chapter 31 | transition

Early June, 2009

A thousand chairs filled with a thousand people. I have to walk by every single one of them to get to my chair. I know, somewhere in my tired heart, that this is a sign of respect for me and for the other widowed women who walk with me. But it’s like the military powers that be have cooked up one last torture, one final abuse to heap onto my shoulders and crush me into the pristine cement hangar floor. They are silent, some staring at the floor, some staring at their hands, some staring with sad eyes at me, or my children, or the women beside me who walk in their own private hell. I don’t search out their eyes, but I see them anyway as I walk down the aisle formed between row upon row upon row of metal chairs. So many eyes filled with so many memories of men who will not breathe again.

After a full year of exploration and enough money to feed this entire hangar of people for twenty years, the great force that leads our armed forces has raised the bits and pieces of the aircraft that our husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons died in. They found their precious black box, and the investigation into what actually happened continues.

What remained of our loved ones’ bodies were privately interred yesterday and the days before, in a simpler moment of hell. Perhaps eager to show that they have overcome the beast that is the ocean, they have planned this memorial service to “bring closure to the Wing and to the Air Force as a whole.”

I don’t need closure.

My husband is dead. His eyes closed, my life closed, and my world closed on that day.

For me, this asinine ceremony marks the last time I will bow to the military’s will. They have taken all they can from me. My husband, my house, my innocence, and the life I knew. They took it all. Can’t they leave me alone? Just when I was starting to feel human again—bam!—they cook up another torture to squash me like a bug.

I came today to show that I will not be broken by their taking. Somehow, deep below the thousands of layers I have heaped upon myself to get through the years under their rule, I am still me. Still Ellen. I am opening my own doors now. I am running my own show.

I pull my shoulders back and walk tall with the small procession of women, men, and children to the front row. I walk proud, eyes up, not down. The year has held me down, but my friends and my family have helped to pull me together. And Paul has shown me that I’m not alone.

Had I been downcast like the others, I would not have seen him standing there in the front row, watching. But my pride puts me eye to eye with my nightmare.

He stands there, with his shoulders covered in gold and his chest covered in ribbons, like he belongs in the front row, in a position of honor. All proud and smug like these men meant something to him—like he feels their loss as we do. Him. A chill runs up my spine and my breath catches, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I am surrounded by what is left of my family, and if I were to stop they would ask what is wrong. My secrets hold me still.

A wave of hatred so strong and so heavy squeezes my heart and my lungs, and I want to scream. I force that hatred into my eyes, glare the daggers I wish I could throw into his heart, his chest, and his crotch, and then turn from him to the reason I’m here.

John.

His “just-in-case-I-don’t-make-it” picture, with uniform and flags and an easy smile, is blown up to almost life size at the front of the room, watching me. Huge bouquets of lilies stand on either side.

Oh, John. Why did you leave me alone?

You can do it, Els, he seems to say. I believe in you.

But . . .

It’s time, Els.

I hear his voice in my head, loud and clear like he’s beside me. Does he know, now, what I have done? Can he see the past? Does he know what I lived through for twenty-five years, believing I was saving him when really I was killing myself? And does he know, up in the place people go when they die, that I hate, hate, hate everything about it? Does he also know, that my heart has shifted, searching for love and finding lust and friendship in an old flame?

It’s time.

Time to what?

I have to walk by Fielding to get to my seat, but I refuse to let my eyes leave John. He anchors me, steadies me, holds away the hatred that threatens to choke me. I don’t look away, even when the Master of Ceremonies says we can sit. I know just behind me is Bob Saunders, John’s old friend, and not far from Bob is my best friend. Jennifer actually flew across the country to be here today. John’s parents, my parents, so many people to support the kids and me. Paul wanted to come, but didn’t. This is something I need to do without him.

I don’t turn around to find support, even when they read the list of names. I flinch—Oh, God why are they making us relive this again?—when they read John’s name, but my tear-filled eyes stay locked on the photo.

And then it hits me.

I have nothing left to lose.

I have nothing left for them to take.

They do not own me. They do not own my house, my job, my life.

I am my own dependent.

Independent.

John seems to smile even harder up there on his pedestal. He seems to nod and smile and say it’s okay, babe, you can do it. I must be losing it completely, but I don’t care.

Someone speaks, says a few words—explains the meaning behind this year-late farce. Someone sings and someone reads, and then the last post plays, lonely, sad, and haunting. I cry, not because of John, but because I feel this cord that’s been pulling beneath my ribs for as long as I can remember—pulling and crushing and thinning me out—this cord is loosening. I feel it still there, but letting go, and I think that it’s changed into something different. A tight strength.

When the moment of silence has passed, and the piper’s lament is played, the band strikes up one more time, our signal to file up, say our last goodbyes to the symbolic photos in front and walk away. The huge crowd stands in respect of the widows, the fatherless children, the parents without sons. I glance at Bob behind me.

I don’t know if he understands my unspoken question. How could he know? But he nods, in much the same way I felt John, or the photo of John, nod. As if to say, it’s time. Close to him, Jennifer smiles her support.

The hatred is still there, burning inside me, but instead of pushing me down, it’s holding me up.

I walk up to John in picture form, kiss my fingers and press them to his lips. He smiles at me, encouraging and somehow solid. A small corner of my brain notes that the band has stopped, is changing music. The noise of shuffles, coughs and weeping lingers over my head.

Then I turn around, take seven confident steps forward and slap General Frank Fielding as hard as my independent arm will allow across his evil, twisted, hateful face.

The snap rings out across the crowd in the silence between songs. People gasp from their places by hard metal chairs, look shocked. Some of the women in the second row lean back and screech, eyeing me like I’m a psychopath on the loose. Some of them—just a few—look as if they wish they had done the same thing. Bob Saunders steps through the chairs and comes to stand at my side as Frank Fielding holds his cheek. I dare him to reciprocate, narrowing my eyes and facing him without flinching. I feel, rather than see Jennifer step firmly to my other side.

“You have nothing on me now,” I hiss.

There is nothing he can do to me. No threat against John to hold me captive. No more promotions, no more risks of drug charges or court martials or plane crashes. No way to hold my future in his sadistic grip because my future, for the first time in twenty-six years, relies only on me.

Mrs. Fielding stares at me, holding her husband’s arm in dismay. She has no idea why I’m standing here, palm stinging and heart threatening to pound through my chest. She looks at me and looks at him, back and forth like we’re a tennis game. Fielding’s face is hard and his eyes are black. The band starts to awkwardly play again, but no one is listening.

“Frank?” she asks. “What is going on?”

The entire hangar seems to lean forward in anticipation of his response. What is going on?

Two military policemen appear from nowhere—hands resting on their gun belts—and stand on either side of me, ready to take me away. They see me, the sane one, as the danger because I am mourning a uniform, not wearing one. I see Fielding’s eyes calculating, and I know that it’s my time, my place to act. If I wait, the time will pass, and I’ll be just another widowed woman, gone insane in my grief.

“I have witnesses,” I say, and stare him down. There’s just the briefest glimpse of fear in his eyes, but it’s all I need. It buoys me even more, and I grow solid and strong. The power stays with me.

I turn to Bob, who nods, and then I turn to the policemen beside me. “Gentlemen, if you’ll come with me, I’ve got something to tell you. Something you may be interested in.”

The fear in Fielding’s eyes grows.

“Frank?” Mrs. Fielding says, and I still feel an odd mixture of pity and hatred for her. She has no idea what has happened here. None at all. Her world is about to turn upside down, but after all of this time, mine is finally righting itself.

I smile at him, a cold, hateful, vengeful smile, turn on my heel and walk away—Bob, two military policemen, Jennifer, Beth, and a thousand others behind me—leaving only Frank Fielding and his confused wife standing between the chairs.

When we get outside the building, I stop and turn to look at Bob. The policemen and Beth stand beside us quietly, unsure of what I’m doing. The sky is clear and blue and bright, and the dandelions poke their heads up through the cracks in the cement, celebrating spring.

“Will you support me in this?” I ask. He knows what I mean.

“I’ve carried this secret for twenty-six years,” he says. “I will do whatever it takes, Ellen.”

I nod and turn to face Jennifer, who nods as well. I’ve never told her outright the damage that the monster known as Frank Fielding caused me, but I’m sure she knows.

And then I square my shoulders and face the policemen. My heart is still pounding in my chest. My ears ring with the tension of what I’m about to do.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what that was about.”

They stare at me, and I can almost hear their thoughts. They think I’m unstable. Loony. Crazy. A deranged widowed dependent.

More people are filing from the building, women coming toward me with smiles and uniforms with grim faces. I’m not ready to see them, yet. I need to get to the point, a point that I’ve barely even admitted to myself for all of this time.

“I would like to come down to your office and make a formal charge of three counts of rape, assault, or whatever you want to call it, against General Frank Fielding.”

Their eyes literally bulge out of their heads. This was not what they were expecting. Bob stands there, steady and still. Beth looks from me to him but there is no trace of shock on her face. I’m pretty sure she already knows this story. I wonder if Bob warned her, long ago, to steer clear of that awful man. And Jennifer grasps my arm, her support evident in the gentle pressure of her fingers.

“I also want to tell you about threats he made to me against my husband, Major John Michaels, and his crew on the day before they died.”

“Ma’am,” the taller, dark haired one finally blurts out. “These are serious charges. We may need to involve the civilian police force. Are you sure?”

Are you serious? They want to know if I’m sure?

“I don’t care who you need to involve. That man has to be stopped.”

They look at each other and shift their feet. More people come out. One woman, a complete stranger, looks at me with a strange look of hope. I smile at her before I glare back at the military policeman. I really don’t want to be here when Fielding comes through that door.

“Uh, okay,” he looks me up and down like he’s searching for visible signs of violence. He obviously comes up short. I want to kick him for his ignorance.

“I have a witness,” I say, eager to get away from here.

“Well, if you’ll just follow me in your car, we’ll head down to the office where we can talk about this.”

“Not just talk,” I say.

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

As they walk away, Frank Fielding slams open the door of the hangar and surges toward me. His wife hurries to keep up with him. His eyes are locked on me, and his anger is a palpable force as he strides forward, grey-black hair flipping, like an evil gust of wind. I can’t help but flinch. For the briefest of moments, I’m nineteen again, and he’s standing in front of me, belt in hand. Bob reaches out and grabs my arm, steadying me. Jennifer’s grip tightens, and Beth gasps. Fielding ignores them all, and I force myself to stand strong as he barrels ahead until Bob steps forward and puts his hand out, standing in front of me.

The military police join us, one on either side of me, Bob out in front.

“You’ll pay for that, Michaels!” he yells, “Out of my way, major!” He shoves Bob’s hand aside and tries to push him out of the way. Bob is thirty pounds heavier than he and stands firm, eyeing him like a nasty bug.

“Sir?” the dark haired MP says.

“How?” I yell back at Fielding around Bob’s shoulder. “How will I pay? You going to rape me again? Beat me up? Attack me in the woods? Threaten my husband?”

His face is so red it’s almost purple. His eyes are black pits, and a vein throbs in his temple.

“You wives are all the same,” he says, attempting to push between Bob and the MP. “Fucking sheep. You deserve what you get.”

The crowd around us is growing. The kids have gone ahead with John’s parents, and I am thankful for that because Fielding is oblivious to the eyes and ears around him. I think he’s lost it.

A media guy starts to flash pictures.

“Sir? You may want to . . .”

Mrs. Fielding looks like she might cry. “Frank?” she says, standing as close as she dares. “What’s going on?”

“Major! Move!” Fielding yells, “That’s an order!”

Bob, to my everlasting relief, doesn’t move.

“Sir, I really think you should settle down.” The second MP is standing next to Fielding now, attempting to screen him from the watching eyes of the crowd.

“Frank? Let’s go now, okay?” begs his wife.

“Fucking sheep!” He screams. “Sheep! And the only one who misses your useless husband is you!” he says.

He’s gone too far. I’m so done with all of his insanity. I close my fists and stand taller, ready to do whatever I can to make this evil man hurt, but the MP’s have—by some unspoken signal—moved forward and are holding him by the arms. He shakes one off, then hauls back and turns to punch the other. But the MP—younger, stronger and better trained—catches his fist like it’s a child’s ball. He twists Fielding’s arm behind his back and smashes him down on the ground in one quick, precise movement. Fielding’s cheek mashes into the cracked cement, bits of sand stick to his forehead.

“Frank!” Mrs Fielding does start to cry—big, mascara-running tears.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come with us, down to the office,” says dark-haired MP—Sampson, I read on his name tag as he pulls out a laminated card and starts to read Fielding his rights, but Fielding just ignores him.

I look at my nightmare in disgust. Bob steps back and Jennifer stands beside me as I watch in revulsion as Fielding sweats and writhes and screams obscenities at the MP’s.

And then I turn my back on him. I turn my back and take one step, and then another, away from the crowd, Fielding’s anger, and his wife’s tears. I walk away from his dominance and my fear, from the military and the lies—from the ingrained compulsion to do anything and everything a ranking officer says I have to do. I leave my husband’s uniform behind me and I walk to my car and slide into the driver’s seat.

I sigh, rub my eyes and put my key in the ignition. I put the car in gear and prepare to tell my story to loved ones and complete strangers who may or may not believe me.

It’s a wonderful, terrifying feeling.

But I’m ready.