Prologue
Would this ever become easier? House to house, freeway to freeway, state to state?
Not so far. And here I was again, behind the wheel of a hired SUV, driving along
another Main Street,
past the shops and the gas station, this time in a windswept little town on Long
Island, New York,
South Shore, down by the long Atlantic
beaches. Winter was coming. The skies were platinum. The whitecaps rolled in
beneath dark, lowering clouds. So utterly appropriate, because this time was going
to be worse than
the others. A whole lot worse.
I found my landmark, the local post office, pulled in behind the building, and
parked. We all stepped
out of the vehicle, into a chill November day, the remains of the fall leaves
swirling around our feet.
No one wanted to lead the way, none of the five guys who accompanied me, and for a
few moments
we just stood there, like a group of mailmen on their break.
I knew where to go. The house was just a few yards down the street. And in a
sense, I�d been there before � in Southern California, northern California, and
Nevada. In the next
few days, I still had to visit Washington and Virginia Beach.
And so many things would always be precisely the same.
There would be the familiar devastated sadness, the kind of pain that wells up when
young men are
cut down in their prime. The same hollow feeling in each of the homes. The same
uncontrollable
tears. The same feeling of desolation, of brave people trying to be brave, lives
which had uniformly
been shot to pieces.
Inconsolable. Sorrowful.
As before, I was the bearer of the terrible news, as if no one knew the truth until
I arrived, so many
weeks and months after so many funerals. And for me, this small gathering in
Patchogue, Long Island,
was going to be the worst.
I tried to get a hold of myself. But again in my mind I heard that terrible,
terrible scream, the same one
that awakens me, bullying its way into my solitary dreams, night after night, the
confirmation of guilt.
The endless guilt of the survivor.
�Help me, Marcus! Please help me!�
It was a desperate appeal in the mountains of a foreign land. It was a scream cried
out in the echoing
high canyons of one of the loneliest places on earth. It was the nearly
unrecognizable cry of a mortally
wounded creature. And it was a plea I could not answer. I can�t forget it. Because
it was made by one
of the finest people I ever met, a man who happened to be my best friend.
All the visits had been bad. Dan�s sister and wife, propping each other up; Eric�s
father, an admiral,
alone with his grief; James�s fianc�e and father; Axe�s wife and family friends;
Shane�s shattered
mother in Las Vegas. They were all terrible. But this one would be worse.
I finally led the way through the blowing leaves, out into the cold, strange
street, and along to the little
house with its tiny garden, the grass uncut these days. But the lights of an
illuminated American flag
were still right there in the front window.
They were the lights of a patriot, and they still shone defiantly, just as if he
were still here. Mikey
would have liked that.
We all stopped for a few moments, and then we climbed the little flight of steps
and knocked on the
door. She was pretty, the lady who answered the door, long dark hair, her eyes
already brimming
with tears. His mother.
She knew I had been the last person to see him alive. And she stared up at me with
a look of such
profound sadness it damn near broke me in half and said, quietly,
�Thank you for coming.�
I somehow replied, �It�s because of your son that I am standing here.�
As we all walked inside, I looked straight at the hall table and on it was a large
framed photograph of
a man looking straight at me, half grinning. There was
Mikey, all over again, and I could hear his mom saying, �He didn�t suffer, did he?
Please tell me he didn�t suffer.�
I had to wipe the sleeve of my jacket across my eyes before I answered that. But I
did answer. �No,
Maureen. He didn�t. He died instantly.�
I had told her what she�d asked me to tell her. That kind of tactical response was
turning out to be
essential equipment for the lone survivor.
I tried to tell her of her son�s unbending courage, his will, his iron control. And
as I�d come to expect,
she seemed as if she had not yet accepted anything. Not until I related it. I was
the essential bearer of
the final bad news.
In the course of the next hour we tried to talk like adults. But it was too
difficult.
There was so much that could have been said, and so much that would never be
said. And no amount of backup from my three buddies, plus the New York City
fireman and policeman who accompanied us, made much difference.
