19

 

 

From Louisville, he should have driven west. Interstate 64 would take him some distance, and then he could take 70 or 80 across most of the rest of the country before turning north to return home to River City, Washington.

Instead, he headed east.

He drove in silence for several hours, not even turning on the radio, before he stopped in a small motel. There, he took the longest shower of his life, scrubbing and soaking. He fished some aspirin out of his bag and took three of them with his steak dinner at the restaurant just across the street from the motel. Then he fell into bed and slept until morning

When morning came, he fueled up on coffee, bacon, and pancakes at the same restaurant and headed further east.

Past Lexington. Into West Virginia. He stopped for gas and munched on a microwave burrito while his tank filled.

He crossed into Virginia and drove for another hundred miles before he reached his destination.

The hotel was nicer than he’d wanted to pay for, but it was right on the metro line. Chisolm examined the map for a few moments and then bought his metro ticket. When the slim train arrived, he got on board. It lurched forward, past the airport, past Pentagon City, to Arlington Cemetery. Chisolm stared at those words painted on the subway wall but stayed in his seat. People exited the car, and others came on. Chisolm stood, giving his seat to a pregnant woman. The train moved again.

At his stop, Chisolm stepped through the sliding doors and walked. In the distance, he saw the towering monument that pointed straight up in the air. He walked toward it and then past it. He came to a World War II memorial, where he paused to admire the architecture, but he didn’t go close enough to read anything carved into the marble.

Instead, he walked around it and continued west. The overcast sky threatened rain, but right now all Chisolm felt was a muggy heat. The long narrow reflecting pool was dark and still as he trudged alongside it. Ahead of him, the majesty of the Lincoln Memorial beckoned.

At the foot of the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, Chisolm turned abruptly right. As he neared his destination, his throat felt tight, and his steps slowed. He was dimly aware of the statue of three soldiers off to his right, but it was the sunken black wall that captured his attention.

He stopped a distance away and stared. The wall was tapered at both ends and was widest in the center, at the bottom of a depression in the clearing. Chisolm stood and stared at the hard black wall, at the flowers lining its base, and at the slow trickle of tourists that streamed past.

After a while he willed himself to move forward. He found a small information stand with a reference book protected from the rain under glass. He reached under and flipped the pages slowly until he reached the R’s. His finger ran down the list until he found it and read the grid coordinate.

Chisolm closed the book and walked to the wall. He meant to walk straight to the coordinates he’d read, but he slowed his pace as the enormity of all the names washed over him. Tears stung his eyes. He felt a pang in his chest. He stopped reading the names as he walked past, knowing that it would only be a little while before he came across others that he knew. He only wanted to see one name today.

The section he stopped in front of rose up at least eight feet high. Chisolm counted down the rows until he reached a row that was at waist level. He lowered himself into a crouch. A moment later, he found the name etched in white against black stone.

Robert J. Ramirez.

Chisolm reached out and traced the name with his fingers. The letters blurred as tears spilled from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. He tried to think of the last time he wept for anyone, much less Bobby. But no memory would come. Instead, all he saw was Bobby’s face, grinning at him, eternally twenty years old.

“I’m sorry, Cochise,” Chisolm whispered, but the words cracked in his dry throat. He wanted to repeat it, wanted to tell Bobby he was sorry that he didn’t listen to him, sorry that he let him down. Chisolm wanted to say that he loved him, that he missed him, that he wanted to argue and laugh with him again. But all that came out was a quiet sob and more tears.

As Chisolm crouched, his fingers caressing the white letters of Bobby’s name, the muggy, oppressive heat broke, and rain began to fall.

Still he crouched. He wept unashamedly as men and women and children passed unnoticed behind him. He wept until no more tears came. By then, the rain had thickened, and the raindrops replaced the tears on his face.

Finally, Chisolm stood. His knees popped and crackled. He stared down at the simple letters on the wall. He wanted to say goodbye, but he didn’t trust his voice. He stood a little while longer before he cleared his throat. He looked left and right at the thousands of names that surrounded Bobby’s. Then his gaze landed back on Bobby’s name.

These men weren’t the lucky ones.

He was.

He was still alive. He could return home and live. He could finally be free of all the guilt he’d carried since the war. Maybe he’d even talk to Dave and tell him about Bobby Ramirez. But even if he didn’t, at least Chisolm knew he could find the peace that had always eluded him.

Chisolm mouthed a silent goodbye to his friend, barely a whisper against the rainfall, and turned away from the wall.

It was time to go home.

 

 

The End

 

 

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