Duty

The old woman straightens herself up and looks me in the eye. "So. Does your group have to go now too? We're having a small reception in the basement of the church. We have chicken and biscuits, and sweet potato pie." She's a bit formal, concerned maybe, that I don't understand what's going on, that I can't feel the slow anger and resentment building.

We're supposed to head back - it's a two hour drive and schedules need to be met. Callahan has to go - the rifles need to get back to the Arms room.

I glance over at the Bugler. "If you said sweet potato pie, I believe we have some time."

She smiles a genuine smile. "Althea. Great Aunt."

"Todd Doerhing. Please allow me to walk you to your car." I extend my arm and she takes it graciously.

"A gentleman."

"Not really. I'm not an Officer, just an NCO."

She looks at my left hand. "Too bad you're married."

"It is at that. I imagine you're serious case of trouble."

She chuckled softly, wickedly. "I was thinking of a certain great granddaughter of mine. But I was hell on wheels at one time. And I just might have had a taste for white boys on occasion."

The reception is much more pleasant that I could ever expect. Uncle Charlie and the Bugler apparently managed to find a drummer somewhere and the resulting blues and jazz are quite remarkable. We stay a little over three hours, and Private Malone ends up with the phone number of a certain great granddaughter. The sweet potato pie is unbelievable.

But the Widow stays in the shadows, hollow-eyed and silent, despite all the efforts of Captain Parrish.

***

Just as I reach the top step, my wife opens the door. Her eyes are a little red, but she'll never admit to crying. I hand her one of my two handkerchiefs anyway.

She been my "with your shield or on it" girl for twenty years. We made a pact: I promised to never get taken alive, she promised to never cry in front of cameras if I die. She's sworn to wait until she is sure she has a live feed and call on every Soldier to get revenge for me.

The funerals hurt though. She's used to me disappearing to some corner of the world, used to me coming back without telling her what's happened. But the funerals are constant reminders that I'm human too, that I could be the one that isn't fast enough, sure enough, or lucky enough.

"Everything go okay?"

I explain about the funeral, the Widow, the Brigadier, even Althea. She smiles at that; she has an Aunt exactly like her.

Later, after pizza, after the kids are asleep, we seek each other out, trying desperately to remind each other how we feel, how we've always felt.

***

Two weeks later. A frantic pounding at the door. My wife opens it and walks Keisha in. She doesn't really care for Keisha much - she isn't jealous in the traditional sense, she's just jealous of the time we have together. But she has her arm around Keisha and it takes me a second to register a gasping, quavering sound.

My wife gets her set down on the couch and we wait until she catches her breath.

"She's... she's dead. I went down to visit and they told me."

Unlike me, unlike everyone else, the Casualty Assistance Officer stays on the case, keeps on helping the survivor.

"She seemed better just yesterday. She was talking about the future, talking about the kids."

My wife calms her and nods her head toward the entryway closet. My dress blues are in there. I go and pull the last pristine handkerchief out and hand it to her to give to Keisha.

"She sent her kids over to her sister's so she could clean, she said. Then she took all the pills she could find at her house, and drank most of a bottle of vodka."

Keisha stays on the couch for the night and my wife and I sleep in the giant easy chair next to her. It isn't the most restful place. But sometimes there are more important things to worry about than sleep.

***

Post Production Notes: This is why I have a low tolerance for cheaters and why I hate the sound of a creaking wood floor. I know that a sister took the kids in, but I never heard what happened to the snake who triggered all of it. I'd like to think Karma caught up with him. But I don't know.

I had other funerals to deal with, and in the worst of them, I found myself handing a folded Flag to a nine year old boy, because his mother couldn't handle it. The boy could, perhaps realizing he was now the man of the house.

A sharp contrast, I think, between that boy and the "man" who destroyed a family.

I tried this story in standard past tense, but it lost much of the feel, lost much of the impact.