Specialist Fourth class Bradford’s mother sat at her vanity and put on lipstick as she looked in the mirror. She wore a black bra, black underwear, and a black slip. She looked at her eyes, noticed they were dead, and her crow’s feet showed. She put on eye shadow and, with mascara, darkened her eyelashes. She applied rouge to her cheeks and finished with powder from her makeup pad.
Clean shaven, smelling of aftershave, and wearing a charcoal gray suit, starched, white shirt, black tie, and a fedora, Bradford’s father came into his parents’ bedroom. His mother stood up, pulled a black dress over her head, and turned her back to his father so he could zip up the dress. Then his father helped her into her full-length beaver coat. She grabbed the black, beaded purse off the bed, and said, “Let’s go bury our son.”
A major in the Army, in a dress blue uniform, with ribbons on his chest and medals hanging from it, waited in their living room for them to come downstairs. He held in his hand his hat and a folder with papers in it. Bradford’s parents appeared, locked the door of the house behind them, and followed the major to the car with tinted windows that waited in the street below. No one said a word as they walked down the steps that Bradford’s father built out of granite and concrete when the family first moved into the neighborhood, when Bradford was seven years old.
The house, with picture windows on both floors, was on a hill where, as a boy, Bradford once slid on a toboggan in winter, hit their family’s car and broke open his lower lip that needed stitches from the doctor who lived next door. A soldier in dress blues held the door of the dark car for Bradford’s father. The major held the door for Bradford’s mother, and the soldier in dress blues then drove them to the airport to meet their son as he came out of the cargo hold of the DC-10 from New Jersey to Minneapolis, where he was born and where he would be buried today.
The car sped along West Seventh Street, onto the freeway, then turned toward the airport. A service road took them through a security gate and onto the runway. The soldier who drove the car was silent all the way. The major presented the papers at the gate; the guard admitted them, and the car sped along the runway, approaching an airplane tethered to the terminal. Several men in uniform stood near the door of the cargo hold of the plane and waited for Bradford to be brought out.
Inside the concourse, above the man in the grey suit, woman in the fur coat, and soldiers on the runway, stood a middle-aged couple. They watched through the window as a casket covered by an American flag was removed from the plane. The soldiers held the casket and in unison walked it to a hearse that waited on the runway. The man in the grey suit held the woman in the fur coat who leaned against him and cried convulsively. It was a gray day and the clouds promised rain.
The man in the concourse behind the window told the woman, “That could have been me.” She put her arm around him and held him as he began to cry for the fallen soldier, his parents, and the men who had died without him. He was a Vietnam War veteran and remembered his comrades whose names appeared on The Wall. They watched the event on the runway, then boarded their plane for Washington D.C.
The major in uniform escorted Bradford’s father and mother to the car with tinted windows, which followed the hearse off the runway. They rode in the back seat of the dark car and held each other as the two vehicles left the airport through a security gate and drove to the national cemetery nearby. Their son was under an American flag in the back of the vehicle that drove ahead of them.
This funeral convoy approached the cemetery of countless white gravestones beneath trees and in rows in the grass, extending miles into the distance. A large crowd of family and friends gathered at the gravesite, and cars lined the road deep into the cemetery where Bradford was to be laid to rest. His mother approved of the trees in the area, knowing her son loved the outdoors. They both loved to golf because the game was played outside and golf courses were beautiful places to be. The rain held off and no one opened an umbrella.
A color guard waited for them and the minister was already at the pit where Bradford’s body was going. The color guard removed the casket from the hearse and placed it on the rack that held it above the grave. The edges of the American flag fluttered in the slight breeze. The color guard stood behind the crowd at parade rest with their rifles ready.
The minister wore his vestments and held a Bible. Bradford’s parents did not know the minister but hired him for propriety’s sake. The minister said a few words, something about the bravery of our men and women in uniform, their service to their country, and the ultimate sacrifice Bradford had made. The last rites were good and, given the minister did not know Bradford or his family, they served the purpose, satisfying everyone who was there.
The color guard fired a three-volley salute that reverberated in the still, heavy air. The commands of the sergeant major broke the silence between the discharges of the guns. Two soldiers folded the American flag into a triangle and gave it to Bradford’s mother, who gripped the flag to her breast and cried uncontrollably.
The crowd dispersed, after talking in groups, some not seeing each other in years. Bradford’s friends hugged each other and said goodbye, some returning to distant towns. A lot of people were present, since Bradford and his parents had many friends and a large extended family. Despite the size of the crowd, the gathering was quiet, even after the ceremony, and people began drifting to their cars.
The minister asked Bradford’s father if the family wanted him to come to the reception. His father said no; the family wanted privacy. Bradford’s immediate family from all parts of the country gathered for dinner at the house of his grandmother, where all such gatherings occurred. His grandmother cooked roast beef, and his parents, uncles, aunts, brother, and sister sat at the dining room table. His cousins sat on a couch or at card tables set up for the overflow.
The gathering was somber. Bradford’s father spoke softly to people in attendance, and his mother was catatonic, stupefied that her son was not there, enjoying the company of his relatives and the food that was out of this world. Instead, her son, with blond hair, blue eyes, and long eyelashes, was covered by gravediggers’ dirt. His mother sat stoop-shouldered at the table, not saying a word, and everyone passed the dishes gently and quietly, afraid to break the mood of unspeakable grief. His uncles could not believe Bradford was gone. His sister, who felt it most, put up a good front, and his brother got ready to take over as head of the family.
“I don’t want to be a Gold Star Mother!” Bradford’s mother suddenly said. “My son! My son! Where are you?”
His mother began to lean on his father, then slid from her chair. His father grabbed her as her head hit the table, and she collapsed into his arms. “She’s having a breakdown!” someone said. “Call an ambulance!”
Bradford’s grandmother got his mother to sit up and drink some water and then walked her to the kitchen, where his father held her in his arms and said, “Anne! Anne!”
“You’ll hold me up, won’t you, Paul?” she said, and smiled up at Bradford’s father, out of desperation, grief, and love. His father saw the light come back in her eyes and knew she had returned from the abyss. The party continued and broke up at dawn.