. Missus Carlin placed her hands across her husband’s, soothing the wrenching anguish apparent as he clasped the flag. She touched her head to his shoulder and watched as the commander turned about and stepped away. Soon, the mourners began to rise and disperse.
Julianna drew Scott closer, wrapping her arms around him and slipping her hands under his sweatshirt. He flinched from their chill.
“Ooh, sorry babe,” she mooed. She pulled his hood fully up. “Better?”
He nodded inside it and she hugged him again.
“Did you know her?” Scott asked.
“No. Church this morning was her funeral, not the regular Lenten service. It was really quite moving. You expect to go to a service-as-usual and… you know, you get something real and relevant for once.” She shrugged against him.
“I was worried, you driving in this weather. Surely church can give you a snow day?”
“It’s just for Lent, Scott. Just one extra day in the week. Anyway, penance means fair weather and foul. It wouldn’t be penance otherwise, now would it?”
“Was she from round here?”
“No. Middleton-way. Father Matt said her grandfather is buried here in the veterans’ section. It’s what she wanted.”
The mourning party drifted away, until five rows of folding chairs sat empty on the wide swathe of faux grass carpet which had been laid for the occasion. Mister and Missus Carlin remained where the polished oak coffin sat on gleaming silver supports. A younger woman, accompanied by a dark-skinned goateed man cradling an infant boy in his arms, waited with them. The honor guard—commander and eight uniformed riflemen and women in berets�
��idled in loose formation a short distance away.
“Where’s your car?” Scott asked.
“In the drive, silly, When I learned the burial was here, I came ahead of the cortège. I figured you’d all still be asleep so I waited here for them. I didn’t want to disturb you. Plus, I think I’ve gotten my Deb-quota for the weekend. I crave this tranquility.”
“Yeah. She’s still in bed. You’re good for now. Did you speak to the family?”
“No. I thought it best not to intrude. Never know what to say, specially to strangers. There were a few locals lined on the sidewalks, waiting for the arrival.”
The Carlins turned to leave. The younger woman—their sole surviving daughter, Julianna speculated—came between her parents and took each of their arms in hers. Her companion and child followed after. With a stiff “Hup!” from the commander, the honor guard came to attention in a precise formation and saluted the family as they passed. When the last vehicles departed, only the thick clouds of their exhausts remained, suspended in the frosty air. Scott and Julianna stood alone in the cemetery.
“Can we pay our respects, babe? Then we’ll get you back inside,” she asked.
“Sure.”
She led him to the coffin. Scott stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt pouch to stave off the numbing as Julianna removed her right glove and placed her hand on the glassy surface of the casket. He listened as she whispered in the morning stillness.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
“Oh. I was trying to remember the words. It’s Robert Louis Stevenson. I think I have it.”
She braced her touch to the coffin and repeated aloud.
“Armies march by tower and spire, of cities blazing in the fire, til I gaze with staring eyes, the armies fall, the luster dies. Blinking embers, tell me true, where are those armies marching to? And what the burning city is, that crumbles in your furnaces.”
She sighed. “Mister Potterton in the twelfth grade was big into martial poetry. That one stayed with me. He maintained the burning city was the potential of youth crushed under the new mechanical efficiencies of warfare which the poet witnessed.”
“He’d say different if he’d seen Manhattan,” Scott said, surprised to catch the sudden rise in his own voice, the lump snagging in his throat.
Julianna embraced him tightly. “I miss him too, babe. God! I can’t believe it’s only been—what… three months? Poor Vance. What did he ever do?” She gestured to the casket. “What did she ever do? And the people they leave? Us, what do we do then?”
Scott pulled her head to his chest. “I guess we go on. What else can we do?”
“Remember them. And celebrate them. Like you did for Vance.” Julianna pulled back and looked at Scott with teary fierce pride. “You were so… it was… Grrrr! I’m wordless. It was perfect, baby. Vance would have been so happy to hear you. I know he heard you.”
“That was nice. What you said just now, the poem.”
“Not my words though.” She prodded his head. “You’re the one with the untapped gift of expression.”
“I’ll side with Mark Twain. Better to stay quiet and be thought stupid than open your mouth and prove it.”
Julianna stroked his face. “My modest man. We’ll have to work on you some more.”
“Ok. But can we do it inside? It’s freezing,” he chattered.
“Yes. And we’ll leave this fair soul to fly to her predestined dancing place. Yeats. It’s all coming back now.” Julianna touched the coffin one last time. “Sleep well, Battleheart.”
They started slowly toward the Pond.
“She was only two years older than me,” Julianna spoke. “Can you imagine if that was me over there, in Afghanistan? Or Spence? God, I hope your brother doesn’t do anything stupid like that, signing up on some jingoistic impulse. He’s barely out of college.”
“Was that her boyfriend with the kid?” Scott asked.
“No, her sister’s family I think. I hope she didn’t die never knowing to be loved.” Julianna tugged on Scott’s arm in appreciative emphasis.
“If it’s ok with you,” she continued, “when the weather gets better, I might come down here and sit for a while with her. She might like the company and I’d have the time when school gets out. Would you mind? Just occasionally?”
“No, of course not. Ya think the family would mind though? They could be kinda private.”
“I’ll make my introduction to them the first chance I get. I’m sure they’ll be around a lot in the early days. I wouldn’t want to be an unwelcome intrusion.”
Scott smiled at her. “For someone with no wish to end up in a graveyard, you sure do spend a helluva lotta time in them.”
She giggled. “They’re peaceful. It’s a good place to think or just be grateful for the simple things. Anyway, I think there’s an old volume of poetry in one of the boxes you put in the basement. I should rescue it before the contractors start laying the new floor down there. That war poem is in it. I’d like to dig it out and see what else I’ve neglected to revisit. Reading aloud outdoors seems more normal if you have someone to read too.”
“Even a grave?”
“A captive audience, unlike some.” Julianna dug playfully into his ribs. “Maybe her parents will let me tend a little even. I could keep it in good repair, let them see that the locals are willing to lend a hand if needs be.”
“I like when you recite poetry. You have a sexy voice. You could read Doctor Seuss and make it sound horny.”
“Shush! We’re in a cemetery,” she said. “Well, every one of the Romantics took a pretty good shot at poetry about death and loss. It’s often much more moving and heartfelt that the slushy love stuff.”
She stopped and oohed excitedly. “I remember! Got one!” She mouthed silently, dancing her fingers on her thumb as she checked the recitation in her head. Satisfied, she closed her eyes and read from her mind’s script.
“In secret we met, in silence I grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee, after long years, how should I greet thee, with silence and tears.”
Scott nodded approvingly.
“Byron.” She smiled broadly. “Not bad for a pervy Englishman.”
“What about the local gal?”
“Oh, Em’s got a verse for everyone here. And plenty to spare. How about”—she concentrated—“Far as the east from even, dim as the border star, courtiers quaint, in kingdoms, our departed are. So proud she was to die, it made us all ashamed, that what we cherished, so unknown, to her desire seemed. So satisfied to go, where none of us should be, immediately that anguish stooped, almost to jealousy.”
They arrived at the Pond crossing.
“What about me?” Scott asked.
“What about you?”
“What words would work if… you know… you were speaking to me… after.”
“If you died?” she gasped. “Jesus Scott! I wouldn’t have words for that. Don’t say that! I’d want to die with you. Those would be my words. God. Don’t tempt me to fate.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m not. Scouts. I’m just wondering if I’d get a cool phrase for my send-off.”
Julianna gripped his arms. “You’re not getting sent anywhere, Mister. Here’s your words, and they are purely for the here-and-now, forever. Thou art being and breath. And what thou art may never be destroyed. Gottit?”
“Yes Ma’am,” Scott laughed. “Can we plea-ssseee get inside now?” he pleaded, grabbing Julianna’s hand and pulling her across the footpath with giddy speed.
Chapter 12
2005 – Boston
Tuesday August 23
Scott spent Tuesday afternoon in Dover, staking out the Putnam home. It sat at the bottom of Powder House Road and he hunkered down in the BMW to observe the comings-and-goings of the affluently gorgeous cul-de-sac. Parked near the top, he was separated from Jonathan Putnam’s heap by some $24 million of other prime New England homesteads.
Within the hour, he’d begun absently flicking through the Globe’s Sunday magazine. The street was dead. It was obvious he was wasting his time, procrastinating for the want of purpose.
He supposed part of him was eager to speak with Jonathan, to reach out to someone. Would he receive a sympathetic ear? Unlikely. Not because Jonathan would take sides; simply because Julianna and Jonathan were never close so neither was Scott. Still, Scott knew Jonathan had always maintained a concern for her well-being. His need to sustain ties endured, especially since the death of Penny, Julianna’s adoptive mother.
It became apparent to Scott, from the moment he and Julianna returned from California, how Julianna and her parents sat on temperamentally polar opposites. They were already well into their 60s when Scott came on the scene. Jonathan was from a long line of established Massachusetts lawyers. Penny was… well, Penny! Tradition—moreover, the rigid observance of tradition—was paramount to the Putnams’ world and their position in it. Concerning her adoption… well, Scott often wondered thereafter what had possessed them to introduce Julianna’s irresistible Will! to their immovable Won’t! in the first place.
Because Julianna defined the world by how she met it, not how others thought she should. She’d as likely level a mountain in her way as be led a meandering course around it. But it wouldn’t be an explosive encounter. She was not volatile by nature. No, more like a slow grinding enterprise: a force of ages, not rages. As a river will not be deterred, as the wind will not bend, her course could never be checked; as like the Mississippi runs ever south, the Santa Anas drive ever west. Whatever dares defy them becomes flotsam or tumbleweed. Julianna acted with the same inexorable certainty. Such spirit is never cut from the fabric of any convention. It moves in the moment, ever forward, with timeless glacial determination.
So then, how long has she been planning this? Since the… ‘incident’? as Sarah so delicately put it. Earlier? Since… ‘Saddam’? as Scott so euphemistically labeled the other worst night of his life.
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