Their eyes locked, hers as blue as the summer sky, his as gray as rain-wet slate.
“Very well,” he said after a few stretched-out seconds. “If you change your mind, just let me know.” Then he turned to the riflemen, who told him they’d already picked out the location for them and for Miri.
Sgt. York approved, saluted and started to pivot away. Suddenly he turned back. “Commander Hardin?”
Seth Hardin, decked out in dark navy blue, smiled faintly. “It’s been a while, Sergeant.”
“Yes, it has.” He nodded, then pivoted and marched away.
There was steel in the man’s spine, Miriam thought. She wondered if he ever walked normally, or if he was forever marching, executing tight corners and sharp about-faces.
Not today. Certainly not today.
She and the riflemen backed up to the small knoll Seth Hardin had chosen for them. Thirty to fifty yards from the gravesite for them and the bugler. Apparently, everything was measured out with these formalities.
She only wished she had a real bugle, but the trumpet was acceptable. At least she was sure she could play it.
Events began to blur. The hearse arrived. Family and friends crowded into the chairs that had been set up at the gravesite. The grave itself was covered by the machinery that would lower Al into his resting place later. For now, everything was hidden beneath a blanket of artificial turf, shockingly green against the duller, dry countryside.
Then she heard commands being barked. The moment had come. Six men in uniforms of various services eased the coffin from the back of the hearse and carried her cousin with measured steps to the grave.
Miri’s throat tightened until she felt as if a wire garrote wrapped it. She drew slow breaths, calming herself. Weeping could come later. She had a service to perform for Al.
The minister spoke a few words, led them in a prayer. Then Sgt. York turned toward the distant riflemen and saluted. Even though she stood ten yards from them, Miri could hear the snap as they brought their rifles up and aimed them to the sky.
A command was spoken and three rifle volleys rang out, one after the other. Then, with a snap, the rifles returned to a position that crossed the men’s chests.
She glanced toward York and saw him waiting at attention. Her turn. She lifted the trumpet and began playing the sorrowful notes for Al. A hush seemed to come over the entire world. She didn’t notice that tears ran down her cheeks. Had no way to tell that no eyes were dry as the lonesome call carried over the countryside.
She made it all the way through. Tears nearly blinded her as the pallbearers stepped forward, folding the flag with perfect precision before handing it to Sgt. York. He pivoted sharply and walked to stand directly before Al’s parents. With the flag at waist height he bent forward and spoke, his determined voice carrying on the stirring breeze.
“On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Mrs. Baker took the flag and held it to her chest, her sobs becoming audible.
Then the entire honor guard withdrew, leaving the family to its private time of grief.
Something made Miri run, her trumpet case banging against her leg. She didn’t run away, but rather straight to Sgt. York, who was about to climb into his car.
“Sergeant!” she called. Her voice sounded disturbingly loud, but she didn’t care. He’d been Al’s friend. These moments were for him, too.
He paused, then pivoted to face her. Still the stern-faced soldier. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked quietly when she reached him.
“You can’t just go. Please at least let us know how to contact you. Al’s stories...well, we feel like you’re part of the family, too.”
He hesitated a moment. “Do you have a pad and pen? There’s very little I can fit into a dress uniform without looking sloppy.”
“I imagine.” She was in a luckier position. Her trumpet case contained the paper and pen. He scribbled down an email address. Nothing more. It was enough. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“No need. Al deserved a whole lot more.” Then he opened the car door and removed a paper-wrapped parcel, the size of a large book. “Give this to Al’s mother and father, please. I had a bunch of photos I thought they’d like. I was going to mail it but... You did well, Ms. Baker.”
Then he climbed in the car and, like the rest of the honor guard, disappeared from sight.
Miri stood holding the wrapped package, sorrow and loss emptying her heart. She missed Al like the devil. But she suspected Gil York missed him even more.
Miri Baker waited nervously. Gil York was arriving sometime this evening. Yes, they’d kept up a casual email correspondence since Al’s funeral last year, but then he’d dropped out of sight for over two months.
When he resurfaced he’d told her he’d been wounded and that, after rehab, he’d be going home to his family in Michigan.
She wondered what had happened there, because out of the blue, just a week ago, he’d asked if the family would mind a visit from him. After clearing it with Al’s parents, she assured him they’d love it, and his response had been brief. “See you Friday evening.”
In the few messages they’d traded since he told her he’d been wounded, there had been a lot of blanks, missing lines, little information. She had no idea what to expect, or why he’d leave his family and come here.
She had a casserole ready to go, since his arrival time was up in the air. She had some lesson planning to do, but it could wait. She paced her small house and hoped that everything would be all right.
She had no idea how badly wounded Gil had been. What was he going to say when he learned that Al’s family was throwing a big barbecue for him tomorrow? A barbecue in January because of a brief thaw. He wouldn’t be expecting that. What if he didn’t want to go?
“Simple enough,” Betsy, Al’s mother, had said as she gave her phone a workout. “We’ll have the barbecue anyway. Everyone will have a good time.” Especially since no one thought of holding barbecues at this time of year, thaw or no thaw. In a pinch, the barn would do for shelter.
It was nearly a year since the funeral, and when Miri thought over the simple, short emails she and Gil had exchanged, she felt that now he was even more a stranger than he had been when Al had shared stories about him.
“Reserved” might be an understatement when describing Gil York. From the little she had seen of him at the funeral, she would now describe him as distant. Maybe even closed off. She had a feeling that during their brief meeting she’d had her first close encounter with what she’d heard called the “thousand-yard stare.”
She’d talked about it with Edie Hardin, a former combat search and rescue pilot who now worked for the county’s emergency medical services as a helicopter pilot. The woman had a son who had frequent play dates with Miri’s next-door neighbor’s son, and Edie and Miri had developed a friendship over time.
“I know what you mean,” Edie had answered. “I’ve seen it plenty of times.” She had missed the funeral because she was on duty that day, but her husband, Seth, a former SEAL, had been part of the honor guard.
“I see it in Seth sometimes,” Edie had continued. “What these guys do? Especially special forces like Seth and Gil...so much, for so long. It’s like a brain shock, or an emotional shock. It haunts them, Miri. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Gil seems to have a handle