Free One September Morning by Rosalind Noonan Page B

“Whatcha gonna do?”
    “It’s a difficult time,” says the woman with black hair.
    “I am so sorry for your loss,” the other woman says, crossing to Abby. Her startlingly blue eyes shine with compassion, and Abby realizes it’s Peri Corbett, from across the way. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
    “I will,” Abby promises, warmed by the genuine sincerity of the people who’ve dropped everything to come to her house this afternoon.
    “I got a fresh pot of coffee here,” Suz says. “Can I get you a cup, Peri?”
    As normal chatter resumes, Suz serves up two mugs, then heads out to the living room with the coffeepot in hand. She passes Sharice under the arch, offering a refill.
    “No, thanks.” Sharice shakes her head briskly. “Any more coffee and I’ll be bouncing from wall to wall.” She places her mug in the sink and then turns to Abby, who can sense her mother-in-law gearing up for an important question.
    Abby glances up at her, encouragingly.
    “I want you to know,” Sharice says confidentially, “Jim just got a call from his C.O., who says there’s a good possibility that John will be honored posthumously. There’s talk that the president might even attend his funeral.”
    Abby feels her lips shaping an “O” of surprise, but she cannot form a response.
    “That would be wonderful,” Peri says, “and well-deserved. After all, he is a hero. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.” The woman with the dark hair sniffs, and suddenly her eyes are glossy with tears, her nose red. Without a word she grabs two tissues and blots at her eyes.
    “What happened?” Suz returns with the empty coffeepot. “Did I miss something?”
    “John’s going to get some medals,” says the woman with dark hair. “He’s a national hero.”
    Why? Abby wants to ask. Because he used to be a football player? She turns away from everyone, looking down at the table. John used to sit in this chair. When he wasn’t deployed, he ate breakfast here. They dined at this table, sometimes by candlelight. She presses one palm flat against the wood, knowing that John would not want to be favored. Suz’s husband, Scott, also lost his life in Iraq, but there was no talk of the president attending his funeral. Why do they want to make a fuss over John?
    “I don’t see that we have any choice now,” Sharice says. Leaning against the counter, she lifts her chin and stares off with a lofty expression, as if she can see destiny shining in the distance. “We’re going to have to bury him at Arlington Cemetery.”
    With those words, Abby feels control slip through her fingers like white sand drizzling onto the beach. Having grown up in Sterling, Virginia, she was well aware of the national cemetery at the edge of Washington, D.C., its white-studded hillsides reserved for veterans and the historically famous. Heroes and presidents and Supreme Court justices. It hardly seemed a fitting place for the man she loved, the man who’d written of his doubts recently, of the futility of war, the darkness in taking another man’s life.
    “It would be wonderful to see John honored that way,” Sharice goes on. “A military procession, twenty-one gun salute…”
    “Arlington Cemetery…” Jim Stanton appears in the doorway, his gray-peppered head just clearing the arch—a tall man, like his sons. Since this morning’s news, his skin seems pale, his posture somewhat stooped, contrary to his usual proud military bearing. “I’ve read that they’re running out of real estate there, but no doubt they’ll make an exception for us. John was loved by all. If he’s there, people who don’t know him personally will have a chance to visit his graveside.”
    “It can be tough to get into Arlington Cemetery,” says Sgt. Palumbo, stepping up beside John’s father. “But I don’t think it would be a problem getting John a burial there.”
    “John wanted to be cremated,” Abby says, feeling as if