Twenty-Three October 1972–August 1973 #2
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?”
Sally stood up from the table and held out a piece of paper. She handed it to me as Kiju took my hand and led me to the chair Sally had just vacated. I looked down at the paper. It was handwritten.
“It’s from John’s mother.”
Immediately my hands started to shake, and I could hear my breathing, fast and loud. I looked at Kiju standing over me, and the look on her face had a thousand “I’m sorry”s in it.
My dearest Aliet. I am so sorry to tell you this but John has died. I tried to think of a million other ways to say this but I can’t. I know you loved him and he loved you. I am sad for all of us. We have lost a good man, and a wonderful son.
There was more, but my eyes were blurry and I couldn’t read anymore.
I held the letter in my hand, confused. He couldn’t be dead.
The radio said the war was over. It was in the newspapers and on television, even here.
It was January and his last letter had arrived before Christmas and said he would be coming home soon.
I got up from my chair and went to my room.
I lifted the mattress and took out his letters. The last one sat on top.
“She’s wrong. He’s coming home.” I held the letter in my hand, gripping the edges and creasing it. “It’s right here. He said the war was almost over and he’s coming home. He was only helping to evacuate.” I opened the letter to find the wording. I would read it to them, and they would understand.
“Aliet. Honey.”
“No,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I was saying no to, but I needed to say it. “No. See, right here. He says that there are plans for an armistice and they will be sending him home. He says it right here.”
“Aliet.” It was Big Ben this time, speaking for the first time since I’d walked in the door. “Aliet, he’s gone. He was killed by a stray bullet while evacuating. I’m so sorry.”
I sat down in the chair, the two letters open in front of me. Kiju walked over to the kettle and poured me a cup of tea. When she sat it in front of me, she took my chin in her hand and looked into my eyes.
“If there is anyone who can understand your heart right now, it’s me. But this is your grief, it’s heavy, and I’ll be here to help you carry it.”
She bent down and placed a kiss on my forehead, and that was when the tears started, and they kept coming until I found it hard to breathe. Kiju stood above me. She rested her chin on my head, her strong hand running up and down my back as I heaved.
I couldn’t look at Sally. I lifted my head once and the grief on her face, the pity she felt for me in that moment, made everything worse.
I found a knot in the wooden table, one I must have seen thousands of times but had taken no real notice of.
The tree rings, meant to capture the passage of time, wound around the knot and I followed the line with my eyes, trying to focus on anything but John.
I left the letters and the tea on the table and went to my room.
I curled up and stared at the wooden red rose that sat in a little white vase beside my bedside lamp until sleep took me.
When I woke, it was dark, and I could hear them talking in low, hushed voices.
I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I knew that Sally and Big Ben were still here.
I could smell roast chicken and fry bread, and my stomach started to rumble.
My pillowcase was wet from crying and my eyes burned.
I tried to go back to sleep, to that peaceful, dark place. But my body betrayed me. I needed food.
They were quiet when I entered the kitchen, and I noticed the letters were not on the table anymore. Kiju saw my concern and pointed to the little table by the door, where both letters sat. Big Ben got up and gave me his seat and Sally got a plate ready for me.
“Aliet likes the dark meat from the leg,” Kiju said to Sally.
The gravy was hot and salty, the mashed potatoes smooth and buttery, but I wasn’t really tasting it. They all stood there, watching me.
“Can you guys please sit down or something. You’re making me nervous.”
Kiju and Sally sat and Big Ben leaned against the counter.
“He was a good young man, Aliet,” Ben said, his arms crossed over his chest.
“He was that,” Sally agreed.
“For someone so young, he knew what he wanted in this world, and he loved you very much,” Kiju added.
They were trying to make me feel better, to help alleviate the pain, but nothing in those first few days helped.
I hurt in a way I’d never known pain before.
It was fantastic in its weight, its breadth, its ability to suspend itself for a short time when I finally started to think of something else and then come crashing back down again, breaking apart those few moments of relief, shattering any temporary reprieve I might have been afforded.
“There is going to be a service in a few weeks, when he gets home.”
“When he gets home,” I whispered, leaving my mashed potatoes on the fork.
“When his body comes home,” Ben corrected.
I nodded and picked up my fork, dipped it in the gravy and swallowed it down.
Sally and Ben stayed the night, sleeping in my bed. I curled up against the wall in Kiju’s bed, the quilt tucked tight up against my chin. I felt her crawl in beside me and then wrap her arm around me, pulling me close. She didn’t say anything, just rocked me as I cried.
The funeral service was on a Tuesday. I took the train with Kiju, and Ben picked us up at the station.
It was a cold day in early March. The ground was still frozen, but they’d chipped away at it so there was a place to lay him to rest. His parents were Catholic, so there was a church service.
At the graveside, there were prayers as they lowered him into the ground.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.