August 21, 2010
In remembrance of Bill Colden, a crowd of people mostly dressed in black or some other drab color of mourning stand somberly around his gravesite. The marine corps honors Bill with a traditional funeral, consisting of a four-man color guard. Two marines are flag attendants, one a rifleman, and the fourth is to bear and present the national ensign. The Derrylin Police Department’s honor guard is also present at the request of his father, tasked with presenting the twenty-one gun salute as they are lowering the casket into the ground. It is a large turnout for a fallen marine and Derrylin’s favorite son.
Bill’s mother and father sit in the center of the first row of foldout chairs. Ted holds Maggie’s hand, clenching it tightly as she whimpers softly through her tears. He finds it impossible to hold back his own tears. Abigail is sitting next to Maggie; a full stream of tears flows down the swells of her face. Walter and Jeannie Lux sit next their daughter. Within the dark ranks of the crowd are Shelly, her father and Mr. Colden’s business partner, Roland Spencer and his wife Susan, as well as Bill’s friends and their families.
An American flag peacefully drapes Bill’s casket with a framed photograph of Bill in his dress blues resting on top. At the head of the solid cherrywood casket is a large arrangement of yellow and white chrysanthemums. Everything is in perfect order to send Bill into his final resting place with the exception of his body.
Three days after receiving the dreadful news of his son’s death, Ted received a phone call directly from Washington; informing him that the military was unable to recover the bodies of the four marines. However, due to the high volume of tissue and blood samples recovered, and after an extensive investigation of where the explosion had occurred and its surrounding area, the military took an official position and declared all four marines KIA. The military’s detailed report went as stated:
“Our investigation concludes that at least two enemy insurgents were responsible for the detonation. Although we were unable to recover more than fragments of either insurgent, we did however uncover substantial evidence of predator activity around the sight. It looks as if all six men may have fallen prey to Arabian striped hyenas sometime after the explosion, rather than captured or detained. As we gather more evidence supporting such facts, we will keep you and yours up-to-date. Until further notice, we must classify your son as KIA.”
The man from Washington gave his deepest condolences on behalf of the secretary of defense. He then informed Ted that when any evidence of Bill’s whereabouts or any portion of him was to surface, they would notify him directly.
* * *
Father Lanolin, a priest from St. John’s Catholic Church, speaks words of God to the bereaved, and although inspiring and respectful, it does very little to affect the somber crowd. Afterward, the master of ceremonies takes the podium and speaks in testament to how Bill’s short life has inspired everyone around him in a positive way, and again, it seemed typical and the crowd remained unresponsive. Abigail is the last to give a eulogy. Ted specifically requested that she speak at the funeral on Bill’s behalf.
She wipes the tears from her face, trying to show some sort of courage in front of her family and friends but is instantly mortified. She stares out across a crowd of people filled with pity, unsure of herself. Her eyes drift over to Shelly and her parents, her own mom and dad, and finally, she settles on Ted and Maggie.
She spent the entire week thinking of what she wanted to say about Bill. She wrote it all down over and over as if writing a book, anything and everything that might make Bill’s friends and family feel a little closer to Bill. Perhaps give them closure. At the very least, to let them know Bill the way she knew him.
On the morning of Bill’s service, Abigail had come up with a million different thoughts and ideas, and yet she was unable to string a single sentence together to explain how compassionate and selfless Bill was, or how optimistic and confident he genuinely appeared, or that he could lend the confidence to inspire the people around him. She wanted to tell them that he was all of those things had Father Lanolin and the master of ceremonies not already covered it. What Abigail really wanted to say was that underneath everything else, Bill was also very shy. He was sensitive and he had a tender heart. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever beheld, and the world was now a darker place without Bill Colden. Abigail was darker without him. In the end, standing in front of all of her friends and family, Abigail decided she would be honest and just introduce Bill the way she remembered him.
“When I met Bill…” she pauses a moment to gather her strength and to fight off the tears that were emotionally overwhelming her, “it was the most awkward of situations. To be honest, I would have to say I was nervous around him. There was mystery in his eyes and that smile of his had me at odds…”
Abigail stands over the podium, staring blankly out over the crowd. She continues describing Bill and what he meant to her, and as she does, her mind drifts off and her words dissolve; she flees into the past.
* * *
It was late September 2007 and the pool hall known as Sucker’s Billiard was the local hangout for most of the junior and senior class. Although they were underclassmen, both Shelly and Abigail would continue attending the after-school social gathering throughout their sophomore year until their senior year.
Shelly Spencer was a compulsive sixteen-year-old. She filled out physically about the same time she developed her no-nonsense attitude. Shelly’s tough-as-nails persona and sultry good looks seemed to mesmerize all the boys and often got Shelly in hot water. However, when things did backfire and Shelly needed a quick out, she would prove even more resilient. Abigail, on the other hand, was entirely reserved in regard to Shelly’s wild-hearted personality. They were both equally attractive but in very different ways; night and day, as their friends called them. Nonetheless, they had been joined at the hip since the fourth grade.
On the day of Abigail and Bill’s meeting, Bill and a few other high school seniors were unwinding after football practice, shooting a few rounds of nine-ball. Abigail was apprehensive about walking into Sucker’s but Shelly insisted on selling her cheer squad’s raffle tickets for homecoming that following Friday. Shelly knew they could quickly dump the remaining tickets at the pool hall; however, it was unacceptable for freshman and sophomores to invade junior and senior turf, and this was what had Abigail disagreeing with Shelly in the first place.
Disregarding Abigail’s reluctance, Shelly unfastens a few buttons on her white top to reveal the outline of firm swells that hid just under the cotton fabric. She then turns to Abigail, giving her that Shelly Spencer adventurous smirk and swings open the door into what Abigail thought would surely be their social suicide.
In an instant, music from the jukebox escapes through the open door. The classic rock anthem greets both girls in the face, and Shelly quickly disappears inside. Abigail, although reluctant, follows her friend.
Nervously, Abigail stands in the doorway as Shelly rifles through the chaos of active teenagers and swaying bodies. It seemed like a zoo, watching their muddled motion. With her eyes planted on the floor, Abigail listens to loud boisterous laughter with elevated restiveness as good times unravel in the place she knew to be off-limits to her for another year. Shelly then turns and faces Abigail, raising her arms above her head. Her hips sway from side to side while she seductively snaps her fingers in sync to the rhythm of rock music as her long thin frame inched toward the dance floor. The song fades and another comes on. Shelly’s eyes widen immediately, recognizing the familiar song.
“You wait and see, Abs. This is just the beginning of our social reign.” Shelly then smiles, teasing Abigail. “Come on, loosen up already. Shake that money maker.”
Shelly closes her eyes, quickly leaving Abigail and everyone else far behind. With her own eyes glued to the floor, Abigail feels like a zero standing next to Shelly. Allowing the rhythm to take her, Shelly then bumps her bony cutoff denim-clad hip against Abigail’s tense body.
“Shelly?” she quietly growls, trying to get her attention as the boys’ attention swiftly shifts on her. “You said we were going to be quick—”
Bumping against her a second time, Abigail suddenly stops and shrieks. The motion knocks her off balance and she haplessly falls into a Styrofoam cup of soda that Garret Riley has extended to one of his teammates while he mindlessly gawks at Shelly’s slithery sway. Before Abigail can finish her thought, she throws her arms up in protest, taking a direct hit from the soda square in the chest.
Sudden laughter from the teenagers makes the experience Abigail’s all-time humiliating low. The ice-cold beverage quickly absorbs into the fabric of her pink sleeveless blouse and white denim shorts; her skin quickly tenses with goose bumps. Again, Abigail lets out a shriek but this time not from embarrassment. She shrieks and then squeals for Shelly’s help—her hands flail uncontrollably.
“Jerk—” Shelly belts out and shoves past Garret to a table where Donald Brewer sits with his girlfriend, Gina Autry. She reaches over Donald and pulls out a handful of napkins from a dispenser.
Nonchalantly, Garret shrugs his shoulders. Underneath shoulder-length blond hair and a Pittsburgh Steelers ball cap, Garret’s face is smug and uncaring. “I can’t help if sophomores are all mental retards,” he says, pointing a finger toward Abigail’s general direction. “WTF . . . watch where you’re going…”
“Yeah,” Shelly glares at Garret as she pushes her way past him, annoyed with the idiot and his rude comments. “That’s just typical, Garret Riley. You think you’re such a big shot, always talking big, but I know the truth. Everyone in the girls’ locker room says you got a teensy weensy.”
Before Shelly turns to assist Abigail with her embarrassing ordeal, she wiggles her pinky at Garret; her accusation is apparent in the furrows of a clever smirk. Garret’s pursed frown dismisses her remark all together, although Bill and some of the other junior and seniors boisterously snicker and laugh.
“Whatever, sophomore, as if you’ve even seen one to know one.”
Shelly huffs and turns to him with a piercing stare, but after listening to Abigail’s increasingly loud whine, she chooses to ignore the buffoon. She turns back to Abigail, frantically patting and dabbing, and even unfolds napkins across the front of Abigail’s wet blouse. Shelly finally gives up with a hysterical burst of laughter.
“Oh, Abby,” Shelly gasps. “Maybe you should go to the restroom and get yourself cleaned up.”
Abigail realizes that her predicament is beginning to attract further unwanted attention, not to mention she still had sticky soda dripping off her arms. She nods yes and then pauses a moment, quietly, impatiently waiting for Garret to come forth as a gentleman. After another moment, it is apparent that he is either a less-than-chivalrous guy who does not care one way or the other, or he is genuinely a complete and utterly insensitive jerk.
“Well,” Shelly snaps at Garret after another moment of a ridiculous and oblivious blank expression. “God, asshole. Where are the restrooms?”
“Oh right,” Garret says and points past the red vinyl-covered bar and to the door just beyond it.
Shamefully, Abigail crosses the room with her head down, hurriedly moving toward the restroom door. If she were to see even one set of eyes trained on her, she would surely die. As she enters the bathroom, closing the door behind her, Abigail can hear Shelly pressing Garret.
“Oh right?” Shelly mocks him.
“What?” he asks.
“You didn’t have to call her a retard—retard,” she says.
“I was only kidding. Besides, it was funny. Jeez, you’d think I’d just killed someone or something.”
* * *
The first time Abigail hears Bill’s voice, it came from behind her as she exited the restroom. “Abigail?”
He startles her, instantly sending chills down her spine. Furiously, she turns toward him, perhaps to give him a bit of the ol’ Shelly Spencer attitude adjustment for the startle, but instead, she abruptly stops, finding herself in awe and holding her breath. He strolls toward her from the other side of the pool table with a pool stick in hand.
He wasn’t there before, she says to herself, now thinking that Bill had placed himself at the pool table, waiting for her to come out of the restroom.
“You’re Abby, right?” Bill asks.
At first, she can barely see his eyes, hiding behind long locks of dark brown hair that fall slightly below his jawline. Moving in closer, Bill brushes his hand through his hair, revealing his face completely. She gasps.
He has swimmingly dark blue eyes, like the color of the sky on a clear starry night. If she could, she would have held her breath until her face turned a shade of blue that was in perfect symmetry to his mysterious sapphires. She notices he is tall with unusually thick wrists that seem unmatched with the rest of his trim muscular frame. Today, on their first day, he wore a loose pair of khakis, white tennis shoes, and a black Dri-FIT tank top.
The longer Abigail stands motionless watching Bill advance, the more details she sees. He has thick dark eyelashes, clear bronze skin, high cheekbones that give away his distant Irish heritage, and a perfect set of kissable lips. He is truly scrumptious.
“It’s Abby, right?” Bill repeats himself, not sure if she can hear him or she is just choosing to ignore him. “That was crazy unfortunate, what happened. I mean, wow.”
“Huh?” she utters.
“You’re Abby,” he says as if trying to convince an amnesia patient of her own name.
“Yes, I’m Abby. That is we—me, I mean, I… I am she.” Blushing, and no closer to turning blue, Abigail manages to correct herself.
The encounter quickly becomes awkward. Abigail finds herself wanting to scream, or maybe she really just wants to attack him, pounce on him, and suffer him with her kisses. Instead, she tilts her head down away from Bill’s eyes, nervously entwining her fingers behind her back.
“How do you know me?” She questions him while speaking as mousy as possible, almost in a whisper. She never looks back up at Bill while doing so.
Bill tilts his head down and sideways, meeting Abigail’s reluctant green eyes. When he gets a good look at her eyes that are concealed behind her long hair, Bill flashes another smile to try to relax her. He then points over Abigail’s shoulder toward Garret who now has one of his arms pressed up against a wall on which Shelly is leaning. Shelly wolfishly smiles up at the boy.
“Your friend told me,” he says.
Abigail turns her attention to Shelly and gawks with disapproval. Blushing and rolling her eyes, Shelly bites down on her lower lip—obviously seeking Abigail’s approval. She will not get it, especially not in the presence of that Neanderthal. Abigail shrugs and brings her attention back to Bill.
“Yeah, you mean Shells,” she says.
“Shelly, right…”
Without the use of words to discredit him, Bill’s confident posture and charming smile is enough to keep Abigail from joining him in any length of conversation. To avoid losing herself in his eyes again, she reluctantly whips around for a second glance at Shelly and Garret. She pretends to show a parental interest in Garret’s index finger as it lightly caresses the exposed skin across Shelly’s chest.
“Did I miss something?” Abigail’s perplexed expression hangs frozen long after it should have.
“Yeah… no, that’s just Garret.” Bill chuckles. “It’s never taken him long to work his magic. Personally, I have always found him tragically intriguing. One minute he’s so verbally abrasive you want to choke the hell out of him, and the next, well… he’s like Cool Hand Luke.”
Abigail looks on with a blank expression waiting for the punch line to Bill’s obvious joke. Bill waits for Abigail to chuckle at the reference he always assumed was the greatest film ever. He cocks an eyebrow, anticipating a positive reaction and then further adds, “You know, ‘what we got here… is failure to communicate.’”
Bill’s near perfect recital of actor Strother Martin’s famous line comes across as a sarcastic remark and less like an accurate portrayal of the 1967 film’s harsh prison captain. Abigail, in turn, looks utterly petulant, thinking Bill is making fun of her.
“Paul Newman? Cool Hand Luke?” Seeing that he is making no leeway, Bill sighs. “You know… the movie?”
“I’ve never seen that movie.”
Bill looks truly astonished. “Seriously? You haven’t? You should. It’s a classic.”
“It’s old.” Abigail shrugs.
“Right… okay,” Bill says.
The look of disbelief on Bill’s face has Abigail looking down at the floor again. She didn’t understand his Paul Newman reference. Honestly, she could not tell you who Paul Newman even was. Innocently, Abigail could only relate the term Cool Hand Luke in reference to Garret’s hungry paw all over her best friend. Nevertheless, she now felt like she was without a lick of culture or common sense.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to embarrass you… really,” Bill says.
“It’s okay, you didn’t. Not too much.”
“Anyway, that’s Garret and he’s been like that since I’ve known him.” Bill then shoves his hands into his front pockets and arches his shoulders back. Abigail observes every detail of his body language as he drifts from Garret to Shelly. Dismissing them quickly, Bill turns to meet the assiduous gleam of Abigail’s eyes and chuckles.
“It looks like she’s not in any immediate danger,” he tells her. “However, it might be best to keep an eye on them just in case.”
“Oh no, I understand,” Abigail says and then quickly offers her own warning. “Shelly is pretty much the same way. If I were you, I would watch that friend of yours. I know Shelly. She always finds a way to draw attention to herself,” Abigail’s pauses, “be it good or bad.”
Bill nods, accepting Abigail’s description of Shelly. “So I’m Bill, um, Bill Colden.”
Bill indirectly laughs at himself and scratches his forehead, trying to dismiss his embarrassing conventional introduction. Abigail wondered if he honestly thought for a moment to finish off his corny greeting by offering her a handshake. She quickly retaliates by keeping the conversation moving.
“Bill Colden? Like, the Bill Colden,” she says. “Like, my-dad-owns-the-entire-town-that-my-great-great-great-grandfather-built Bill Colden?”
“Yes.” Bill lets out a breath of defeat. He smacks his lips apart and digs his hands deep into his pockets. “One and the same… but that was one too many greats in great-grandfather.” He offers a meek smile and then says, “Please, don’t hold anything against me, no matter what you may have heard.”
“Oh, but I think I just might… Sir Colden.”
She can see that her sudden witty smile and the way she accentuated his name has set Bill further apart, denying their conversation détente. However, Abigail already loved the way his name rolled of her tongue. She also liked how Abigail Josephine Colden sounded in her head. She assumed that all Bill was wondering was what she could possibly do to further sabotage the conversation. His eyes narrow. His lips stretch thin as he smiles, watching her fish a stack of maroon tickets out of her back pocket. She fans them out in front of him giving Bill a quirky grin and a raised eyebrow. “Raffle tickets.”
The cheer squad tickets bounce up and down in Abigail’s hand; their animated sway move like a wave of unforeseeable energy drifting up to meet Bill’s eyes, drawing him down to the words in bold: Derrylin High School, Homecoming Cheer Squad Raffle. Go Wildcats!!!
“I assume you will buy the rest of my raffle tickets.” she says.
“And why would I do that?”
“Well, the way I see it, you do kind of owe me Sir Colden.”
“I owe you? What do I owe you for, and stop calling me that.”
Abigail smiles with all the cleverness of a bold and witty move. “Fine… but I am talking to you, aren’t I?”
Bill’s immediate expression is slightly relieved, and although he feels the immediate attraction they share for each other, Abigail’s sales pitch leaves him somewhat disappointed. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”
“Please… it’s for a good cause you know,” she begs him, playing upon his sympathy and for no other reason than to portray a fragile, defenseless vixen. Abigail could have released a few crocodile tears, but it was much too early in their relationship for that. “You know, it’s for school spirit and all. Besides, every ticket purchased gives you a chance to win your very own iPod!”
Seconds later, Abigail realizes her enthusiasm may have been too much. She looks down at the floor, awaiting Bill’s reply.
Bill’s expression is paper thin, as is his reply, “My very own iPod, huh? Imagine that.”
His remark comes across tongue-in-cheek, and he now looks as if he is daydreaming. Abigail snaps upward, folds the tickets in her hand, and places her hands against the curves of her hips. “What? You’re impossible. You’re making fun of me.”
She implicates him, and Bill pretends to look puzzled by her accusation. When Abigail actually stops to consider the situation, she finally concludes that he probably owns every make, model, and trendy color of any iPod or MP3 player on the open market, and her sales pitch must have seemed entirely underwhelming.
“Right… You probably don’t need one, do you?” she asks.
“I was only kidding.” Bill shrugs and then quickly recalls her attention to the soda incident. “Sure. I can take them off your hands. It’s the least I can do after the cold bath you took.”
Bill’s joke may have further humiliated other girls; however, stricken by his witty approach, Abigail decides without hesitation that Bill was intriguing. She likes his thick eyelashes and dark blue eyes and even found herself noticing his unusually thick wrists that stuck out against his slender frame. In fact, Bill’s entire edgy appeal had won her over. He gave Abigail an exhilarating feeling she was unable to release. Abigail told herself she planned to spend all of her days kissing those kissable lips while getting lost in Bill’s spellbinding dark blue eyes.
She fishes a Sharpie out of the same back pocket she had retrieved the raffle tickets and wiggles her way behind Bill and the pool table. Pressing down on Bill’s shoulder and bending him slightly forward, she writes on the back of the ticket. Even though a table would have sufficed and the pool table was right there, Abigail was all in now and wanted Bill to know it. She writes down:
Abby
663-2122
Directly under the phone number, she drew a round face with mischievous arched eyebrows over dots for eyes and a tongue stuck out of a wide single-line smile—her Post-it trademark. Abigail folded the ticket in half and bravely tucked it into Bill’s back pocket. Immediately, Bill put his hand into his pocket to retrieve the note, but Abigail stops him. She offers a reassuring smile, allowing her hand to linger over his hand. “Just leave it,” she says flatly with a smile.
Bill’s face expresses complete uneasiness. With one soft intimate touch of Abigail’s hand, his wit and charm were undone. His ruse was up, and that one innocent gesture on Abigail’s part revealed Bill for the shy person he truly was.
Abigail decides to provoke him further by closing her hand around his and entrenching her fingers deep inside his back pocket so that he could feel them. She then gives his fingers a tight squeeze as Bill clears his throat, averting his eyes from her inquisitive stare. Abigail smiles.
After torturing Bill for a few more seconds, Abigail releases his hand. Trying to assume a casual pose Bill, leans against the pool table, shaking. He hangs to the side, his balance slightly off. This is confirmation for Abigail that she remains in control. Watching him squirm was certainly amusing to her. She leans into the table and even closer to Bill. There is an audacious look about her face—a look Shelly would approve of entirely. She is daring Bill to do to her what she so desperately wants him to.
They move closer to each other, each studying the other with abated breath. Abigail shifts her eyes to Bill’s luscious lips while he covers her hand with his. Their mutual longing is now apparent in both their eyes. Abigail looks up, meeting Bill’s gaze, inviting him in. He leans in, and for the first time, their lips meet. Their kiss is long and sweet, tender and meaningful. Abigail’s body explodes inside as unbridled sensations rush through her like the wanton forcefulness of an uncontrollable hurricane. Yet on the surface, she appears placid and in control.
Abigail is never one to believe in love at first sight; lending her thoughts to romance was a waste of time. Yet there in the pool hall known as Sucker’s Billiard, the fog of innocence finally lifted from Abigail’s eyes, and for the first time, she felt like a woman rather than a child.
Bill pulls back but only after some time and only to study Abigail’s immediate reaction; she is slow opening her eyes—lost in the feelings suddenly unlocking inside of her. His eyes gleamed so brilliantly under his soft hair; it was as if she had peered through a veil into a midnight lover’s rendezvous. In that fleeting moment, Abigail fell completely and irrevocably in love with Bill.
* * *
Slipping out of her trance, Abigail goes blank, unable to remember anything about what she might have said. She sees she must have somehow moved the crowd with her story, as there is not a dry eye among them. Those who promised themselves they could remain strong through the event were now in tears, and those who began in tears now hold their hands to their hearts, frowning compassionately. Ted approaches the podium, noticing Abigail’s immediate distress, and envelopes her in his broad chest and strong arms.
“Thank you for those kind words about William. I will always treasure you. You are a sweet, sweet angel.”
“I wish I could have said more,” she vacantly utters. Her anxiety had vanished, and she now wishes she could recall her eulogy, offering herself the same comfort. All Abigail could feel is a bittersweet emptiness. It is all she had felt all week.
“What you said, dear… you were perfect. It was just how I needed to remember my son.”
After Ted walks Abigail back to her seat and they sit down, the master of ceremonies presents the twenty-one gun salute. The honor guard then works in unison with the color guard, and when the last shot fires into the air, a crisp disciplined marine in his dress blues presents Bill’s mother with a beautifully folded flag—a flag he offers in place of her missing son—and salutes her.