Free One September Morning by Rosalind Noonan

this.” Suz punctuates the end of her sentence with the whirring bean grinder, then dumps the fresh-ground coffee into the filter. “Quite a coinkeedink, if you ask me. I wonder what he was trying to tell you.”
    “I don’t know.” Was there a message? Abby wonders, feeling revived by the earthy smell of ground coffee beans. Or was John just making one last connection, saying good-bye? She presses her lips together to ward off tears. And here she was thinking she’d gone beyond tears to numb denial.
    “I didn’t hear Scott’s voice when he was killed,” Suz says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I sure would have liked to. Could’ve used a few tips on how to get the car started on wet days, where to reinvest his four-oh-one-K.”
    Pressing a napkin to her eyes, Abby feels comforted by her friend’s ramble.
    Beyond the kitchen, her house is swollen with people who’ve brought casseroles, cold cuts, and fruit, flowers and deepest regrets. Glancing out at them from the arched kitchen entry, watching two women move respectfully past her Monet print, Abby has the feeling that her entire life is being turned inside out, giving all the world a view of the snags and broken fibers she has held in her pocket all these years. It’s a raw, vulnerable feeling only somewhat softened by the warm support of the military community, which she did not fully embrace in her time here at Fort Lewis. John was the one who dove in willy-nilly, and now Abby, a more private person, is being forced to open up and let strangers in.
    You’re going to love the Northwest, John told her when they first learned of his assignment at Fort Lewis. It’s a beautiful slice of the planet.
    And Abby was beginning to share his love for all the green grass and trees, the more mellow pace in which people took the time to look you in the eyes. She didn’t mind trading the East Coast humidity for the dry air, even if it meant skies were gray for much of the year. They had met back east while John was at Rutgers and Abby attended Wagner College on Staten Island. Geographically challenged from the start, the logistics of their relationship only got worse as John signed on to play football with the Seattle Seahawks while Abby remained in the dorms on Grymes Hill to finish her senior year at Wagner. New York to Seattle, tough commute.
    Abby presses her palms to the familiar kitchen table. This place became her home in the past year. Their home. Although she stopped making three-egg omelets and buying green salads that wilted in the refrigerator, she still considers herself part of a couple, half of a whole.
    And now the other half is gone.
    The sergeant holds up two pamphlets and then places them on the kitchen table. “I’ll leave these here for you to go through when things quiet down. They’ve got everything you’ll need to know about benefits, burial, and setting up the funeral.”
    A funeral. She’s supposed to bury her husband. It all seems incongruous. “I’m having trouble processing at the moment,” Abby says flatly.
    “And that’s no surprise.” Suz places a fresh mug of coffee in front of her, tips some cream from a small pitcher into it, stirs for her.
    Abby wonders who had the presence of mind to bring cream. She and John are strictly one percent milk people.
    John was . Would she ever get used to saying that?
    “We can handle all the arrangements for you, Abby,” he is saying. “As much as you like.”
    As her CAO, Sgt. Palumbo has already explained many of these things for Abby, but although she has been sitting politely and trying to listen, she feels as if she’s playing a role, pretending to be herself in her own home while friends and strangers pass through the kitchen extending regrets and condolences. Now that the initial shock has worn thin, she’s operating on autopilot, going through all the motions of talking and breathing though her mind is a million miles away fighting the information that John is gone. She