Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Everything had worked out as he planned. And as Sergey had observed, he’d even encountered some measure of luck along the way. Val smiled and looked down at his empty cup. Instead of the wasted, watery grounds of coffee in the bottom, he saw a bright future. Life was about to get much, much better.

He decided to have another. He snapped his fingers for Natalia. When she appeared from the back of the store, he admired the curve of her body. She noticed and accentuated the sway of her hips as she approached the table.

“What can I get you?” she asked, her eyes sultry.

“More coffee,” Val said. He allowed himself to relax a little. His smile broadened. “And then I think we will take a drive, you and I. Out into the countryside.”

She smiled back at him. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Bring a blanket,” he told her. “But first, more coffee.”

Natalia turned and sashayed toward the espresso machine. Val watched her go. Then he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window.

Life in America is good, he thought. I am well pleased.

1032 hours

At the cemetery, Chisolm stood straight and tall as the bagpiper played “Amazing Grace.” The mournful sound pierced him in his chest, but he refused to allow emotion to show on his face.

When the trailing end of the tune came, the priest stepped forward again and spoke of commending their brother’s body to the earth. Chisolm looked around at the assembled group. Most had been at Karl Winter’s funeral, too, four long years ago. It seemed like just yesterday when Chisolm had hoped he was attending a cop’s funeral for the last time. Now, here he stood again.

His eyes settled on B.J. Carson. Her expression was transparent, though she tried to put on a brave face. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her chin quivered.

Chisolm tried to imagine what she was feeling, but he couldn’t, other than in the most general sense.

Guilt. She almost assuredly felt guilt. Did he know that feeling? Oh yes, he did.

He wondered if he’d had a talk with Battaglia sooner, would that have made a difference? Would he have broken it off with Carson?

Probably not. Maybe if he’d talked to her, she would have listened. If she’d ended things with Battaglia, he would have never volunteered to take her spot up at the hotel. Then-

Chisolm pushed the thought away. They’d still be standing in the morning sunshine listening to a priest talking over a casket. The priest might be Presbyterian or Baptist and the body would be Carson’s, that was all.

He learned a long time ago that you couldn’t play the what-if game. Things happened the way they happened. Of course, that didn’t change whose fault it was. Or that he had let someone down.

Carson glanced his direction and looked away quickly, her expression momentarily flustered.

Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Two honor guard officers lifted the flag from the casket and folded it briskly, snapping it into place and creasing each fold. The lead officer handed the folded flag to the chief of police and saluted in slow motion. The chief returned the salute, then presented the flag to Rebecca Battaglia. Chisolm couldn’t hear the words, but he knew their military equivalent.

Please accept this flag on behalf of a grateful nation.

Tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks. She took the flag and held it to her breast. The priest made the sign of the cross and uttered in Latin.

The casket was lowered into the ground.

Chisolm closed his eyes briefly and asked whatever gods may be to welcome Anthony Battaglia into the next life, if such a place existed.

He hoped it was a better world than this one.

1034 hours

Connor O’Sullivan sat with Rebecca Battaglia, her hand wrapped tightly in his. In her other hand she clutched the flag that had been draped over the casket. The chief had presented it, telling her, “Please accept this on behalf of the department and with the gratitude of the entire community.”

Those empty words did little for Sully as the priest spoke over the casket. He watched as they lowered his best friend into the ground. Little Anthony Junior sat on his grandmother’s lap next to Rebecca. Maggie, all of four, sat next to him. She leaned against his side, pressing her little head against his ribs.

The crowd slowly dissipated when it was over. He stayed with Rebecca as the stream of people came to offer condolences. She let go of his hand to accept their handshakes. Then, as some who were closer to the family offered hugs, she handed the folded flag to Sully. He clutched the thick cloth like a security blanket.

Maggie wrapped her arms around his waist. “I want to go home, Uncle Connah,” she said in quiet, earnest tones.

“Soon, sweetie,” he whispered down to her. “Soon.”

But it seemed like the consolations took forever. All the while he could feel a huge tension rising in his chest. He resisted the urge to scream out, to shatter glass and splinter wood with the power of his grief. But he kept his jaw clenched, clutched at the tri-corner folded flag, and stroked Maggie’s hair as she clung to him.

When the last of those offering condolences were finished, he escorted Rebecca and the kids to the waiting vehicle. Rebecca’s dad had already started the car.

He loaded Maggie into the back seat while Rebecca eased into the front. Sully looked at Rebecca. Her tear-streaked face and red eyes cut through his chest like a jagged blade. Part of the poem she’d written and then read at the funeral flashed through his mind.

My inseparable has been torn asunder. My forever is left with unspoken thunder.

His desire to scream doubled.

“I’ll see you later,” he found himself saying. “I’ve got to take care of something.”

Rebecca gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “It’ll just take a little while.” He motioned to her parents. “They’ll take good care of you. I’ll see you all in a bit.”

“Okay,” Rebecca said.

Sully handed her the flag through the open window and tapped the roof twice. The car pulled away, heading out of the cemetery and toward the Battaglia home.

Sully waited until the car was out of sight. Then he turned back to face the grave of Anthony Battaglia thirty yards away. Two gravediggers, who’d stayed at a respectful distance during the ceremony, had begun to fill the hole. He could hear each thud in the quiet morning air as shovels full of dirt struck the casket.

He turned his eyes skyward. He opened his mouth to take a deep breath. Before he was even aware of the sound, he let out a guttural, mourning wail. All of the strength went out of his legs and he sank slowly to his knees.

For a long time afterward, all Connor O’Sullivan could do was kneel and weep.

1115 hours

The Battaglia home was packed. Carson found a corner in the dining room and did her best to hide. She watched as Rebecca Battaglia tried to be a hostess for the assembled group. Every time she tried to do something, some well-meaning person took over the task for her. Carson imagined that she wanted to stay busy, but she eventually surrendered to the intentions of her guests and took to directing activity instead.

God, she’s beautiful, Carson thought.

Rebecca’s dark hair and Italian features seemed a perfect fit for Battaglia. And she was incredibly photogenic. Along the mantel of the fireplace and on the walls, she was confronted with family portraits, photo montages and snapshots, all featuring a beaming Rebecca Battaglia and an equally happy Anthony Battaglia. The photos of the two of them with their kids cut Carson right to the bone.