October 10 — Wednesday — 10:00 a.m.
Following Pop’s previous instructions, Kelly drove hurriedly to a cemetery in the Elihu community, to the southeast and beyond the 914 loop.
She spotted Sergeant Chet Walter in his green dress uniform. “Hi, Pop. Thought I was late.”
“Some kind of delay. Hurry up and wait.” Chet cleared his throat loudly. “Casket’s here, funeral folks here, cousins and nephews and nieces all here.”
“So who’re they waiting on?”
“Wife and grown stepkids ain’t here. Out-of-towners.”
“Any idea why?”
“Probably got lost.” Chet looked around. “Happens sometimes in these small county graveyards.”
“Yeah, it’d be easy to miss that unmarked gravel road.”
“Ain’t unmarked… somebody stole the sign.”
No difference to Kelly. “Whose funeral is it?”
“Don’t know him. Vietnam vet. We’re burying them younger and younger.”
A breeze made Kelly wish she’d brought her jacket after all. “Lousy morning for a funeral.”
“What do you mean?”
“They got that big drill thing going. Practically all day as I understand it.”
“Forgot.”
“Drill day. D-Day.”
Chet gave her a look. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“I didn’t mean anything, Pop. I know D-Day was the start of the battle that won the war in Europe.”
He cleared his throat raggedly. “Well, originally D-Day meant the start date of almost any large military operation — not just invasions or landings. But after the air, naval, and land operation along Normandy coast by American, British, and Canadian troops, D-Day has come ta mean June Sixth, 1944, period.”
It sounded like one of Chet’s presentations to the school classes he and other Legion members often visited.
Chet looked at the deceased veteran’s fresh grave, still open. “I lost a cousin at Normandy. David Wayne Cox. He was in the 101st Airborne.”
Kelly touched his olive drab sleeve. “We’ll just call it the drill day, Pop.” She scanned the faces of those milling around. “Is that your cousin Don over there?”
“I guess.”
“While we’re waiting for the immediate family to show, I’ll go say ‘hey’.”
Don Norman saw her approaching. “Hi, Kelly. Long time.”
Kelly shook his hand. “Did you know the deceased?” She pointed to the faded canopy over the casket, the clay-stained outdoor carpet, and the scratched chromed railing.
“Not all that well. I sold his old house and got him into a new place. Then he got divorced, sold that house with another realtor, and married some Ohio woman. Anyway, I’m just paying my respects to a former client family. Plus, I needed to look at some properties around the Elihu community.”
“How are things in real estate?”
“So-so.” Don shifted quickly from business. “What are you doing here?”
“Assignment. Articles on veterans for next month.”
“Writing up the Honor Guard?”
“Pop calls it the Firing Squad, which makes it sound like an execution.” Kelly chuckled. “No, not the Honor Guard itself. But I’m going to interview Mister Henley and a couple of his shooters.”
“That’d be Master Sergeant Henley.” Don touched his own upper arm as though he wore those chevrons. Then he lowered his voice. “Are you a betting woman, Kelly?”
“Not generally. Why?” She’d also lowered her voice without realizing it.
“If you were, I’d bet you ten-to-one that your hand is on that guy’s knee within about ten minutes of meeting him.” Don pointed to a short, stocky man in BDUs — battle dress uniform.
“The guy in fatigues? Well, Don, I’ll have to say that’s a long shot. He’s not even my type. But I’m not going to take your money anyway. No bet. Sorry.”
“Too bad. It’s a sure thing for me.” Don looked toward the road, probably wondering when the widow might arrive. “Are you going to eat with the soldiers after the service?”
“You know about the luncheon too?”
“Oh yeah. Somebody almost always feeds the entire Honor Guard. Flag detail and bugler included.”
“Is it always at Mister Henley’s place?”
“Sergeant Henley.” Don gave her a look. “Depends. Sometimes it’s at a church nearby. Occasionally the family of the deceased. Sometimes one of the honor guard members — or his wife, really — hosts it.”
“Well, somebody told me old men just eat cheese sandwiches for lunch.” Kelly winked.
“Today’s luncheon ought to be a great meal. When Irene Henley hosts the honor guard, she invites neighbors and everybody. If it stays nice weather, she’ll probably have somebody grilling outside. You won’t want to miss it.”
“What a salesman. I’m going already. By the way, where do the Henleys live?”
“Look for the big American flag, out in a place called the Community.” Don looked around like he was going to point somewhere, but didn’t. “Craziest thing. Considering the national housing slump, real estate in this area is kind of booming. People are building west of there, south of there, and even to the east. But the Community’s in this huge area with hardly anything on it but pasture land. Just a relatively small housing development — only about sixty duplexes now, but they’re expanding — surrounded by trees and a creek bed on one side, and fields all around every other side.”
“How come that huge area’s not developed?”
“Most of it’s owned by the Phenergren family. Nobody knows why they won’t sell any. You have to figure pasture land can’t possibly make as much money as selling tracts for subdivisions.”
“What part of town is it?”
“Ha! Don’t bother trying to use any local maps. If you’ve got four different local maps, they’ll show you four different versions of that area. Funny. They’ll have some parts of town perfect down to a gnat’s butt, but they act like this expanse is uncharted territory.” He was obviously on a familiar tirade. “Out of date maps are tough for real estate business. And sometimes you get really whacked-out results with those Internet maps too.”
“Don, you didn’t get close to answering my question.”
He looked around like somebody just thumped his head with a bent knuckle. “Sorry. It’s south, on the west side of 27. Bordered on the northeast by Great Vista, on the northwest by Pine Mill.” Don squinted and turned his head slightly. “On the southeast by Whiskey, and on the southwest by Naymon’s Lane. All told, it has… I guess about nine hundred acres, maybe a thousand. You know, I could subdivide that with half-acre lots — which is a good size — and there’d be room for close to two thousand homes out there. Imagine.” Don looked like he was dreaming of millions in commissions. “But except for the Community up in the northeast quadrant, there’s only a few houses on the fringes of the roads that border it.”
“So, access to the Henley’s neighborhood is off Great Vista Boulevard. Right?”
Don nodded. “I’d like to sell a few of those duplex condos they’re about to build on that new north loop. Even though there’s a lot of drawbacks living in such an isolated neighborhood.”
“What kind of drawbacks?”
“Need direct roads into and out of a development. People don’t want to live on a busy street, but they want their street to connect directly to major arteries. You don’t want half a dozen turns and as many stop signs just to reach Highway 27. You also want an area that’s relatively level. Hills and curves look pretty in brochures and TV commercials, but having too many is just plain dangerous.” Don held his hand out flat in front of him. “Old folks like those in the Community need flat, level, and straight. Not hills and curves.”
“Realtors always talk about location, but I didn’t realize you’re fanatics about the location being level.”
“Well, think about that neighborhood — you’ll see what I mean when you get there. A short narrow, crooked, hilly road goes in from the northeast and a long narrow, crooked, hilly road comes out in the south. Neither one is a full two lanes wide and no center stripe, of course. There’s no direct connection to 27, which is the only surface with more than two lanes in that entire part of town. No lights out there.” Don paused. “If one of those roads was blocked by a stalled car you couldn’t hardly get an ambulance out there to take one of those old folks to the ER.”
Over Don’s shoulder, Kelly saw a dark sedan drive up the cemetery road. Spitting dust the whole way, it made a screeching stop in the loose gravel. Fussing about a run in her black hose, the obvious widow abruptly exited the driver side and tossed a half-smoked cigarette to the ground. Dust swirled around the vehicle and made her cough raggedly.
One of the funeral directors approached her. “I’m sorry, we waited as long as we could. We thought maybe there’d been some change of plans on your part.”
One of the grown sons got in his face briefly, but Kelly couldn’t hear what was said. He seemed to be complaining more about the lack of directions than his stepfather’s casket leaving the funeral home before they even arrived.
Eventually things settled down a bit. The widow straightened her black skirt, just above knee-length, and took another look at the run in her hose. Seems more concerned about the hose than her dead husband.
The funeral directors quickly organized everyone.
The mostly elderly Honor Guard members rose slowly, stretched stiffly, and lined up. They stood at attention with their rifles at right shoulder arms.
It was a short service. The preacher had never even met the deceased.
“No doubt he was a fine man…”
“I expect he enjoyed his time with family…”
“Living his whole life in this area around Lake Cumberland, I’ll bet he liked to fish.”
“We’re here to say farewell to this man whose sixty-one years seems all too short.”
Not much of a eulogy in Kelly’s book. I hope it’s not a stranger who speaks at my graveside.
The Firing Squad shot three volleys and the bugler played Taps.
The one-man flag detail took the folded colors from inside the deceased’s casket and handed that somber triangle to the widow. She looked perturbed and quickly thrust it toward her older son without even thanking the soldier.
The directors lined up the family and several people came by to shake their hands. A cluster of cousins stayed off to the side and did not speak to the widow or her sons.
There were no tears visible anywhere, except in the eyes of a mangy goat standing in the back of a pickup truck. It was the animal’s smell which first caught Kelly’s attention. She wondered why the goat was tearful and realized he had dust in his eyes. Probably from the widow’s car earlier.
The widow and grown sons piled back into their dark sedan. Abruptly backing up and nearly colliding with the goat’s pickup truck, the widow peeled out, her car’s tires spitting gravel.
“Wow.” Kelly waved through the dust in front of her face. “That’s a funeral I won’t forget.”
Chet was obviously ready to hand in his rifle but nobody was near the dusty station wagon which served as their traveling armory. With his M-1 slung over his shoulder, he trudged toward Kelly.
“I got tied up with Don and didn’t get to meet Mister Henley before the service. Which one is he?”
“Master Sergeant.” Chet pointed with his thumb. “C’mon.”
Kelly followed.
“Pete, this is my,” Chet cleared his throat loudly, “tenant in that cabin I built.”
“Kelly Randall.” She extended her hand.
“Glad to meet you. You the one writing the article on the Honor Guard?”
Kelly nodded. “Interviews for the special issue coming up, Veterans Day.”
“Let me get everybody situated and we can talk.” Henley looked around. “Over there.” It was a shady spot beneath a large poplar tree, where a cracked cement bench sat at a slight angle. Henley walked toward his station wagon which had an empty rifle rack lying flat inside the back.
“Pete’s the chaplain of our legion post and coordinates the Honor Guard.” Chet rubbed a few specks of dust from his eyes. “He knew Wade’s granddad, by the way.”
“How? When? Where?” All good reporter questions.
“They was in the army tagether during the war. Europe.” Chet looked around the small, dusty graveyard. “After I turn in my rifle, I’m heading back ta the house. Ya going ta the lunch?”
“If I can find the place. Don says it’s a great event.”
“Just look for the big flag. Irene knows how ta feed people.”
“Are you going, Pop?”
“I guess. But I’m gonna change clothes first. Ellie’s picking me up. I think the Suttons are coming.”
Kelly frowned with puzzlement. “How many people are going to be there?”
“Few dozen, I expect. Firing squad, flag detail, bugler, wives, friends, neighbors.”
“Sounds like a community event.”
Chet grunted, turned, and made his way slowly toward the station wagon.
The Honor Guard members without rifles were already gathering at one of the vehicles driven by another colleague. Typically, most of them parked at the funeral home and carpooled to the gravesite. That day, the largest capacity vehicle was Stanley’s minivan. Others would drift over when they handed in their rifles and got through visiting.
Kelly moved to the slanted, cracked bench to wait as Sergeant Henley checked in the seven M-1 Garands.
Seven old men in uniform stood around the tailgate of Henley’s nearby station wagon. The man in back of the line peered into the breech of his rifle. “Couldn’t find my brass,” he said to no one in particular. He had ejected prematurely. He continued to look around even though their firing site was more than fifty feet from Henley’s vehicle.
Despite having seen each man clear his own Garand’s chamber, Henley pulled back the bolts and eyeballed every one. Then he closed the bolt with a loud clack and set each rifle down in the reclining rack.
Henley was clean-shaven, with a strong jaw, thinning hair that was mostly gray, with only a few streaks of charcoal. No glasses. Imagine having good eyes after eighty-five years. It was hard for a man to remain nice-looking in his mid-eighties, but Henley was. Seemed surprisingly fit and just a bit stooped over. Henley was about six feet tall now, so he must have been six-foot-two, or more, in his prime.
The only black soldier present said his blank had not fired and handed that cartridge to Henley.
“Don’t see any contact on the primer. I’ll check out your firing pin later.” Henley put that rifle to one side of the rack and patted his colleague on the back. When all the M-1s were accounted for, Henley lifted the tailgate and then locked his station wagon.