Scars and Stars Read online

  Scars and Stars

  Dustin Stevens

  Scars and Stars

  Copyright © 2013, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  For Pop…

  The wrong war, at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong enemy.

  -General Omar Bradley

  December 11, 2013

  Eric,

  For the past two years your mother and I have made our home in a tiny Upper East Side apartment in New York City. We have been too crazy about each other and too oblivious to the world to think that toiling away for twelve hundred square feet at two grand a month was anything less than the American dream.

  Not until the news of your impending arrival six months ago did that all change.

  We have spent every free moment since scouring the real estate market for a new home. Some place with a lawn, with a clear sight line to the sky above, with enough room for you and hopefully many more to grow up. It wasn’t easy, but we believe we have found such a place west of here in Pennsylvania.

  By the time you read this you will already know that full well, but I wanted to point it out again so you know where I’m coming from.

  How you reading this now came to pass.

  The move was supposed to have been easy. Your mother went to visit her family for a few days and I called in to work to stay home and pack. First thing Friday morning I took up a post in the living room, starting with movies, music, books. By late afternoon, I moved on to photo albums.

  I figured I was making good progress, so I decided to stop and flip through a few.

  One was from my childhood, filled with pictures of my brother and I in matching outfits on Halloween. Holding fish in front of us on family vacations. My eight year-old self in a matching t-shirt and hat from the local little league.

  Memories I hope you and your siblings get to have.

  Memories I hope to watch unfold.

  Putting it aside, I noticed a single photograph stuck to the back of the album. Pressed there by some unknown substance, it stared back at me, both driving the air from my lungs and bringing a smile to my face at the same time.

  Images from the past can be funny things. It isn’t until one levels you that you appreciate how powerful they can be.

  The photo was taken on the field after the final football game my senior year in college, the last time I ever wore a helmet. The win over State secured the conference title and as the final seconds ticked away, the student body flooded the field, their exuberance too much to be contained.

  In the middle of it stand myself and my roommate Trent, smiling. We were both muddy, tired, sore. We knew that it is the last time we’d ever play football, but it didn't matter.

  We were together, we were victorious, we were going to have a good time that night.

  For a long time I just sat with the photo in my lap, thinking about Trent. The following spring we graduated together, two years later we were groomsmen in each other’s weddings. I was there the day his son was born and I know he would have been there the day you arrive.

  Last winter Trent was taken from us in a car accident. He was on the road for business, rushing home to be with his family for the holidays. A man was driving back from his company Christmas party and had too much to drink, went left of center and hit Trent head on going eighty miles an hour.

  The collision put Trent into a coma that lasted almost two months. The other driver walked away without more than a few scratches.

  Trent never woke up.

  As I sat and thought of my fallen friend and his son, I can’t help but wonder about all the things he left undone. Of the life lessons he never got to pass on or the stories that needed to be told.

  It was such a thought that led me to what I am doing now.

  I hope this turns out to be nothing more than wasted effort. It is my goal to be there for you through every trial and tribulation you encounter in life, but if for some reason something should happen to me I want to make sure this is taken care of. Of all the stories I ever have heard in my life, this is the most important.

  Tucked in beneath this letter is an album. To my knowledge I am the only living soul to have ever seen it. If you are reading this, then you are now bestowed with the same honor.

  Right after staring at the picture of myself and Trent, I made a point to locate this album. It had been years since I’d sent it, but I knew every aspect of it the way someone knows a dear old friend. Even if age has changed them to a mere semblance of their former self, there is an inherent familiarity.

  I recognized the scent of it, knew every mark on the crusted leather that encased it, even remembered the water stain in the bottom corner.

  This album, this story, was entrusted to me as a gift. There was no requirement that I pass it on when I go, but I wouldn’t feel right unless I did.

  Some tales are too great to ever let perish. If something were to happen to me the way it did my friend, I must know that it will live on with you.

  Twenty-seven years have passed since I received this gift and was made guardian of its story.

  Now I am extending the same honor to you.

  Your mother will know when the time is right to give this to you. I assure you your eyes are the first to have seen inside this box since I taped it shut a few short hours from now.

  Enclosed with this letter is an old photo album and a stack of typing paper. You’ll need both of these.

  I apologize if anything becomes jumbled or doesn’t make perfect sense, but since finding the album I have been unable to do anything else until it was completed.

  I haven’t ate, I haven’t slept, I haven’t moved.

  Sitting here now, I can tell you it has been worth it. Before last weekend I never had any intention of putting this story to paper, but now that it’s done I can’t help but wonder what took me so long.

  Contained here is a story of honor and love, of loyalty and casualty, of hope and spirit.

  Of brotherhood.

  I have always been proud to call the men in this story my family and I trust you will do the same.

  Your father,

  Austin

  Chapter One

  To a six year old boy, few things in life can match the joy of skipping a day of school. So much so that I never noticed the red rimmed eyes of my Mama as she handed me the folded note excusing me from class. I didn’t pay attention when Mrs. Hurwood read the note, nodded solemnly, and told me she was sorry for my loss. I didn’t even find it odd that my father, the hardest working man I’ve ever known, stayed home that day.

  It should have registered when I came downstairs that morning to find my good khaki shorts, short sleeved white dress shirt, dark blue blazer and matching tie waiting for me, but it didn't then either.

  All I knew was I was skipping school for the day.

  “My Easter clothes Mama?”

  “Yes, sweetie. Go take a bath and then get dressed. Your father will help you with the tie when you’re ready.”

  It wasn't until I heard the voice that I realized something was wrong.

  My mother had three distinct tones. One was her usual voice, soft and sweet, melodic to a fault. She used this one almost all the time, especially when talking to my brother or me.

  The other two
were stronger, forceful, meant what she said was non-negotiable. The first was angry, raised and pitched and full of hurtful venom. I to this day have only seen her use it a handful of times.

  Looking back, in each case it was warranted.

  The third was every bit as rare, an effort at flat and monotone, a vain attempt to hide a slight cracking. She used it when I was in a car accident in college and almost lost my life. She used it the day she found out about the cancer that would eventually take hers.

  And she used it that morning.

  I knew better than to argue.

  I took a bath, got dressed as ordered, and came down to find my father in his own dark blue suit. He helped me with my tie and together we stood in the living room, tugging at our collars and fighting to ignore the wool that itched against our skin.

  The car ride was short, terse and silent, ending at a place I had never been before. It was a stately building with thick white columns stretched around the entire structure and a large carpeted ramp leading up to the front door. Enormous bouquets of flowers were piled everywhere and subdued music hummed over the grounds.

  Where it was coming from, I had no idea.

  Women in dark blues and blacks huddled and spoke in soft whispers. Many wore short veils down over their faces and clutched handkerchiefs in their gloved hands. Men stood off to the side trying to avoid the awkward displays of emotion, hands thrust deep in their pockets, nodding occasionally to one another.

  Some smoked cigarettes, others feigned interest in a dog that had wandered onto the lot.

  All looked supremely uncomfortable.

  Mixed amongst the crowd were a handful of veterans in full dress uniform. It was my first encounter with military dress and I stood in awe as they milled about. Green trousers and jackets. Tan shirts and ties beneath them. Rows of ribbons and medals displayed on their chests, hats in their hands.

  I had no idea who they were, where they came from, or why they were there, but I couldn’t shake my gaze from them.

  My brother was not yet old enough to join us and I was completely alone in a world of adults. I kept myself pressed to my father’s side as we stood against the building and waited while Mama spoke with other women in hushed whispers. Every so often one of them offered a furtive glance towards the door, but for the longest time nobody moved.

  We just stood outside, counting minutes in our heads, wondering if it would ever end.

  For the briefest of moments, I almost wished I was back in school.

  After the better part of an hour, the oak doors swung open and a pastor in black robes stepped forth, hands clasped before him. The crowd fell silent and watched as he walked forward and spread his arms wide.

  “Please join me.”

  Like animals at feed time, the crowd funneled inside. With much jostling, the silent mass made its way into a large room with matching chairs lined into every available inch. The pastor stood by and waited until the room was full before he took his place behind an oversized wooden podium. More flowers were lined three deep behind him and the same low music played throughout the room.

  The scents of a thousand fresh flowers hung in the air. Mixed with the perfumes of over a hundred women, making for a concoction that stung in the nose and eyes.

  I knew better than to say a word.

  It was the first funeral I had ever attended and I still wasn’t sure what was going on. I had no idea why over half of the room was crying, why they weren’t their usual cheerful selves. I didn’t even know that the gleaming wooden box beside him was a coffin.

  Despite all that, it was clear that my role was to sit still and be quiet.

  “Dear family, friends and loved ones," the pastor began in a deep baritone the moment the music fell away. "It is with mixed emotions that I stand here before you today. I stand with a heavy heart at the loss of a near and dear friend. I am saddened by the loss of a great man from a world that could use more like him.

  “At the same time, I am overjoyed to be here. I am happy to celebrate with you the culmination of a truly special person. To honor a life that exemplified what it means to be a man. To be happy in knowing my friend has gone to Heaven and taken his place with the good Lord above.”

  A soft wail went up from the front row, a stifled moan that swept through the tiny space. From my seat, I craned my neck to see my great-grandmother sitting in a large green chair, a handful of tissues pressed to her face. Her thin and frail body shook with each sniffle as she bit down on her hand and let the tears roll down her cheeks.

  The pastor paused and let the moment pass before he began to speak again. As he did, I sat and wondered how I had missed seeing her outside. For the first time I noticed the people on either side of her. Sitting in a line on the front row were my grandmother, my two great aunts, and my great uncle, all in matching green chairs.

  Most of them were holding hands as the others wiped away tears.

  Mama was soon to follow suit as most of the women in attendance had opened their purses and were digging for more tissues. By the time the pastor called for the Lord’s Prayer, there wasn’t a bit of mascara left in the room.

  The entire time, I pressed the palms of my hands flat on the chair beneath me. I sat on my hands and stared upward, counting the lines in the ceiling, willing myself not to follow suit and let a teardrop fall.

  If Pop could stay strong, so could I.

  When at last the pastor stopped, I watched as the crowd rose. One by one the rows filed past the large wooden box at the front of the room, my wide-eyed youth still not sure what was occurring around me.

  Not even as our row stood and moved forward did realization set in for me.

  Not until I put my fingers on the edge of the box and stood on my toes to peer inside did I grasp what was happening.

  There, dressed in a military uniform, his white hair parted to the side, lay my great-uncle Jack.

  Chapter Two

  To a child weaned on cartoons and Dr. Seuss books, death was not something that came along often or was easily comprehended. My father asked me three times if I was alright and each time I nodded without actually saying anything.

  I understood without really understanding.

  The ride to the cemetery took just a few minutes and I spent the entire time staring out the front window. Focused on the small purple flag with the white cross affixed to the front of our car, my mind honed in on the cloth fluttering in the wind, shutting out even the voices of my parents.

  Just minutes after departing, we climbed from the car and joined the same mass of people moving in the same slow saunter. Much like the moments before the service, women dabbed at their noses and spoke in low voices, men nodded at one another and paced about.

  After a few moments the now familiar voice of the Pastor called out, summoning everyone into a loose circle around him. In the center of it sat the same row of aging family members comprised of my great-grandmother, great aunts and uncle.

  Just inches away from them, close enough to reach out and touch, was the polished wooden box holding my uncle. An arrangement of flowers rested on the top of it and a large marble headstone stood to the side.

  All I could do was stand and stare in wide eyed wonder at it all.

  The pastor raised his hands to quiet the crowd and again launched into verse. He held a Bible in his hands and spoke from it, pausing in tune with the loud sniffles and wails from the women around us.

  He spoke for a long time. I stood with the late fall sun on my face and could feel sweat forming on my lip and along my forehead. Around us, leaves of brilliant gold and orange rattled in the trees and floated lazily through the air. They stood in large piles and collected as the breeze pushed them back and forth across the ground.

  I wish I could remember exactly what he was saying that afternoon. I wish I could say it was beautiful and eloquent and everything a proper eulogy should be.

  Truth is, I don’t remember.

  What I do remember is the look of anguish
on the faces of my family as they sat in those chairs. I remember my legs growing tired from standing in one place for so long but thinking that I would never sit again if it meant I had to be as sad as they were. I remember my great-grandmother’s body shuddering so hard it lifted her from her chair as she cried.

  I remember the pastor saying the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” holding his arms to his side, then bringing them together and bowing his head.

  I remember watching in awe as my great-grandmother willed herself to stand without the aid of her walker. With no regard for where she was or who was watching she pressed her body flat against the box and cried with everything she had.

  I wish I could have walked up to her and hugged her, told her I loved her, that everything would be alright.

  I wish somebody would have, even if I couldn’t.

  Nobody did though. Over one hundred people stood and watched as she poured her soul out, their own emotions sliding down their cheeks thick and fast.

  She stayed that way until it became apparent she had no intention of leaving, until at long last my two great aunts ambled to their feet and peeled her frail body away. She made no effort to fight them as she went, her fingertips sliding along the smooth veneer, longing obvious in her movements.

  Not until she was seated again did the crowd part to reveal the same men I had seen before in full military dress. Arranged in straight lines, each one carried a matching rifle and marched in time, stopping just feet away from the crowd.

  Then, without warning, they raised the rifles to their shoulders and fired.

  Again.

  And again.

  Chapter Three

  It was the first gunshot I'd ever heard, the sound nothing short of deafening.

  I had no idea who these men were or why they were firing, but I remember the precision with which they did. I remember the gleaming brass of their uniforms and the way the crowd flinched with each shot.