Brett Battles - Every Precious Thing

“No!” it yelled. “No!”

He looked toward the border crossing.

The word then spilled from his lips. “No!”

Leaving the trunk of his car wide open, he started to run.

LOGAN HARPER WAS having lunch with his dad in the break room of Dunn Right Auto Repair and Service when Joy stuck her head in and said, “Harp, you’ve got a call. Line three.”

“Tell them I’ll call back when I’m done,” Logan’s dad said.

“They said it’s important.”

Harp frowned as he set his sandwich down and stood up. “Who is it?”

“Someone named…um…Mueller, I think.”

“Mueller?” Harp looked at Logan. “Your uncle Len.”

With a smile, Harp walked over to the phone mounted on the wall, and punched the button for line three.

“Len? What’s going on?”

The smile on Harp’s face froze, then faltered. “Oh, no,” he said as he closed his eyes for a moment.

Logan rose quickly from his chair and went over to him. “You all right, Dad?”

Harp shook his head and waved him off. He said into the phone, “When?…I’m so sorry…I understand. Don’t worry about it…Of course. What time?…We’ll be there.”

When he hung up, he just stood there, staring at nothing.

“Dad?” Logan said.

A second passed, then another, and another. Finally, Harp looked over. “What?”

“What’s going on?”

His father hesitated. “It’s…Len. He passed away this morning.”

Len Mueller wasn’t a blood relative, but that didn’t matter. He was as much an uncle to Logan and a brother to Harp as any man could have ever been. The Mueller family and the Harper family had lived on neighboring farms back in Kansas where Harp had grown up. Len had been best friends with Harp’s older brother Tommy. They had both served in World War II, and while Len had come back-minus two fingers on his left hand-Tommy hadn’t returned at all. Len had done what he could to fill in for Tommy-helping Harp, advising him, teasing him, and eventually serving as best man at Harp’s wedding.

Now he was gone, and with him Harp’s connection not just to one man but two.

Two and a half days later, Logan and Harp drove up the coast to Marin County, north of San Francisco. They stayed in a motel in Sausalito that overlooked the bay, then headed to Mill Valley the next morning for Len’s memorial service.

Church first, then a line of cars made their way out to the cemetery where at least three dozen people gathered around the gravesite. Sons, and daughters, and grandsons, and granddaughters, and a few old friends like Harp and Logan. Len had been a kind man, easy with his laugh and his smile. They had all hoped Len would live forever.

Because of his military service, an American flag was draped over the casket, and a four-person honor guard stood at the ready.

“You holding up okay?” Logan whispered to his father.

Harp’s response was no more than a quick nod. Logan could feel every breath his dad took-the shallow, shuttering intakes, the deep gasps, and the pauses in between.

As soon as the reverend finished speaking, the honor guard surrounded the casket, raised the flag, and with practiced precision, folded it into a neat, tight triangle. The servicewoman who ended up with the flag walked over to where Len’s five children sat and reverently handed it to Michael, who, at sixty-two, was Len’s oldest.

The reverend said a final prayer as the casket was lowered into the grave. One by one, the mourners walked by the opening in the ground, dropping in a handful of dirt as they passed.

As Harp’s turn came, Logan rose with him, putting a hand on his dad’s back to steady him.

“I’m okay,” Harp said, then walked to the grave unaided.

When he dropped in his dirt, he paused a second and said something Logan couldn’t hear before he continued on. Logan tossed in his handful of soil and followed his father, catching up to him just before he reached Logan’s electric blue El Camino.

“I don’t know if I can go over there,” Harp said once they were inside the car.

Logan knew his father was referring to the reception that was about to start at Len’s house. “We can go back to the motel if you’d rather,” he suggested.

Harp sat silently for a moment, then said, “It would be rude not to stop by at least.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dad. They’ll understand.”

Harp looked at him, his face a mix of uncountable emotions. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

His father thought about it, then nodded.

When they pulled into the motel parking lot, Harp said, “Maybe we should have gone.”

“We still can, if you want.”

“I just don’t know.”

Logan hated seeing his dad like this. Harp was always the positive one, the one who kept things going and encouraged others to keep their heads up. And to Logan especially, he was also invincible, a stone that shouldn’t crack. That’s how most children saw their parents. Even when Logan’s mother had died, Harp had kept up a strong facade though Logan knew his dad had been deeply affected by her passing. Of course Harp had been younger then, more in control. Now he’d reached an age where he was outliving his friends, including the brother who was not his brother.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” Logan suggested. “We can grab a coffee, look at the houseboats. They’ll be at Uncle Len’s for hours. If you want, we can go over after we get back.”

Harp almost smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Most of Sausalito’s famous houseboats were located along piers at the north end of town. It was a long walk, but it turned out to be just what Harp needed. After a while he started talking, telling Logan stories about Len, about Kansas, and even a couple about his brother Tommy-a subject he’d always been less open about. By the time they grabbed a coffee on their way back, Harp seemed if not himself then at least improved.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m up for an early dinner,” Logan said. “Maybe catch a movie on TV after?”

Harp said nothing for a moment. “I’d like to stop by the cemetery on our way home in the morning.”

“Sure, Dad. Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Harp said, looking relieved. “That sounds good.”

As they crossed into the motel parking lot, Logan said, “There’s that Indian restaurant here that’s supposed to be pretty decent, and I thought I saw a sushi place when we drove in.”

Harp lit up. “Sushi sounds good.” He’d developed a fondness for California rolls in recent years. “Let’s-”

His pace slowed to a stop as his gaze locked onto something in the distance. Logan turned to see what it was.

Standing near his El Camino was Callie Johnson, Uncle Len’s youngest child and only daughter, still wearing the same black dress she’d had on earlier. She was somewhere in her mid-fifties now, and when she’d been a young undergrad at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo, she’d make a few extra bucks by occasionally driving up to Cambria and babysitting Logan.

Harp shook off his surprise and walked quickly toward her.

“Callie. I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t stay around. I just…”

“It’s okay, Uncle Neal,” she said, using Harp’s first name. “I couldn’t hang around there, either.”

“Well, uh…we’re about to grab some dinner. Would you like to join us?”

“I don’t want to interfere.”

“You won’t be interfering,” Logan said, coming up behind his father. “I’m sure Dad would like a little more company than just me.”

“Well, now that he mentions it…” Harp said.

She smiled and nodded. “All right. Thank you.”

Logan ordered spicy tuna, while Harp went for his usual. Callie, not as experienced at sushi, decided on the sampler plate.