Chapter Eight
Followed by a smaller car, the hearse backed up behind Watkins Funeral Home on Poplar Street in Conard City, Wyoming. The old Victorian-style mansion looked fresh in every detail, although buildings around it appeared a little shabby.
As the hearse stopped, the driver climbed out of the following car. Wearing the ASU blue army uniform—dark blue coat and lighter blue slacks with a gold stripe running up the side of them—he stood staring at the nondescript white double doors bearing the discreetly lettered sign Arrivals. His many ribbons gleamed on his chest, and his uniform sported the insignia of the special forces and paratrooper. His upper arm patch ranked him as a sergeant first class; five golden hash marks on the lower sleeve recorded at least fifteen years of service. A brass nameplate identified him as “York.” He stood tall and straight, every line of him like a fresh crease.
Then he settled his green beret on his head, squaring it exactly from long experience. The driver exited the hearse and went to knock on the door. Sgt. York had brought home the body of his best buddy, Al Baker, and he intended to ensure that everything was done right.
The funeral director was waiting. Gil York watched as the flag-draped coffin was rolled indoors on a table, then followed when it was moved to a viewing room and placed on a blue-skirted catafalque. There would be no open coffin. If anyone in the family wanted to see, Gil would prevent it. Some things should not be seen.
“I’ll notify the family he’s here,” the funeral director said in a quiet voice.
Sgt. Gil York nodded. “You arranged the honor guard?”
“We have a group of vets in the area who do the honors,” the director said.
“The bugler?”
“Sgt. Baker’s cousin wants to play ‘Taps,’” the director said. “She teaches music at the high school.”
From gray eyes that resembled the hard Western mountains, Gil looked at him. “It’ll be difficult. It’s tough even when it’s not your own family.”
The director nodded. “I warned her. She insists.”
* * *
An hour later, the viewing room began to slowly fill with quiet, sad life. Sgt. York, now wearing white gloves, stood at the foot of the coffin, still at attention, his beret tucked under his arm, surrounded by the flowers the funeral director had arranged. Quiet voices murmured, as if afraid of disturbing the dead.
Gil stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing the room or the people. Instead he was seeing the years he had known Al Baker, filled with dangerous, tense, funny and good memories. His brother-in-arms. His friend through it all.
The flowers reached through his memories, sickeningly sweet. Al wouldn’t have liked them. He’d have understood the need for people to send them, but he still wouldn’t have liked them.
What he would have liked was the battlefield cross: the empty boots, the nose-down M-16, his green beret resting on the butt. His buddies had planted one for him in the Middle East at their base camp, and Gil had constructed one here, with a variation: he’d covered the rifle butt not with a helmet but with Al’s green beret, a symbol they had worked so hard to win and of which they had both been very proud.
One more day, Al, he thought. Just one more day and you’ll be at rest. No more traveling, no more being shunted all over the world. Peace at last, the peace they had both believed they’d been fighting for all along. Not the right kind of peace, but peace anyway. Gil wasn’t sure if there was a heaven. He’d seen too much of hell in his life, but if there was a heaven, he was certain Al was standing post already, free of fear and threats.
His eyes closed for a moment, and Al seemed to stand before him in full dress uniform. Straight and squared away and...smiling.
Godspeed.
The murmuring voices suddenly fell silent. Instantly alert, he turned his head a little and saw a man and woman walking toward the coffin. The woman wore black and leaned heavily on the man’s arm.
Al’s parents. He recognized them from photos. At once he pivoted so he faced the room and the approaching couple. Al’s mother made no attempt to conceal the tears that rolled down her face. His father looked grim, and his jaw worked as he clung to self-control.
The couple approached the flag-covered coffin, and Betsy Baker reached out a hand to touch it. “I want to see him.”
Gil tensed, wondering if he would have to warn her off.
The funeral director hurried over and took her hand gently, sparing Gil the necessity. “Please, Betsy.”
“I want to see him,” she repeated brokenly.
Gil nearly stepped forward. The funeral director spoke first. “No. You don’t.”
Then Betsy startled Gil. She turned her head, and her brown eyes, so like Al’s, locked with his. “You’re Gil, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I can’t see him?”
Gil broke his rigid posture and went to the woman’s side, taking her hand from the funeral director. “Mrs. Baker, Al wouldn’t want you to see him now. He’d be very grateful if you didn’t. Trust me.”
“Sgt. York is right,” said Mr. Baker, speaking for the first time. “He’s right, Betsy.”
The woman squeezed her eyes closed and more huge tears rolled down her face. “All right,” she whispered. “All right.” Then her voice strengthened. “There’s a supper afterward, Gil. Please come. I’m sure Al would like that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then he resumed his post, rigid as steel, all the barriers back in place. Little could touch him there, and there he remained. Service tomorrow at two. Interment at three. Then back to base.
He’d done this before. He wanted never to do it again.
* * *
At graveside the next day, Miriam Baker, Al’s younger cousin, stood nervously by the riflemen who were part of the honor guard. She knew most of the guard because they lived in the county, and they’d let her know exactly what to expect and when she was to play her trumpet. They’d bucked her up, too, assuring her she’d do just fine. She wasn’t nearly as certain as she pretended to be. Al’s loss had carved a hole in her heart that kept tightening her chest at unexpected moments. If that happened while she played “Taps”...
Another car arrived, one she didn’t recognize. It stopped in an area away from the gravesite. Then, unfolding
