congregants rustled and whispered and by their demeanor generated both a sense of solemnity and an air of excitement. An event of this magnitude assumed a historic significance and would not be repeated.
The widows were in the first pew on the left, joined together in the place of dubious honor. Ida was nearest the main aisle, Stella in the middle, and then Olive. They were three women in black but the similarity ended with their attire.
Ida appeared rested and almost serene, as if she found peace and solace in the familiar setting and the unfolding ritual. Her softness accentuated Stellaâs bony sharpness, hard fixed gaze, and rigid upright posture. The third widow, Olive, was noticeably younger than the other two. Flashing pink nails and lipstick, she seemed nervous and uncomfortable in her role.
Walter and Roger, the nearest living relatives, sat behind the women. Pale and wearing dark glasses and black suits, they appeared to be two versions of the same person, separated by both a handful of decades and demeanor. Roger fidgeted, restless and uncomfortable in the face of so much death, while Walter lolled against the hard bench, cheeks sunken and eyes downcast, looking either drunk or hung over or a combination of both.
Across the aisle from the bereaved were the eighteen pallbearers. Six men for each coffin, four coast guardsmen and the neighbor Clyde Smitz among them. Esther sat several rows back, her red hair a glowing torch in the sea of black. Cubiak scanned the rest of the crowd. Among those he knew were Pardy and Bathard; Justin St. James from the Herald ; Henry Fielding, owner of the sawmill; Gary Dotson, the coast guard director; Mabel, the Gills Rock waitress; and various business owners and county and town officials. Most of the others, he didnât recognize: pews filled with fishermen, farmers, and neighbors. Half hidden behind a rear pillar was an elderly man in a wheelchair, head down and hands clasped on a fringed lap blanket. Nothing untoward.
The priest had a rich, warm voice, and his lavish remarks during the homily matched the dead menâs prominent stature in the county: pillars of the community, decorated veterans, loving husbands, generous supporters of the church and local sports teams, role models for the younger generation. Stella, who earlier seemed the most stoic of the three widows, sobbed. But Ida and Olive did not cry.
âThese good decent men have gone to their heavenly reward,â the priest said.
In the moment of silence that followed the pronouncement, Roger began coughing. A baby wailed. As the mother carried the infant out, the priests motioned the mourners to stand. Amid the noise of kneelers being kicked upright and shuffling feet, the celebrants began to recite the creed. âI believe in one God, the father Almighty,â they intoned as a chorus of voices joined in.
The funeral Mass unfurled with practiced pomp until it culminated in a sense of finality that was as palpable as the cloud of incense that hung over the room. This was good-bye. The congregants were somber as they watched the three coffins being rolled back down the aisle. There was no escaping bitter reality: the men were gone and all those present would one day meet the same fate.
At the church door the palls of Christian baptism were replaced with Americaâs Stars and Stripes. The Knights took up positions on either side of the stairs and raised their swords. Beneath the arch of sacred steel, the three veterans were carried down the stairs.
After several minutesâ confusion and milling about, a military honor guard led the mourners to the small, hillside cemetery behind the church. In the sacred ground, three freshly dug graves waited, like wounds in the earth. The pits were blessed and the Lordâs Prayer recited in a murmuring wave of voices. But as the priest talked of ashes to ashes, Cubiak retreated into himself. This was an image he could not bear.
The sharp retort of rifle
The widows were in the first pew on the left, joined together in the place of dubious honor. Ida was nearest the main aisle, Stella in the middle, and then Olive. They were three women in black but the similarity ended with their attire.
Ida appeared rested and almost serene, as if she found peace and solace in the familiar setting and the unfolding ritual. Her softness accentuated Stellaâs bony sharpness, hard fixed gaze, and rigid upright posture. The third widow, Olive, was noticeably younger than the other two. Flashing pink nails and lipstick, she seemed nervous and uncomfortable in her role.
Walter and Roger, the nearest living relatives, sat behind the women. Pale and wearing dark glasses and black suits, they appeared to be two versions of the same person, separated by both a handful of decades and demeanor. Roger fidgeted, restless and uncomfortable in the face of so much death, while Walter lolled against the hard bench, cheeks sunken and eyes downcast, looking either drunk or hung over or a combination of both.
Across the aisle from the bereaved were the eighteen pallbearers. Six men for each coffin, four coast guardsmen and the neighbor Clyde Smitz among them. Esther sat several rows back, her red hair a glowing torch in the sea of black. Cubiak scanned the rest of the crowd. Among those he knew were Pardy and Bathard; Justin St. James from the Herald ; Henry Fielding, owner of the sawmill; Gary Dotson, the coast guard director; Mabel, the Gills Rock waitress; and various business owners and county and town officials. Most of the others, he didnât recognize: pews filled with fishermen, farmers, and neighbors. Half hidden behind a rear pillar was an elderly man in a wheelchair, head down and hands clasped on a fringed lap blanket. Nothing untoward.
The priest had a rich, warm voice, and his lavish remarks during the homily matched the dead menâs prominent stature in the county: pillars of the community, decorated veterans, loving husbands, generous supporters of the church and local sports teams, role models for the younger generation. Stella, who earlier seemed the most stoic of the three widows, sobbed. But Ida and Olive did not cry.
âThese good decent men have gone to their heavenly reward,â the priest said.
In the moment of silence that followed the pronouncement, Roger began coughing. A baby wailed. As the mother carried the infant out, the priests motioned the mourners to stand. Amid the noise of kneelers being kicked upright and shuffling feet, the celebrants began to recite the creed. âI believe in one God, the father Almighty,â they intoned as a chorus of voices joined in.
The funeral Mass unfurled with practiced pomp until it culminated in a sense of finality that was as palpable as the cloud of incense that hung over the room. This was good-bye. The congregants were somber as they watched the three coffins being rolled back down the aisle. There was no escaping bitter reality: the men were gone and all those present would one day meet the same fate.
At the church door the palls of Christian baptism were replaced with Americaâs Stars and Stripes. The Knights took up positions on either side of the stairs and raised their swords. Beneath the arch of sacred steel, the three veterans were carried down the stairs.
After several minutesâ confusion and milling about, a military honor guard led the mourners to the small, hillside cemetery behind the church. In the sacred ground, three freshly dug graves waited, like wounds in the earth. The pits were blessed and the Lordâs Prayer recited in a murmuring wave of voices. But as the priest talked of ashes to ashes, Cubiak retreated into himself. This was an image he could not bear.
The sharp retort of rifle
Similar Books
