Today's postcard, and Friday Four-minute Fiction
May 19, 2023
Mount Tahoma (aka Mt. Rainier, aka “the mountain”)
Friday Four-minute Fiction
From the story “When Murray met Helen,” Chapter 12
Inexorable
A hard thing about losing an old friend is the world moves on anyway. After Murray’s sudden death, Helen would sometimes wake in the night to feel as though her host planet was circling the sun for no apparent reason other than the inexorable mechanics of creation. So whether it was divinity or just physics, it was now spring in New Zealand while, in Oshkosh, it was snowing lightly as she stirred her Grapenuts before sorting pills for her mother.
Among her mother’s favored drugs was television and she liked it loud, especially in the morning. That by itself raised more questions, including how long Helen could last without fighting the urge to throw a hammer through the screen.
Today was Murray’s funeral and while she struggled to get spiritually centered, a preternaturally happy tv weather jock on WBAY was going on and on and on about the snow (as if snow was somehow new to Wisconsin) and then posing with an impressive construction paper turkey that a third grader in Green Bay had sent in.
“Oh God,” Helen thought, “please just shut the hell up.”
Being on the road to Milwaukee helped, even though it was icy, and even though the snow reduced visibility to a quarter mile. At least she could hear herself think. The funeral was downtown in the cathedral at Old Saint Mary Parish. Rick, the paramedic with whom she was enjoying a budding relationship, had met up with her outside the church. She hugged him and playfully brushed snow off the shoulder of his coat. The two of them were among only a few people under the age of fifty.
In the front row almost within reach of the casket were Sid, Fitz, Vic, Chili and Renard, all in uniform, all wearing their tent-like, black & gold American Legion hats. Chili had a new scooter and was now connected to oxygen. Renard was the only one mobile enough to join the other pall bearers, among whom were three Vietnam war veterans, two Gulf War veterans, and a young woman who’d served in Afghanistan.
Father James gave the homily, extolling Murray’s faith in ways that, Helen knew, the old Marine would surely have rebutted if he still had a breath in him. Then the priest offered the lectern to the side of the alter to testimonials from friends. It was hard for Fitz and Vic to find the wind and the words to describe Murray. Renard did better as he relayed Murray’s heroism at Edson’s Ridge in ’42. The speaker with the most words was an aspiring politician whom Murray had actually despised and encouraged his neighbors to vote against. He was a big-shot in the local VFW who talked about Murray’s heroic service to his country in the Philippines, even though Murray didn’t fight in the Philippines.
“Today we bid farewell to Murray,” he concluded. “A great patriot, a great warrior.”
People throughout the cathedral nodded their heads, knowingly. That looked to be it. Father James let the silence stir and then brought his hands together to make the holy finger tent. He was just about to introduce the honor guard and taps when a young woman shouted, “wait!”
Helen recognized the voice. Because it was hers.