AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Gunshots, she thought as the blasts came twice more, their echoes ricocheting through the air like claps of thunder.
6
The Grey Tombstone
Peeking around the corner of an enormous mausoleum, Isobel saw another tent erected several yards away, its burgundy canvas shielding a gathering of about a dozen from the weak winter sun.
The cluster of mourners, dressed in somber suits, skirts, and heavy winter coats, stood with their backs to her and Gwen, facing what Isobel knew must be a grave site.
To one side of the small assembly, a trio of military officers waited at attention, each armed with his own rifle—the source of the gunshot blasts.
“Green Berets,” Gwen whispered, peering over Isobel’s shoulder. “This must be the bookshop guy.”
Recalling how Bruce’s obituary had mentioned his service in the army, Isobel realized Gwen had to be right. The shots they’d heard moments before must have been meant as a final salute.
Isobel scanned the ranks of mourners, searching for Varen’s familiar form.
“Do you see him?” Gwen asked as the first notes of “Taps,” played by a lone bugler, floated forth to fill the reverent quiet.
Slipping out from behind the tomb, Isobel glanced left and right but saw no one among the other graves, no sign of that black coat or jet hair.
“No,” she said.
Just because she couldn’t see him, though, didn’t mean Varen wasn’t there. Watching.
Strengthened by Gwen’s lullaby, by the reminder of the hamsa’s presence around her neck, and by the knowledge that she had already survived Varen’s worst, she pressed toward the memorial, Gwen behind her. Together, they crossed the grassy alley between plots and entered the shade of the tent, joining the group at the rear.
Gwen stayed close and pressed one shoulder into Isobel’s, like she thought doing so would help to keep her strong, grounded. The contact did better, reassuring her more than any timepiece could have.
As the bugler’s mournful serenade wore on, the tension in her shoulders eased, and her anxiety over the question of Varen’s presence faded. For it suddenly occurred to her that by standing at this grave site, she’d already accomplished what she’d set out to do. Her presence communicated what Varen had refused to let her convey with words. That she cared more than he knew. That despite what he’d been led to believe, that wasn’t something she could turn off, or shove aside. Or fake.
Isobel lifted her chin with new resolve and stared forward, through the spaces between shoulders, at the elevated casket. A flash of red, white, and blue fluttered as two soldiers lifted the American flag from the coffin’s silver lid. The officers then began to fold the banner in a series of clipped and practiced movements, and Isobel concentrated hard on the sharp, choreographed motions, working to clear her head.
Though she had attended only two funerals in her life, she had learned through both experiences that observances like this were intended for the living, not the dead. Burying someone meant sealing that person away for good, surrendering everything that wasn’t a memory. Anything that couldn’t be kept in an album or a box.
When the bugler’s song ended, the crowd shifted as if everyone had been holding their breath. Blinking, Isobel turned her attention to the wavy-haired man and little girl at the head of the group, the only two people to take seats.
When one of the soldiers stepped forward to kneel before the man, offering him the folded flag, Isobel realized the man had to be Bruce’s surviving nephew, mentioned in the obituary. And the girl must be the man’s daughter.
After presenting the flag, the soldier saluted and backed away. Then another man in a black suit and green tie, a bible tucked under one arm, stepped forth to address the crowd. He thanked everyone for coming and announced the conclusion of the service.
Low conversation broke out among the group. People angled toward one another and then away, breaking off in ones and pairs.
Isobel remained in place, stunned at the ceremony’s abrupt conclusion.
Whole minutes ticked by until only Isobel and Gwen were left standing under the awning. But Gwen, as if she was able to sense Isobel’s inner turmoil, stayed put, continuing to lend the pressure of her shoulder.
Car doors slammed in the distance. Somewhere close by, an engine turned.
Resisting the urge to crane her neck and check their surroundings one last time, Isobel turned toward Gwen instead. She started to speak, to tell her that she was ready to go even though she wasn’t. She stopped, however, when she noticed Gwen staring off at a pair of previously obscured metal tripods set up just outside the tent, each supporting a large photo.
The first tripod displayed a yellow-tinted portrait of a young, clean-shaven, and virtually unrecognizable Bruce in a Green Beret uniform, a strip of multicolored service ribbons pinned to his chest. The second photo showed an older and more familiar version of the bookshop owner, his face bearing an uncharacteristic grin. Seated next to him, a black-haired woman in a floral-print blouse beamed her own bright smile.
While Isobel assumed the woman must have been Bruce’s wife, she wasn’t immediately certain about the third and final person in the portrait—a boy who couldn’t have been much older than her at the time the picture had been taken.
Lanky and tall, clad in a white dress shirt and tie, the boy stood behind Bruce and the woman, a hand resting on one of her shoulders. His fair hair, not quite chin length, hung straight and limp around his face.
Isobel stepped toward the tripods, her curiosity piqued. She sensed Gwen following on her heels, but when Isobel stopped to study the photo, Gwen wandered ahead to the grave site and the casket that had yet to be lowered.
