Disclaimer: All West Wing characters mentioned belong to Aaron Sorkin and his cohorts at NBC. Please don't sue me.
See end for author's notes.
Another Man's Cathedral
By BJ Garrett
I looked over at the girls. Cindy clutched at her hankie and tried to stifle the sound of her tears. Lindsay clenched her jaw and glared resolutely at the priest. I followed her gaze up to the white-robed man, then dropped it to the flag-draped casket before us, wishing desperately for a drink to materialize in my hand.
"And as we send Private Phillip Matthew Armstrong on his eternal journey in the grace of God, I am reminded of the words of the war poet Wilfred Owen: 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'" There was a pause as the congregated mourners took in the quote. Sanctimonious horse hockey. "This funeral mass is ended, go in the love of Christ which will soothe your grief." Father Morris lifted his hands above his head, palms out, in an expansive gesture, and the funeral director gave me the signal I never needed.
Five of Phil's best friends joined me at the casket. We hefted him up on our shoulders and proceeded down the aisle, trying to go in as straight a line behind the altar servers and the Father as we could. As we passed her, Cindy reached out a shaking hand, trying to touch the wood one last time. Lindsay tugged her to her feet and I guess they took their places behind us. Her sobs reverberated in the silent church.
Phil was nearly a foot shorter than me, and weighed three-quarters of what I did. Why the hell did that thing weigh so damn much?
*
"It was a lovely service," I said to Lindsay as we took our seats at the cemetery. The curved line of her lips hardened as she nodded. "Phil was…he was a great guy." Her green eyes...God, her eyes were green...closed for a second, and then she opened them, nodding again.
"I know."
I held Cindy as she gasped for breath during the three volleys. Her hands clawed into my dress uniform like talons.
Lindsay looked up with hard eyes as the chaplain presented the folded flag to her. She hated that piece of fabric, I knew it. Hated that it had taken her brother's life where neither it nor he had any business being. Hated that I now wore it above my heart too.
Taps droned on in the distance.
As people were drifting away from the freshly-churned soil, Cindy started bawling uncontrollably again. Someone, probably Marty Haugher, their next door neighbour, suggested I take her home. So I led her to my car and helped her inside.
Pulling into the driveway of their stately Tudor home, I turned off the engine and patted Cindy's hand where it lay on the seat like a wilted lily.
"I'm so lonely, Leo," she whispered. "I'm so terribly lonely. First Daddy, then Phil was drafted, then Mama died, and now...now he's gone for good." I looked over at her. She held her hankie to her face, blue eyes sparkling with tears. Her gorgeous blonde hair was neatly capped by a black pillbox hat.
Sniffing and turning her eyes to me, she continued in a low, plaintive voice. "It's just so lonely. Lindsay's like a statue. She never even talks to me except to tell me to go to bed or get dressed or stop crying...how can I stop crying?" She shuddered and put her head on my shoulder. "I'm just so awfully lonely. The house is...it's so empty."
I grasped her hand tightly. She took my free hand off of the steering wheel and put it around her back. As fresh tears rose in both our eyes, she put her hand on my face and looked up at me. "I'm just so lonely, Leo..."
*
I approached the stone from behind, watching Lindsay stand in front of it. She held the flag in front of her, slightly away from her body, as if repulsed by it. At the sound of my footsteps, she looked up and our eyes met.
"I drove Cindy home," I said to her. Her steady gaze unnerved me; I felt as though she knew what Cindy and I had done in my parked car outside the house her father left to her mother, which her mother left to Phil. The house Phil left to her on a blood- and sweat-stained piece of foolscap in some godforsaken field hospital.
"Thank you," she replied, voice steady, empty of tears or their lasting effects. I wondered if she'd even cried. My eyes broke away and I tugged on the hem of my uniform jacket.
She stepped back from the stone and looked down at it. I could see the family traits in her right now. The quiet strength Phil always seemed to exude plus the good heart of Cindy...minus the boundless energy those two shared. His face comes up in my mind now, just as it did then: boyish, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, dimples in his lean face as he pulls on the brim of his baseball cap before winding up to pitch me a zinger of a fast ball.
"He didn't believe in God, Leo," she said all of a sudden. Startled, my eyes snapped wide back to her from my shiny shoes. She shook her head. "He didn't believe in God, or Jesus. He shouldn't have been in that church. We shouldn't have had a cross put on the stone." Her eyes dropped to the engraving in question. "He believed in people."
I couldn't speak. All my memories of Phil, of her, of Cindy, were crowding into my throat. A long moment passed, and I felt compelled to defend the service to her and to whatever Phil might have been thinking about it.
"It was a military service. That's how we do it, Linz."
Her pitiless gaze skewered me. My throat closed again. Slowly, her fingers worked the fabric of the flag. Looking down at it with an awful expression of rock-hard hate, she put it on the stone. A seam bumped out the side of the careful triangle, which she tucked back in with odd reverence.
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," she said to me, the bitterness in her voice almost tangible. She folded her hands at her waist. The veil over her forehead had slipped and now covered her eyes as well.
I shook my head, thinking of an argument I'd recently had with Jed over just this subject. It was before I'd heard about Phil. "No, it's not."
Her lips twisted. "You're a smarter man than he was, Leo."
We stood like that for a few moments more, me behind the stone, and her before it, both of us staring at the abandoned flag.
Then she turned away without a word and walked back toward the entrance to the cemetery. It didn't even occur to me to offer her a ride.
And as I sit here watching the back of his head, listening to some other white-robed man drone on, she's still walking away. Cindy is still staring up at me with that empty, longing look. Phil is still poised with the glove over his shoulder.
I'm still reaching for that flag, not knowing if I can take it.
The End
************
Author's Note(s):
In its fetal form, this story starred Bartlet, not Leo, but upon researching some dates and stuff I realized Bartlet wasn't available at the time I wanted to set the story. I figure Leo's more effective anyway. What do you think?
Okay, the Latin quote is from "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, who was a British soldier during the First World War. He survived from 1915 to 1918, and was killed in action seven days before the armistice. The Latin translates as: "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." The priest's use of it is extremely ironic and improper, as Owen was quoting Horace with obvious sarcasm, taken the content of the rest of the poem. However, I have heard of the quote being used (and attributed to Owen) at military funerals for soldiers who were killed in action. Gee, this explanation is almost as long as the story:)
See end for author's notes.
Another Man's Cathedral
By BJ Garrett
I looked over at the girls. Cindy clutched at her hankie and tried to stifle the sound of her tears. Lindsay clenched her jaw and glared resolutely at the priest. I followed her gaze up to the white-robed man, then dropped it to the flag-draped casket before us, wishing desperately for a drink to materialize in my hand.
"And as we send Private Phillip Matthew Armstrong on his eternal journey in the grace of God, I am reminded of the words of the war poet Wilfred Owen: 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'" There was a pause as the congregated mourners took in the quote. Sanctimonious horse hockey. "This funeral mass is ended, go in the love of Christ which will soothe your grief." Father Morris lifted his hands above his head, palms out, in an expansive gesture, and the funeral director gave me the signal I never needed.
Five of Phil's best friends joined me at the casket. We hefted him up on our shoulders and proceeded down the aisle, trying to go in as straight a line behind the altar servers and the Father as we could. As we passed her, Cindy reached out a shaking hand, trying to touch the wood one last time. Lindsay tugged her to her feet and I guess they took their places behind us. Her sobs reverberated in the silent church.
Phil was nearly a foot shorter than me, and weighed three-quarters of what I did. Why the hell did that thing weigh so damn much?
*
"It was a lovely service," I said to Lindsay as we took our seats at the cemetery. The curved line of her lips hardened as she nodded. "Phil was…he was a great guy." Her green eyes...God, her eyes were green...closed for a second, and then she opened them, nodding again.
"I know."
I held Cindy as she gasped for breath during the three volleys. Her hands clawed into my dress uniform like talons.
Lindsay looked up with hard eyes as the chaplain presented the folded flag to her. She hated that piece of fabric, I knew it. Hated that it had taken her brother's life where neither it nor he had any business being. Hated that I now wore it above my heart too.
Taps droned on in the distance.
As people were drifting away from the freshly-churned soil, Cindy started bawling uncontrollably again. Someone, probably Marty Haugher, their next door neighbour, suggested I take her home. So I led her to my car and helped her inside.
Pulling into the driveway of their stately Tudor home, I turned off the engine and patted Cindy's hand where it lay on the seat like a wilted lily.
"I'm so lonely, Leo," she whispered. "I'm so terribly lonely. First Daddy, then Phil was drafted, then Mama died, and now...now he's gone for good." I looked over at her. She held her hankie to her face, blue eyes sparkling with tears. Her gorgeous blonde hair was neatly capped by a black pillbox hat.
Sniffing and turning her eyes to me, she continued in a low, plaintive voice. "It's just so lonely. Lindsay's like a statue. She never even talks to me except to tell me to go to bed or get dressed or stop crying...how can I stop crying?" She shuddered and put her head on my shoulder. "I'm just so awfully lonely. The house is...it's so empty."
I grasped her hand tightly. She took my free hand off of the steering wheel and put it around her back. As fresh tears rose in both our eyes, she put her hand on my face and looked up at me. "I'm just so lonely, Leo..."
*
I approached the stone from behind, watching Lindsay stand in front of it. She held the flag in front of her, slightly away from her body, as if repulsed by it. At the sound of my footsteps, she looked up and our eyes met.
"I drove Cindy home," I said to her. Her steady gaze unnerved me; I felt as though she knew what Cindy and I had done in my parked car outside the house her father left to her mother, which her mother left to Phil. The house Phil left to her on a blood- and sweat-stained piece of foolscap in some godforsaken field hospital.
"Thank you," she replied, voice steady, empty of tears or their lasting effects. I wondered if she'd even cried. My eyes broke away and I tugged on the hem of my uniform jacket.
She stepped back from the stone and looked down at it. I could see the family traits in her right now. The quiet strength Phil always seemed to exude plus the good heart of Cindy...minus the boundless energy those two shared. His face comes up in my mind now, just as it did then: boyish, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, dimples in his lean face as he pulls on the brim of his baseball cap before winding up to pitch me a zinger of a fast ball.
"He didn't believe in God, Leo," she said all of a sudden. Startled, my eyes snapped wide back to her from my shiny shoes. She shook her head. "He didn't believe in God, or Jesus. He shouldn't have been in that church. We shouldn't have had a cross put on the stone." Her eyes dropped to the engraving in question. "He believed in people."
I couldn't speak. All my memories of Phil, of her, of Cindy, were crowding into my throat. A long moment passed, and I felt compelled to defend the service to her and to whatever Phil might have been thinking about it.
"It was a military service. That's how we do it, Linz."
Her pitiless gaze skewered me. My throat closed again. Slowly, her fingers worked the fabric of the flag. Looking down at it with an awful expression of rock-hard hate, she put it on the stone. A seam bumped out the side of the careful triangle, which she tucked back in with odd reverence.
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," she said to me, the bitterness in her voice almost tangible. She folded her hands at her waist. The veil over her forehead had slipped and now covered her eyes as well.
I shook my head, thinking of an argument I'd recently had with Jed over just this subject. It was before I'd heard about Phil. "No, it's not."
Her lips twisted. "You're a smarter man than he was, Leo."
We stood like that for a few moments more, me behind the stone, and her before it, both of us staring at the abandoned flag.
Then she turned away without a word and walked back toward the entrance to the cemetery. It didn't even occur to me to offer her a ride.
And as I sit here watching the back of his head, listening to some other white-robed man drone on, she's still walking away. Cindy is still staring up at me with that empty, longing look. Phil is still poised with the glove over his shoulder.
I'm still reaching for that flag, not knowing if I can take it.
The End
************
Author's Note(s):
In its fetal form, this story starred Bartlet, not Leo, but upon researching some dates and stuff I realized Bartlet wasn't available at the time I wanted to set the story. I figure Leo's more effective anyway. What do you think?
Okay, the Latin quote is from "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, who was a British soldier during the First World War. He survived from 1915 to 1918, and was killed in action seven days before the armistice. The Latin translates as: "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." The priest's use of it is extremely ironic and improper, as Owen was quoting Horace with obvious sarcasm, taken the content of the rest of the poem. However, I have heard of the quote being used (and attributed to Owen) at military funerals for soldiers who were killed in action. Gee, this explanation is almost as long as the story:)