Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [102]
He straightens his shoulders and turns to face her. He is not crying. Nothing as simple as that. His eyes are hollow and his face is contracted in a grimace of suffering so intense Alice stumbles as she takes a quick step away from him.
“He was a good soldier. He looked after his men.”
He pauses. It is not clear he will continue. Alice waits.
“He was like a big brother. . .. That was the worst day for me. . . . Not being able to get Matt out . . . That was the worst day . . .”
“Was he—?” Alice begins.
The car door opens and another soldier emerges to hold open the rear passenger door for Travis Boyd.
“I have to go.”
“Would you like to come back to the house? We have so much food. My mother would like to meet you.”
“I just wanted to pay my respects.”
“I could show you my dad’s workshop.”
He tilts his head so he can look at her out of the corner of his eye.
“He talked about you.”
“And I could show you his garden.”
“I saw pictures of you. And your little sister.”
The soldier at the car calls out to him. And suddenly Alice realizes that he is a nurse or an orderly.
“Sergeant Boyd.”
He turns toward the voice and the car and his escape. And then, with a great effort, he turns to her again, pulls himself upright, stills his hands by pressing them against his thighs.
“I am so sorry for your loss.”
Alice waits while Travis Boyd is helped into the backseat of the car. He takes his hat off and leans his head back and closes his eyes. He turns his head to look at her as the car starts up and moves away. She holds his gaze for as long as she can and then watches the car disappear down the grassy drive headed for the main road.
She can’t begin to take this in, to process what kind of horror and trauma can destroy a young man like Travis Boyd. She suddenly knows, like a kick to the gut, that what happened to her father is even worse than she has imagined, worse than it is possible to imagine.
She turns back when she hears a new motor sound and heads down the hill in time to see the backhoe emerge from the copse of trees and approach her father’s grave. The fake grass has been rolled up, the winch taken away. Now there is a hole in the ground and a coffin and dirt.
She waves at the man driving the backhoe. He stops and cuts the engine.
“Do you have a couple of shovels?”
“That’s not how we do it anymore, miss. A lot of people, they have the wrong idea.”
“I’d just like to be the one to bury my father. If you don’t mind.”
“You’re not exactly dressed for the job.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be with the rest of them?” He indicates the cars pulling out of the cemetery.
“They’ll keep.”
He reaches behind him and pulls out a pair of shovels, climbs out of the backhoe and hands one to Alice. He turns back to grab a work shirt and a pair of rubber boots.
“That dress is too pretty to mess up.”
“Thank you.”
Alice buttons the shirt over her dress and steps into the rubber boots.
“My name is Caleb,” he offers.
“Alice Bliss,” she replies.
The sound of the clods of dirt hitting the wood of the coffin may be the most upsetting sound she has ever heard. But as they continue the sounds become muffled, dirt on dirt, and she can concentrate on the bend, lift, swing of her body and the shovel; the simplicity and rhythm and relief of real work.
She looks up to see Henry and his father walking toward them, carrying the folding snow shovels they keep in the trunk in case of an emergency. They have left their suit jackets in the car. They take a moment to roll up their sleeves and then, without a word, set to work alongside them.
“This is Caleb,” she tells them. “And this is my friend Henry and his father, Mr. Grover.”
The men nod to each other without breaking stride. Alice breathes in. It smells like the garden, but it’s not.
“It doesn’t take long,” Caleb offers.
“No.”
“You appreciate the machine on the other end of this job, I can tell you that.”
“I bet.”
“Or in bad weather.”
“My father worked with his hands.”
“Soldier, I thought.”
“Carpenter. Engineer.”
“Awful young.”
“Yes,