The words of bitter notification were etched across the ivory page from left to right. The font was thick and black, and Louise could imagine the words and letter jumping off the page, crawling past her lips, and inching down her throat; caking her lungs and suffocating the life out of her. The shock had begun to wash over her entire body, sending tingles up and down her joints, her slender jean-clad legs nervously bouncing below the pressure of her forearms. Her small hands were clenched over the edges of the letter, knuckles turning white under the strain. Louise could feel her stomach turning beneath the fabric of her brown cotton blouse, as her emerald eyes slowly shifted between the array of sentences. Helpless and uncomfortable, she cautiously reached a hand up to brush a lose strand of brown hair away from her flushed cheek; her golden wedding band catching light from the burgundy lamp on the table beside her. The torn envelope rested below the lamp, the light highlighting the gold lining of the United States Air Force seal in the left corner.
Dear Mrs. Adam M. Wilson,
We regret to inform you of the death of Adam M. Wilson, who did in service of The United States Air Force Division. This gunner died in service of his country.
Sincerely,
John Townmen
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
Her eyes lingered on the word death. The sharp sound of the word made Louise feel like every inch of her body was on edge and under pressure; the kind of pressure that seemed to push past her pale skin and fill up the empty spaces in her bones. Her whole body felt heavy, as she sank deeper into the plush tan couch in the living room of the house they once shared. Her eyes began to give in to the weight, and as her eyelids met, warm tears were released down her cheeks, hanging on the brim of her pale lips before sliding into the crease of her mouth. For a moment, she had forgotten how to breathe; those few tears suddenly making her feel as if she had started to drown.
“Mrs. Wilson…” Lieutenant Henry Louis began, running his coarse hands along the stiff crease in his deep green military pants. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”
Hearing nothing in response, Henry shifted his gaze to the shine on his jet-black boots, studying the way the glimmer was broken up by the constant turning of the ceiling fan.
“Mrs. Wilson…” he tried again, pulling nervously at the sleeves of his green jacket, decorated with a variety of pins.
“Did you know him?” Louise suddenly asked, avoiding the brown eyes of the Lieutenant.
“No…” he tried, “…but I can tell by the look on your face that he was a good man. Is that him?” Henry asked, motioning his clean-cut blonde hair at a picture just beyond the couch, sitting atop the brick fireplace.
“Yes.” She answered, climbing to her bare feet, as she slowly made her way to the picture. Delicately, she traced her finger along the silver frame, noticing a tremble in her hand as she did so. “He was the love of my life”, she whispered.
Adam had loved Louise since the moment he met her, the way she’d throw her head back as she laughed, and bring her hand to her heart when he’d tell her he loved her. Despite the disapproval of her father, the two had married when she was 22, Adam being 5 years her senior. The couple then moved to Virginia where he would enlist in the Air Force, the way his father had. Even now, 15 years later, she could still remember the moment he left: The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched him walk away. The way he had nudged her chin up slighting with the length of his index finger, telling her again that he loved her. Chin up, soldier. It’s not goodbye, it’s see you later, he’d say, a hint of playfulness in his tone as he spoke. In that moment, she had never felt like she could possibly feel as heartbroken as she did then. She had never fathomed the numbing pain of when a “see you later” is suddenly a “goodbye”.
Louise carried the frame cradled in her arm, as she returned to her seat across from Henry. She held the picture between her shaking hands, running her thumb across the figure of her husband before handing it over to the Lieutenant. It was one of the only pictures she had of him from the war where he wasn’t completely put together. The beige hat on his head resting slightly to the side, above his pointed ears. His tan cargo pants were wrinkled and cuffed at the ankles, just above his heavy black boots. His normally crisp, buttoned shirt was cuffed at the sleeves, hanging loose down the sides of his body, exposing the clean white shirt beneath it. Just below his black leather belt, his thumbs were stuffed inside the deep pockets, his left shooting hand bent at the fingertips from years of service. The picture was taken a year ago at a military camp in Vietnam. She remember the way he had complained of the thin screen door they slept behind; the worn hinges and metal frame doing little to hide the madness going on outside. Though he was standing in front of temporary military housing, the metal panels dented and worn from the atmosphere, the small smirk on his face was the same one she’d fall in love with time and time again, when she’d meet him at the airport after they’d spent too long apart.
“If you don’t mind me asking Ma’am, why is his wedding ring on the right hand?” Henry questioned, glancing up at the sad face of the widower as she stared out the large bay window behind him.
“He pulled the trigger with his left hand, so he’d move it to his right. He said it was because he didn’t want to ruin his ring; damage our promise.” She responded numbly, fixing her eyes on a robin outside the window.
The trees outside were covered in floral green leaves, illuminated by the warm June sun. The birds chirped and the occasional laughter of a child would echo through the streets and off the metal of passing cars. Heat rose off the pavement and made the roads appear unfocused to the eye. Though the day would have appeared picture perfect to anyone else, to Louise, the setting outside couldn’t have been more contradictory to the whirlwind of emotions rapidly taking place of the oxygen in her two-story brick home. To Louise, it felt like the dead of winter. The trees were bear, frozen to the touch, and drained of any color. The occasional icy breeze would blow through the sickly branches, tangle in and out of the invisible leaves, and cause a single twitch. Other than the haunting wind, everything else remained silent. Birds outside opened and closed their beaks in slow muted chatter. The ceiling fan above the coffee table, between the two couches ticked as it spun in slow motion. Across the table, Henry seemed to be offering her words of encouragement or understanding, but they seemed to fall heavy on the tan carpet between the two.
“I really am sorry.” Henry repeated, handing the frame back to the woman.
“You’ve already said that.” Louise snapped, suddenly angry at the bearer of the bad news, yanking the framed photograph out of his hand.
“I know you think that I don’t know what you’re going through…” he began.
“You don’t.” she interrupted, staring down at the chipping red polish on her toenails.
“Did your husband ever speak of Marshal Evans?” Henry asked, lacing his fingers together in patience, attempting to make eye contact with the woman.
Louise had faintly remembered her husband mentioning the name Marshal Evans on more than one occasion. The man was in her husband’s Air Force division, he slept on the bunk above Adam. On nights where the chaos outside was too dominating to sleep, they’d talk of all they had to live for back at home. She remembered the way she could hear the pride in his voice when he’d talk about the slightly younger man, as if he had taken him under his wing. Adam had told her that the young man and his new wife were expecting a child, and that when he returned home to her, he’d be returning home to a baby boy as well.
“Why?” Louise demanded, feeling slightly uneasy at this strange man’s sudden knowledge of her life.
“Marshal was my best friend. Known him since we were kids. He died along side your husband, ma’am.” Henry said, struggling to hold back the quiver in his voice as he spoke.
“You think I don’t know what you’re going through ma’am, but love is still love. I would have died in place of that man. But I couldn’t. So, I’m here telling you’re not alone in that pain.”
For the first time since Henry had stepped into her home and handed her the letter, Louise made eye contact with him. She saw the same sadness that plagued her eyes reflected in the brown eyes of the man across the table from her, the distance seeming less like worlds apart. Her body began to quake with sobs, finally giving in to the sadness that had begun to seep into her veins from the moment she ran her finger along the underside of the small envelope, breaking the seal and stealing the heart right out of her chest.
Hot tears of acceptance made their way past the contours of her face, and she swallowed them. The fear for what lies ahead clouded her mind, seeped into her veins, and dug itself into her core, and she swallowed it.
Alyssa Chaffee 