CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tahoma National Cemetery was a lush green expanse about thirty miles south of Seattle. In the distance, Mt. Rainier loomed like the ghost of a mountain, pale and wreathed in wisps of cloud.
Veronica’s taxi pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes before the service was scheduled to begin. She’d gotten the earliest flight she could out of Neptune but takeoff had been delayed, leaving her fidgety and irate during the three-hour trip. I stayed behind on a fool’s errand, she’d thought, staring bleakly out the window. Why did I think I could convince Lamb to do something even remotely helpful? Why didn’t I just go with Logan? He needed me and, like always, I chose the job. I chose wrong. At SeaTac International she’d changed in the bathroom, the black silk dress slightly wrinkled from her bag.
Now she stopped in the information center at the cemetery to get directions to the committal site, and took off walking as quickly as she could across the sprawling grounds. A harried flutter filled her chest. She’d never liked funerals. Not that any one does, of course, except maybe the mesh-and-lace-clad Oneiroi fans of the world. But even the function of a funeral—the “closure,” the chance to mourn—didn’t appeal to her. Perhaps it was because most of the people she’d lost had been taken from her, violently. Her strategy for honoring the dead had always been to take action—solve the mystery, punish the criminal. But what did you do when there was no one to punish? When there were no answers to find? How did you assimilate that kind of loss without losing your mind?
It took her ten minutes to find the right spot. Rows of white folding chairs were set up on a large stone patio. About a hundred people hovered around the area, many in Full Dress Blues—most of them officers, but a few enlisted seamen with their white Dixie-cup hats.
An enlarged photo of Bilbo rested on an easel. It depicted a boyish-looking Filipino man, his eyes lit by a smile. An American flag stood behind him—it was supposed to look formal, official, but Bilbo looked a split second away from laughing out loud.
Seated in front of the easel was a woman who had to be Bilbo’s wife. Veronica couldn’t see her face from where she sat, but a little boy, maybe two years old, stood in her lap, looking back at the gathered crowd with large, curious eyes. The woman’s shoulders were stiff, her head facing forward. She didn’t seem to notice anything going on around her, not even the people who leaned in to talk to her directly.
Veronica found an empty seat in the back row. Logan was a pallbearer, so she wouldn’t see him until after the service.
“How did you know Vincent?”
Veronica glanced at the woman next to her. She was in her mid-twenties, snub-nosed and pale, with a swipe of coral lipstick across a wide but thin mouth. She was fanning herself surreptitiously with her program.
“Oh, I didn’t. My boyfriend served with him on the Truman.”
The woman smiled. A dimple popped out in her left cheek. “Nice to meet a fellow military girlfriend. Well, I’m a military wife now. I’m Cathy.”
“Veronica.” They shook hands. Cathy gave a soft sigh.
“It’s just so sad, isn’t it? I only met Vince once but I’ve gotten to be real close with Allison. My husband’s currently deployed too. He’s an operations officer on the USS Henry Pritchett.”
They were barred from further conversation by the sound of choral music. The crowd got to its feet as the music began, turning to face the paved pathway behind them. A long white hearse had pulled up flush to the curb; behind it, six pallbearers in Full Dress Whites were silently sliding the flag-covered coffin out of the back. Veronica saw Logan among them, his face tight with emotion.
A senior officer stood beside the hearse, his spine ramrod straight. “Honor guard, ten-hut.” His voice was deep and percussive. “Present arms.”
Everyone in uniform saluted. Veronica’s eyes darted around to the civilians in the crowd, trying to get a clue to what she should be doing. Most of them had their hands on their hearts, so she followed suit.
As the pallbearers began to carry their burden forward, Veronica couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. What had been retrieved of Lieutenant Malubay after his plane had crumpled on the flight deck? Had his widow been given one last look? Had she been allowed to sit by his body, to touch his hand, his face? Or had there been nothing left to mourn?
Logan passed by so close she could have touched him. She’d never wanted to more in her life, but she kept her hand on her heart. She tried hard not to imagine an alternate universe in which it was Logan in that box.
Then the music was over, and the pallbearers placed the coffin on a long, low stand next to the smiling picture. The honor guard retreated to stand at the back as a black-robed chaplain took the podium. She closed her eyes as Logan passed her one more time. She was almost sure she caught a whiff of his aftershave, sandalwood and citrus.
“Today we gather to mourn the passing of Lieutenant Vincent Michael Malubay.” The chaplain’s voice was soft and gentle despite the powerful amplification. “A young man whose courage and conviction inspired those of us who were privileged to know him.”
Next to her, Cathy rummaged in her purse for Kleenex, her mascara already running down her face. Intermittent, breathy sobs went up from all around the crowd. At the front, Allison remained motionless.
The chaplain’s eulogy was short but eloquent and sincere. He listed Bilbo’s achievements—his medals, his commendations, his outstanding flight record. Bilbo had hoped, one day, to join the Blue Angels.
“He wanted little Anthony to see him fly,” said the chaplain, looking down at the boy in his mother’s arms.
And then they were all standing again, this time for the three-volley salute. The riflemen moved in perfect synchronicity, their shots echoing across the cemetery. Logan and one of the other pallbearers returned to the casket. They picked up the flag at either end and began to fold it as a lone bugler began to play taps.
Veronica clutched her skirt in her fists. She watched Logan’s hands moving with deliberate and solemn economy. She suddenly felt that she was seeing him more clearly than ever before, yet also at a thousand-mile remove. He knelt in front of Allison, taking her hand in his for a split second before giving her the folded flag.
Someone touched her arm. She looked up to see Cathy pointing up, and realized that everyone else was watching the sky. Four jets were moving across the clear-blue expanse, arranged in an uneven V. They flew for a minute in perfect formation, an unwavering constellation. Then, without warning, one cut sharply away from the group. The other three held their course. The fourth arced up and away, heading alone toward some other horizon.
That was the moment Allison Malubay started to wail. She threw back her head, still holding the flag, still clutching her son, and she screamed at the sky, her voice swallowed in the roar of the jets.
—
Afterward, Veronica stood awkwardly at the back of the crowd as the mourners quietly mingled. Logan had gone with the hearse to the gravesite. His eyes hadn’t even flitted toward her as he stood at attention, waiting for the order to march behind the hearse. It was almost surreal to see him so formal. A part of her wanted to laugh. This was, after all, the guy who’d slouched his way in and out of detentions for four years.
But a part of her felt uneasy, watching him walk stiffly and in perfect unison with the other pallbearers.
Admit it, Veronica—it freaks you out to see him take this so seriously. Freaks you out because you convinced yourself this military thing was some fanciful rich-boy goof. But it’s not. Not even close.
She spied Cathy standing with four other women. One of them had a young girl, about six, hugging her waist, and another had a baby slung across her chest in a pouch. They all carried oversized purses and wore low, sensible heels. Cathy suddenly caught sight of her and waved. Veronica approached them, feeling almost shy.
“Wasn’t that the most beautiful ceremony?” Cathy asked. “His parents wanted to do a Mass, but Allison insisted on an outdoor service. She wanted to make sure he got his flyover.” She turned to the group. “This is Veronica. Veronica, that’s April, Lucia, Anne, and Jasmine.”
They all nodded and murmured their greetings.
“I guess Allison will probably live up here full-time now, don’t you think?” Anne said.
“Well, her parents are here. They’ll be able to help her take care of Anthony.” Cathy glanced at Veronica. “Vince was stationed out of San Diego, but after Anthony was born, Allison came home to Seattle to be near her family while he was deployed. It’s hard to be on your own when you’ve got a little one.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jasmine, the woman with the baby. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, rocking her daughter in her arms. “My husband left just before this one was born.”
Veronica looked around the little group. All five wore similar expressions—friendly, sad, resigned. “Are you all Navy spouses?” she asked. They all nodded.
“So…how do you guys do it?” she blurted. “I mean, I barely lasted our first six months apart. How do you do this for years?”
They exchanged glances, and she suddenly felt childish. Here she was, complaining about six months apart, when a woman had just lost her husband. But she had to know: How did they deal with the fear, the visions of planes falling out of the sky, the constant dread of casualty reports? How did they say good-bye again and again?
Cathy put a hand on Veronica’s arm. “It’s not easy. There’s a lot of waiting. You have to put so much off. And not just the long-term stuff. Every day I think of a hundred things I want to say to Nate. I’ve started carrying a notebook to jot it all down in it, because I kept getting on the phone with him and forgetting everything.”
The other women laughed. Veronica felt like crying.
Cathy seemed to notice. She glanced at her friends, then back to Veronica. “We look out for each other while our men are gone. That’s a big part of it. Having the support of your sisters, finding people who know what you’re going through. Well, you’ll see.”
Veronica saw Logan then, coming back up the walkway. He was alone, his spine erect, his shoulders square. Their eyes met. He didn’t smile, but something in his face softened. Veronica gave an apologetic smile as she backed away from the women. “Excuse me. I have to go. Thank you. I…” She gave up, and turned away.
They met a few yards away from the crowd. She was afraid to touch him, not knowing if it would violate some kind of protocol. For a moment they just stood there, looking at each other in silence.
Her eyes fell to his service ribbons, a complicated, multicolored blur just above his heart. He’d explained once what each of them meant, but she couldn’t remember any of that now. His life is still a mystery to me in so many ways. Bars of red and blue and green melted together as tears sprang to her eyes. Then she put her arms around him, protocol be damned. She pressed her face to his chest and closed her eyes.
She already knew that he’d decided to leave—knew before he opened his mouth to speak. But for one last minute, she could pretend that he was hers to keep. For one last minute, she held him, and let him hold her.