The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [173]
Bishop Ramfis read from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. The bishop, with his white surplice, reminded Laurel of a long-legged waterfowl scurrying from one place to another. A tall and gangling man, his robes rode high on his legs, baring spindly ankles disappearing into large shoes. But, Laurel had to concede, he was a talented professional. She had seen him in action at church. With the damp gaze of one familiar with the species’ miseries, he’d dished out words of wisdom, handshakes, and hugs. Even so, Laurel marveled at the feeling of emptiness smothering her grief.
When the bishop concluded his service and backed away, the NCOIC stepped up to the coffin, froze, and then backed away as President Leona Hurst stood and walked over to stand beside the flag-draped casket.
“My words may not be politically correct, but this is not a rally. It is a reunion of friends to honor our departed hero, Bastien. Our nation is full of double-barreled nationalities. Seldom has a minute gone by without hearing of African-Americans, Irish-Americans, Mexican-Americans, and the like—as if being an American wasn’t enough and an individual needed other signs of identity. Bastien Compton’s family has African and Scottish roots, but he was simply an American, the kind forged in the trenches of Concord or Bunker Hill.” She turned to the Compton family in the front row and locked eyes for an instant with Bastien’s mother. “Although not a member of the armed services, Bastien distinguished himself conspicuously by his gallant and intrepid actions, above and beyond the call of duty. The young man we honor today volunteered to serve his country and, in doing so, made the ultimate sacrifice—a devotion that cost him his life.”
As the President scanned the grounds until she spotted Senator Palmer, Laurel marveled at the capacity of politicians for mendacity.
“Words are inadequate before our loss,” Leona Hurst continued. “My late father would read excerpts from Romeo and Juliet at bedtime. As the Right Reverend spoke, I vividly remembered some of those lines:
“When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
“I am proud of Bastien and proud to be his compatriot.” She stepped back away from the coffin.
The firing party released three volleys as the sound and echo of “Taps” sounded from across the field, played by two buglers. Whispers died and everybody turned toward the music, right hands over their hearts while the men and women in uniform rendered a rigid hand salute.
The team by the casket folded the flag into the triangle reminiscent of the cocked hat from the American Revolution. The President gathered the folded flag and offered it to Mrs. Compton, leaned over to whisper something in her ear, then hugged the woman, who was now racked by sobs.
Laurel retreated into her shell and put on a brave face, zeroing in on small details like the whine of the electrical motors lowering the casket into the grave, the hands of the two very different men she held in hers, and the absence of birdsong.
The casket bearers left, pausing once to render a last hand salute to Bastien, and a sonorous rumble echoed down the path.
Everybody craned their necks as the USAF pipe band, led by a drum major, slowly marched toward the grave to the strains of the redeeming “America the Beautiful.”
Then grief welled in Laurel’s chest and she wept, the sound of the drum’s somber muffled beat etching into her memory.
afterword
Shortly after Bastien Compton’s burial, Leona Hurst, the fifty-first President of the United States, convened a second press conference to elaborate on the abridged one served four days earlier.