Frank Zafiro: Heroes Often Fail

“Yep.”

“Maybe I should give Pam Lincoln a call. Give her an interview.”

“Why?”

Reott glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

“She’ll write the truth, you figure?”

Reott nodded. “Yeah, I think she would.”

Crawford shook his head and sighed. “If that is the case, what is she going to write that’s any different than what’s already out there?”

Reott lowered his eyes, seeming to stare into his coffee cup, not answering.

“Truth is,” Crawford said, “we failed.”

Sunday, March 19, 2005

1104 hours

END OF TOUR

He stood as far away as he could and still see the ceremony. He was surprised at how few people were there. When he’d gone to Karl Winter’s funeral, there’d been so many people that most couldn’t hear the words the police chaplain spoke because they were too far away in the crowd. But fewer than a dozen stood at Amy Dugger’s graveside.

Maybe that’s the way the parents wanted it, Kopriva thought.

He couldn’t hear the pastor’s words from his position up on the hill, seated beneath a tree. But he watched as the old man spoke and occasionally waved a hand. He watched as the people at the graveside bowed their heads and as they raised them again.

Eventually, the pastor was finished. As the casket was lowered into the ground, he offered his comfort to a woman that Kopriva guessed was Amy’s mother. She had the same dark hair as Amy, but he couldn’t make out any other features from the distance he was at.

Once the pastor left, the remaining dozen broke up slowly. They stopped by in singles or couples to share condolences with Amy’s parents and then wandered away to their cars. Kopriva couldn’t see if her mother was crying or not, but her father held the woman close to him, almost as if he were supporting her weight.

Kopriva took a drink from the bottle of Corona in his hand. The taste of beer washed over his tongue and he swallowed past the bile in his throat.

When the last of the mourners had driven away, the man walked his wife to the remaining car. He opened the door for her and she got into the passenger seat woodenly. Then he got into the driver’s side and drove slowly away.

Kopriva waited patiently as the cemetery workers moved the faux grass to expose the earth from the grave piled on a small tarp. They worked quickly to backfill the grave and lay sod over the top of the dirt. Even with two of them, the job took almost an hour. Kopriva watched, drinking slowly from his bottle. When the bottle was empty, he set it gently against the tree and opened the second one he’d brought along. He sipped patiently and with dread.

Finally, the two workers ambled away from the gravesite and it seemed then that the entire cemetery was empty.

Kopriva rose unsteadily to his feet. The pain in his knee and shoulder was only a dull throb, kept at bay with pills and uncounted beers throughout the night.

He should go down the grave, he realized. He should stand next to the light rose-colored stone and trace the engraved letters. He should whisper her name.

His feet refused to move.

I don’t have the right to grieve for her.

He stared down at the freshly turned earth and at the small headstone. “I…” he started to say, but the words died in the back of his throat and he fell silent.

He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how he’d failed her, but no more words would come. He bowed his head, ashamed.

At least I wanted to say it, he thought. That’s a start, isn’t it?

He took a faltering step toward the grave, then stopped. From across the cemetery, the silent stone seemed to answer him back.

That’s not good enough, it said. Not even close.

Kopriva let the Corona slip from his fingers. The bottle fell to the grass with a thud. Warm beer foamed and spilled from the lip.

Below him, the little grave lay like a scar on the earth. Kopriva stared at it until the image was burned forever in his mind. Then he turned and shuffled away.