Stop all the clocks
I SPENT THE next couple of weeks boxing up my clothes and books, selling off furniture and bookshelves, contacting utility providers and having to run out to the local Abraço coffee shop every time the realtor had someone who wanted to view the apartment.
I’d also started my job with International Rescue Committee, so I was trying to get an understanding of the charity and the roles and responsibilities of my new colleagues, even though I was still in New York.
Over in San Diego, Jack was trying to find suitable housing for us, no more than fifteen miles off the base so he could be there quickly in an emergency.
As we had no dependents, we weren’t eligible for family housing on the base, for which I was grateful. I was moving to Jackson’s world, but I wanted to have a little normalcy, something non-military, too. Although as so many Marines and former Marines lived in the area, the chances were we’d have serving military or vets as neighbors.
I’d seen Jack’s room at Camp Pendleton. Because he was a sergeant he’d been upgraded from three or four bunk beds, to a single occupancy room. His bed was narrow but comfortable. I knew that because we’d tested its limits rather athletically one day when I was visiting. I think he got a kick out of screwing in the barracks. I didn’t want to know if he’d ever done it before so I didn’t ask.
But he was finding it surprisingly challenging to locate an apartment or house somewhere that met our budget. After all, he’d never paid rent before and never even had to pay a utility bill. So self-assured in many ways, he’d never had to learn the skills that most of us do when we leave home at eighteen. He was catching on quickly, but I had to nix several pretty homes with enormous yards and glistening pools that were out of our price range.
And even though we didn’t yet have a house, Jack had already treated himself to an enormous leather reclining chair for his man cave.
Time was running out and at this rate we’d be camping on the beach. Jack wasn’t worried: at least we’d have a comfortable chair to sit on.
I was sitting in Abraço’s, trying to get my head around writing IRC’s annual report and praying that the latest viewing of my apartment would result in an offer this time, when Jack called my cell.
I was a little surprised, because he’d usually be taking PT at this time of the morning.
“Hiya! This is a nice surprise. How are you?”
There was a long pause.
“Not so good, Maggie.”
“What’s wrong?”
He let out a long sigh.
“It’s Kevin Murphy’s funeral tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, picturing Jack’s distraught face. Eleven days ago Jack heard the news that his friend had been killed while on guard duty at the US Embassy in Baghdad. A suicide bomber in a bomb packed with explosives had driven straight at the security barrier, killing himself and three Marines.
There had been several delays, and the authorities had only just released his body to the family for burial after a long inquest.
Jack had been Kevin’s sergeant in Afghanistan and that gave them an unbreakable bond, even in death.
“I’m so sorry, Jack. I wish I could hug you right now.”
“God, me too.”
I heard the sounds of a marching song in the background and men’s voices, so I knew that he must be standing somewhere close to the parade ground.
“That’s kind of why I’m calling, Maggie. Will you come?”
I was momentarily taken aback.
“To the funeral?”
“Yeah.”
“But . . . I never met Kevin. Would his family want me there?”
His reply was certain and immediate.
“Yes, you’re one of us now.”
My lungs felt like all the breath had been squeezed out of them. It was almost as if Jack was right here, hugging me fiercely. I didn’t have to think about my answer.
“Then I’ll come.”
“Thank you, sugar. I love you.”
He hung up and I used my phone to book the first flight out. Then I speed-walked back to the apartment, just in time to find my realtor locking the front door and talking to a dark haired man in a suit.
The man was in his early forties and looked tired. The journalist in me wondered if he was recently divorced. I just got that vibe from him.
“Oh, Ms. Buckman! I was going to call you,” said my realtor smoothly. “This is Derek Johnson and he’s just made an offer on your apartment.”
“That’s great,” I smiled briefly. “Perhaps we can discuss the details later—I’m rushing to catch a flight.”
“To San Diego?” she asked knowingly.
“Yes,” I said flatly. “For a funeral.”
Her professional smile evaporated, but it was the man who spoke.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Buckman.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be in touch with Ms. Suarez about the apartment.”
He took her by the elbow and guided her to the elevator. He seemed like a nice guy and I hoped he’d be happy in the apartment.
I hurried to pack a small suitcase, throwing in the usual things, plus my favorite black dress and a pair of heels.
Then I called a cab and headed out to Newark.
Eight hours later I stepped out into the blazing California sunshine, hopelessly overdressed in boots and a quilted coat.
Jackson was waiting for me, handsome and casual in blue jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that looked so soft I couldn’t resist burying my face in it.
He held me tightly, murmuring over and over again, I love you.
Now the words had been said by both of us, he seemed to feel a need to say them every time we spoke, and to hear them every time we spoke.
That made me happy.
I’d spent too much time with the specter of death growing up, and later in my job, and now here I was at another funeral, this time for a man I’d never met.
A scorching blue sky was the pitiless backdrop to Corporal Kevin Murphy’s funeral, mocking the sweating Marines in their Dress Blues as they marched solemnly to the boom-boom boom-boom-boom of the drummer.
Jack was a pallbearer, so I’d been left in the care of one of his brother’s wives while he did his final duty for his comrade.
A shiny black hearse carried the coffin, with the Murphy family walking behind, heads drooping like wilting flowers. There was also an escort of four men following the pallbearers, two carrying the regimental colors and two with swords drawn.
The hearse stopped outside the base’s Catholic church, and in eerie silence, like a movie that had been deliberately run at half-speed, the pallbearers slow-marched toward the coffin.
Then, to the accompaniment of a drumroll, the coffin was carried up the steps.
The church was filled with men and women in uniforms and an equal number of civilians, like me, dressed in black. The uniformed Marines with their white covers and gloves seemed almost colorful.
When the eulogy had been read and the service concluded, some people sobbing, some stoic, we made our way to the graveside.
It brought back memories of burying my parents, and tears were close to the surface for a man I’d never met. He’d died doing his duty for his country and I hoped that his family could draw some comfort from that, however small.
I wondered how many funerals like this Jack had attended. Too many. Far too many.
I could see sweat mingling with tears on the faces of two of the pallbearers, but Jack’s face was stony and grim, the emotions locked tightly away.
At least I could be there for him when he needed me later.
There was another drumroll, then the Honor Guard pallbearers briefly lifted the coffin to shoulder height, as if letting their fallen comrade see the sun one more time, before lowering him to his final resting place.
The mournful skirl of a lone bagpipe lay thickly on the burning air, and then ‘Amazing Grace’, the saddest of hymns, rang out across the graveyard.
Through many dangers, toils and snares
We have already come.
T’was grace that brought us safe thus far
And grace will lead us home.
I wanted to believe that Marine Kevin Murphy was home at last, but it was hard when his death had been so senseless. Or maybe all deaths seem senseless to the ones left behind.
When Jack handed the folded Stars and Stripes to Kevin’s mother, she clutched it to her chest, sobbing as her white-face husband wrapped his arms around her. They sagged and clung together, crumpled and despairing.
“May we who mourn be reunited one day.”
The Priest’s words rang out, calm and certain, and maybe—just maybe—a little of his faith seeped into me.
The three-gun salute made me jump and clutch the hand of the woman next to me. We held hands tightly, each wondering if one day we’d be mourning someone closer to us, wishing that words or prayers could ward the danger away.
Kevin’s father stood on shaky legs, then kneeled next to the coffin, resting his head on it as he cried silent tears for his boy.
It’s not right for a parent to bury their child, it’s just not right.
The woman next to me squeezed my hand again.
“Freedom has a taste that the protected will never know,” she said, whispering the well-known words.
“And I, one of the protected thank you deeply and sincerely,” I replied.
The wake began with muted chatter and we paid our respects to the Murphy family, uttering meaningless words, awkward in the face of such grief. Kevin’s father and sister shook hands with everyone, but his mother sat with her youngest daughter, inconsolable, until her husband urged her to take a sleeping pill and lie down.
Uniformed men and women stood in groups reminiscing about deployments they’d shared, recalling fond memories of sandflies and crotch rot. Then the alcohol started flowing and the noise level gradually grew. After a glass of wine I switched to water, knowing that I’d be the one driving us later.
I met some more of Jack’s friends and chatted to a few of the wives about living in San Diego, making a mental note of their recommendations for which areas were the best to live in.
Somehow it seemed wrong to discuss this at a wake, but of course, life goes on.
Just not the life of Kevin Murphy.
Jack was drunk and weaving all over the place when I got him back to our hotel. He sat on the end of the bed fumbling with the multitude of buttons that made up his uniform, swearing with frustration when they defeated his uncoordinated fingers.
I had to help him out of his clothes, watching with sadness as he remained closed off, rolling onto his side and immediately falling asleep.
I undressed and had a quick shower before quietly climbing into bed next to him. I listened to his soft snores for a long time before I fell asleep.
I was woken by Jack’s hands sliding over my body as the full moon bathed our room with silver. He made love to me with a silent intensity and desperation that told me he needed me, even if he couldn’t say the words.
I knew he would, one day.