Page 3 of Service and Sacrifice
“Don’t. She was having a hard time today,and something clicked, so I knew she was a widow.” He met thewaitress’s eyes and nodded his thanks for the mug of coffee.“Tomorrow’s five for her without him.”
“Oh, man.Death daysare the worst.” Neptune reached for the sugar and poured anunhealthy stream into his black coffee. “No wonder she was having ahard time.”
“Yeah.” Monk glanced around the room, thenlooked outside at the bright blue sky dotted with white clouds.No worriesthere. Heblinked and thought he saw mountains in the distance, but a secondblink wiped them away. “No wonder.”
Three
Amanda
Amanda twisted in the seat of the parked carand gathered up the things she needed for her vigil. She’d donethis often enough to know exactly what made her the right level ofcomfortableto stay as long as she needed.Blanket to sit on, but not too thick, because Martin’s body wassurrounded by cold dirt and it was right that shefeelsome of that. A bottle of water, because the firsttwo years she’d wept so much in the summer sun she’d dehydrated andpassed out, waking up hours later with an uneven sunburn on herface that had been hard to explain away. Their wedding book, whichhad turned into a scrapbook of their lives together. Ritual andknown, this was what she did.
She climbed out and sighed as she leaned herweight against the door, bumping it hard enough with her hip tomake the latch catch. Then she began the long walk back through theheadstones to where Martin’s grave was. This too was part of theritual, because she could have parked within ten feet of thegranite that bore his name, but the trek helped Amanda centerherselfsoshe didn’t lose it as soon as shestood in front of him. Living, breathing—alive, while he wasdead.
As she got closer, she noticed a motorcycleparked just down the row from her destination. Big and black, ithad angular handlebars and some kind of fabric wrapped around thepipes, nothing shiny about this bike, and it felt even moreimposing for that detail. Another twenty feet and she saw somethingelse unusual, a man kneeling next to Martin’s grave, one handplacing something in the back pocket of his jeans, the otherholding a small flag. As she watched, he reached out and stuck theflag into the ground next to the headstone, adjusting until itstood upright.
This wasn’t someone she knew, no one fromMartin’s family or hers, no friend from school.He must haveserved with Martin. She pulled in a shocked breath, blinkingback sudden tears.No, no, not yet. Her throat clicked whenshe swallowed, even as her mouth flooded with bitter saliva becauseshe hadn’t prepared for this. Wasn’t ready to talk about Martin, toshare memories with someone she didn’t know, to listen to theirstories and their grief. Then he looked up,andwith a swirl ofrelief,she sawit was the man from the gas station.Stupid. Ofcourseit would have to be him; she’d talked to him onlyyesterday and told him what today meant.I should haverecognized the bike.
“Ma’am.” Stilted and formal, he dipped hishead toward the gravestone. “Wasn’t hard to find. Thought I’d paymy respects.” He moved away, stepping into the middle of the littleroad. “I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Did you know him? Martin? My husband? Didyou know him?” She was overwhelmed with a need to know. Counter towhat she’d felt a moment ago when it was a stranger who might haveserved, she didn’t feel this man a stranger any longer. “MartinStewart?”
“No, ma’am. We weren’t posted together thatI know of. But he was USMC.” He lifted oneshoulderand took a step towards his bike. “Corps.”
“Makes you family.” She nodded. “You don’thave to, you know.” He paused and looked at her. “Leave, I mean. Idon’t mind.”
“Figured you’d rather time alone.” Heglanced at the headstone, then back at her. “Mrs. Stewart.”
She dipped her chin and broke free from hisgaze. It had been so long since anyone called her that, it feltwrong, almost like she was an imposter. “I’m alone all the time.It’d be nice—” She gestured towards the grave. “—for it to not bejust me for once.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
Eyes angled down, she nodded slowly. “I am.”She bent to set the water and scrapbookdown,then began unfolding the blanket. A shadow fell on her,andshe looked up to find him close, reaching out for acorner of the fabric. Together they arranged it as she always did,directly to the side of the place where dirt had once mounded. Oncethey were seated, she lifted the bottle and apologized. “I onlyhave the one.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’m fine.” Heleanedforwardsand plucked a blade of grass,arm propped on one bent knee. “You come out every year?”
“Every week, actually, but I always makesure to come on the anniversary.” She spun the lid off and liftedthe bottle for a drink. “His parents come on Saturdays orSundays,when they come, so I always aimatWednesday.”
“You don’t get along?” His questions wereinnocent, skimming along the surface of polite, not knowing thelandmines waiting underneath.
“Understatement.” She smiled and stretchedout a hand, dusting the surface of the stone’s base. “They didn’tlike that we got married so young, and thought I influenced him tojoin up.” Turning her neck, she looked at him. “Opposite fromreality, and they probably know it under everything. But it’seasier to have someone to be mad at, you know? I can take it. Theylost a son, so it’s the least I can do.” She rested her cheek onher knees. “They wanted him in Arlington, or in the state militarycemetery. Someplace more befitting a man of his”—with one hand shemade air quotes—“stature.” He stared at her steadily, not lookingaway, taking in everything she had to say. Being the subject ofthat kind of singular focus from this man felt surprisingly good,comfortable. “And bystatureI mean money,their money. Family money. I wanted him here.” She turned her headaway, staring at the granite etched with his name. “Where I couldcomesee him.”
They sat in silence for several minutes,Amanda’s memories awash with images of Martin at graduation: fromhigh school, from boot camp, from officer’s training. She didn’tknow what the man spent those minutes thinking or considering, butforher,it was all Martin.
“My name’s Amanda,” she said, suddenly awareshe hadn’t introduced herself to this stranger, no matter they weresharing a private moment. “So you can ix-nay on the am-maybit.”
He laughed softly, chuckling long past whenshe thought it should have been funny, so she turned to look athim. A gentle smile quirked his lips sideways. “Ix-nay?Really?”
“Yeah.” She sat up straight, staring at him.He’s teasing me. She gave it right back to him, lifting herchin as she repeated, “Ix-nay.”
“Alex Waterman.”
“Good to meet you, Alex Waterman.”
“Same to you, Amanda Stewart.”
An hour passed by before either spoke again.It was Alex who broke the silence, asking a question she’d neverfielded before. “How was it for you, being home, before thishappened?”
“You mean staying here while he deployed?”She turned to look at him in time to see a tiny nod. “It was okay.I had the house to take care of, and I worked. I missed him, ofcourse, but he missed me, too.”
