Guest: Here is the update!

WintrBrz:

lulusgardenfli:I hope my prose is up to par here!

little miss michelle: Sweet!

Tiger Lily: yes, I adored Johnny/oc when I was young too. I'm so glad you like this story! And I'm glad you think I caught his personailty right!

Frau Bielschmidt: My goodness, art? that the highest compliment I could recive. Thank you!

Guest: Thank you so much for the compliment!

sarah0406: Ha! Well you have Pescare pegged! Where that goes we'll have to see.

Chapter XXVII

S*S

There was a sea of weeping black in front of the white spiral of Windrixville's St. Mary's of the Redemption Church. To Wendy it looked as if the entire town had turned out to say farewell to her cousins as she slid out of the car, holding her brothers by the shoulders as they shuffled in their miniature suits. Tugging at their ties. The black satin of her dress fell over her stocking knees and fluttered like loose ribbons in the trembling autumn breeze. Connie was beside her in a matching outfit. But while she was not beside her in the truest sense of the word, with a single glance the Allen girls agree to a truce until their cousins were at rest in the November earth.

They went inside, the arch of the wooden rafters like a cradle and a tomb, the flare of incense sweet and lulling, lulling. Into something like contemplation, if not peace exactly. Wendy flinched and fumbled with her little black bag as she sat closest to her aunt and uncle. They were huddled against each other before the flag-draped coffins that slept in wreaths of lilies and carnations, under the watchful gaze of the Virgin, her bleeding heart pierced by swords.

Both of them looked as if they had walked the road to Calvary and back, since the last time she'd seen them.

Peace would be a long time coming for them. Wendy knew that all too well, from what she recalled out of the haze that had been Mama's death. It had been a horrible funeral, and Wendy had spent the majority of it tucked into her father, though whether he was the one comforting her or the other way around was something Wendy had never fully figured out.

Sucking in a breath, she glanced around, once more awed by the E Pluribus Unum variety of those gathered. Rich and poor, old and young, black and white. One or two Indians. A small nation in and of itself was gathered here, under stained glass windows of saints. And a larger one of the Passion washed them in the wine-red light of spilled Blood. And Wendy was glad for-here it seemed that the nation Pete and Joe had given them a microcosm of all they had joined the Marines to serve and defend.

While she looked, one last family was quietly hustled inside, just as everybody was sitting down. Which by default made everyone look at them. They were Negros, the main unit of them seemed to be a typical rural family. A leather-faced father, rough from hours in the sun, with strong shoulders under his suit and grim compassion in his eyes as he nodded to Jerry. A slender mother, who upon closer inspection seemed to be an Indian rather than black like her husband. And their two kids: an older boy who stood close to his parents, swallowing reflectively as he looked at the coffins. And his wern-like kid sister, whose silky chocolate braids nestled gracefully in their black bows.

But the fifth member of their party didn't look like he belonged in this time. In fact, he looked like he could've come out of a Charles Dickins novel. Wendy blinked, head cocking while her brothers stared openly. The man was in a three-piece suit at least seventy years out of date, complete with a mustard plaid waist vest with a poppy flower in the lapel, and a tiny pocket watch on a chain. His hair was cloud under his worn Abe Linclon top hat, and his brown skin faded. His eyes were sort of milky, yet limpid and overbright with the peaceful mourning of one who'd mourned many, and gotten used to the flavor.

Other people were stated at the old man especially, including Jerry, who'd risen slightly out of his pew and craned his neck to look at him. And if Wendy wasn't mistaken, some of the oldest of the town's older folk muffled gasps while their faces bled white. As if they'd seen a ghost enter their church. They shrank as he passed by, despite the fact that he was nodding politely and tipping his hat with aged black fingers, making apologies as he and his family quietly found seats.

Low notes from the organ had cried sadly this whole time, so it made the Allens' kids jump a bit when silence suddenly echoed through the peers echoed the pews, and Father Hank made his way to the pulpit.

And the long process of saying farewell began.

S*S

" 'Your sons and daughters were feasting and drinking wine at the oldest brother's house when suddenly a mighty wind swept in from the desert and struck the four corners of the house. It collapsed on them and they are dead, and I am the only one who has escaped to tell you!' At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship. "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked I will depart. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised." In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing..."

"When we are faced with a broken heart, oftentimes people feel as though God has abandoned them," Father Hank murmured, soft and low. "We get so wrapped in the pain of parting, we lose sight of the hope we are supposed to have in awaitin' the reunion. Pete and Joe loved others as themselves and were loved in return. They have finished the race. And by their actions, courage and compassion, they have kept our faith. By what that Faith proclaims, Death, therefore, can not boast that they wander in his shade."

Father Hank gazed calmly upon his multitude, aged and grown wise with it, like a fine wine. No to say he was untouched by his duty. God no. He was had taught Pete and Joe religion every Sunday and often the boys would mow his lawn or run his errands. He had baptized them in water as infants. Now he baptized them in death as men. He had loved them dearly.

"For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but to all who crave His appearing…"

They all had loved them, in some shape or other. Wendy knew. That was why they were here after all. When a child was born, a certain amount of hope and excitement follow. Expectations. The parents, the doctors, everybody else who has the tiniest influence on the making and shaping of the new human had certain expectations. The child will do this, accomplish that... But it wasn't all great expectations, a wanting to wash away the wrongs of all with new blood. There was love, boundless and laughing, when the new parents, new relatives, new friends look down at their infant. When they decide to love him with all their heart. It's a covenant, old as Adam and Eve. Older. They never expect that their child will die prematurely, and take all that entrusted hope and joy with them.

Of course, that's all fine and dandy for them," Hank continued. "Those of us who must remain have the harder cross. It's fine to mourn. For Death came through sin unnaturally to this world. That's why it hurts so much when our loved ones are separated from it. Form us. It is not how it was supposed to be. No sir, not at all. And yet, we are free from it, ransomed from its keeping, and those we part with wait with the greatest love, for the communion of saints to reunite us all."

S*S

After the readings the funeral Mass commissioned, the gifts of the Blood and Body were brought to the Alter, bowl of hosts, holy water, and wine. They reverently inclined their heads at every Jesu Christe and Domine Deus as pure as a second language to Wendy, after all her years of worshiping. Especially last year, when Mama -and consequently her family- had lived in St. John Fisher's in D.C. Wendy had had the opportunity to attend every service in the hospital chapel, to sing every psalm and Alleujuah, to worship with every prayer in her lips, every hymn, especially during the last months when she and Connie and their brothers…. when they…when they so desperately begged God…

Wendy realized she was holding her handkerchief too tight: That had been the last thing the Allen children had honestly done together.

"Dominus vobiscum." The Lord be with you.

Father Hank headed towards the pulpit and Wendy hastened to stand with the rest and make the sign of the cross thrice: head, lips, heart.

"Et cum spiritu tuo." And with your spirit.

"Gloria tibi," Wendy murmured, fumbling to catch up after some delay. "Domine."

It was in a state of simmering agitation that she sang the Creed and recited the prayer. Her lips moved of their own accord, her fingers fumbled with the pages of her bible: Mama's bible, the first one in English she had received from an American soldier to celebrate after being liberated.

Father Hank's Latin words flowed freely in the air, a hush disturbed by his quiet words as he and his deacon worked the miracle over the altar. Now they were all standing, then they were all kneeling. Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus. Knees on the hard, freezing wood, hands held together, eyes lifted to the altar.

"On the day before he was to suffer," Hank pronounced in Latin, taking the host and holding it above the altar, "He took bread in his holy and venerable hands, and with eyes raised to heaven to you, O God, his almighty Father, giving you thanks he said the blessing, broke the bread and gave it to his disciples, saying: Take this, all of you, and eat of it. For this is my body. Which will be given up for you..."

Accipite et manducate ex hoc omnes. Hoc est enim corpus meum. Quod pro vobis tradetur. As it was in the beginning, is now, ever shall be, world without end...

Taking the cup and raising it above the altar, the priest bowed, spoke of a new and eternal covenant, blood which would be poured for the forgiveness of the sins of many.

The old Negro man looked downright solemn now, and some in the gathering flinched.

S*S

Other people spoke after. Like Pete's girlfriend, a beautiful blond named Susan Delores, who talked with hollow eyes. A widow without ever being a wife.

"Pete first asked me to marry him when we were ten years old," she remembered wryly. "When, like a reasonable nine-year-old, I asked him why, he said so he can have my cookies all the time -the cookies I brought to lunch every day he meant. Later w-when he asked me to marry him the last time, and I asked him why, he said the same thing. And I told him I hadn't eaten those cookies in years. But the sonvabitch said, "Those ain't the cookies I'm talkin' bout Sue."

When the resulted laughter died down, that fade smile Susan managed to work up trembled. Then collapsed, and she kept her face down away from them for a moment.

"I said no 'cause I thought we were too young," she whispered. "I thought there would be other days...but that was the last day. Pete...he always knew himself better than anybody I'd ever met. And he knew others too. So I just pray to Christ he knew just how much I was his."

She stumbled away from the pulpit so fast, she near tripped, and Father Hank had to catch her. He deposited her next to Jerry and Jeanie, who tucked her between them, Jeanie stroking her hair while her shoulders shook.

Others came, but Jerry was last, and when he stood at the pulpit, Wendy couldn't help but compare his stance to Mr. Syme, as her Uncle adjusted his glasses and straightened up like he was speaking at his school's assembly. His throat swallowed reflexly, twice, before he could speak from his cards.

"...I stand here before you in an unnatural state of being," he rumbled out when he could. "A state so terrible, it doesn't even have a name...a woman who loses her husband is called a widow. A man who loses his wife is a widower. Children who lose their parents are called orphans...but there is no word, no title, to describe parents who survive their children. My personal belief is that thought was so abominable, no race of man could bear to name it. And yet, despite this...I can not say to you that my sons live their lives in any way other than how they should."

"Peter, as you heard, was the loud one, the leader. But Joe wasn't a follower, he was the support. The cornerstone. They weren't twins-" here Wendy flinched, and Sam and Eric shuffled closer to each other in protective instinct. "But they lived as if they were. Two bodies sharing a soul. They did everything together, fought, played, laugh, and cry...I don't know who it was that got the idea to join the Marines, but there was never a question of one going and one staying behind. They wanted a better world, and they would do it as close together as they could. Even if they couldn't service side by side -that isn't allowed by our military, though in the end, it didn't seem to matter. When one boy went, the other had to go. I wouldn't, for all the world, have kept one of my boys with me without the other...it would've been forcing a man to live without his heart. It can't be done...no...if they had to go, it had to be together. God knew. And in that, He was kind."

Jerry gripped the old hickory wood till his knuckles bled white around his wedding ring. Taking a swig of water, he allowed a shaky smile to come onto his face as he pulled what looked like a letter out of his pocket. "I hope ya'll forgive me, but I am a teacher to the last: for context here, these following words are from two hundred years prior, when a man by the name of John Adams lost his beloved wife of fifty-four years, Abigail. His friend Tom, wrote him this letter for consolation. I find them to be timeless. I hope it is of help to us here:

Monticello Nov. 13. 18.

Tried myself, in the school of affliction, by the loss of every form of connection which can rive the human heart, I know well, and feel what you have lost, what you have suffered, are suffering, and have yet to endure. the same trials have taught me that, for ills so immeasurable, time and silence are the only medecines. I will not therefore, by useless condolances, open afresh the sluices of your grief nor, altho' mingling sincerely my tears with yours, will I say a word more, where words are vain, but that it is of some comfort to us both that the term is not very distant at which we are to deposit, in the same cerement, our sorrows and suffering bodies, and to ascend in essence to an ecstatic meeting with the friends we have loved & lost and whom we shall still love and never lose again. God bless you and support you under your heavy affliction."

Your Friend, Thomas Jefferson

By the time Jerry was finished, his eyes were shining. And his were far from the only one. With a shaky but firm nod, Jerry Wood rapped the pulpit with a note of finality.

"Like out Forefathers of old," he said quietly. "I live in patience hope that what I have lost will be returned to me. As should we all. Thank you."

As he stepped down to return to his seat, Jerry paused between the coffins, and tenderly adjusted crumpled corners of stars and strips the lay across them. Like the caskets were his children's cradles and he was tucking them in for eternal rest.

S*S

The churchyard was howling with autumn leaves, as the pall-bearers lowered their burdens. Near the middle was a freshly-dug hole, somewhat larger than usual as it was intended to hold two coffins, but in the half-light it looked decidedly eerie. The air was thick with fog now, and a superstitious person might have thought that the spirits of the departed were swarming around, as though they were not quite ready to welcome the new additions to their number. Not so young.

Two Marines in blue folded the flags as sharply as the shrapnel that ended Pete and Joe's lives, and presented the fabric to the Woods.

Then came the three-volley salute, that Wendy had read once dated back to the European dynastic wars. The volleys were shots fired on the field during a battle, signaling a pause in the fighting. It was intended to allow time for both sides to remove the bodies of their fallen soldiers from the battlefield.

The two warring sides would cease hostilities until the firing of three volleys meant that the dead had been properly cared for and the side was ready to resume the battle. The three bullets represent the three volleys fired and the three words: duty, honor, and country.

"My friends, we have come together to entomb the ashes of our brothers in doing this we recall that our bodies bear the imprint of the first creation when they were fashioned from dust; but in faith we remember, too, that by the new creation we also bear the image of Jesus who was raised to glory. in confident hope that one day God will raise us and transform our mortal bodies: "We believe that having died with Christ we shall return to life with him: Christ, as we know, having been raised from the dead will never die again. Death has no power over him anymore..."

"Faithful God, Lord of all Creation, you desire that nothing redeemed by your son will ever be lost. And that the just will be raised up on the last us today with the word of your promise. As we return the ashes of our brothers Peter and Joseph Wood to the earth-"

Jeanie moaned, a low and boundless sound beyond all ages. Jerry wrapped her in himself, pressing her into his side. A bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. Meanwhile, the empty coffins were lower down, down, down-

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, the vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant...and we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury...

Wendy's world spun, a hickock vertigo combining with T.S Eliot in a deadly cocktail; silver tears of loss after loss bled out, with the promise of more to lose drowning her. Motionless, silent, she flailed for the living, for life. But no one noticed. No one saw. Not her siblings, not her father. No one. She nearly went under, when found in the small copper-brown hand that suddenly grasped her own.

Startled, grateful, Wendy blinked as her vision cleared, and the young Indian-Negro girl with the long silky braids came into focus, brown eyes big and concerned and eager to help, like a sparrow on a sugar rush. She was all of twelve or thirteen years old at most, with an earnest face as sweet as a black Madonna.

"Okay?" the kid whispered, almost hummed. Musical. She squeezed Wendy's hand gently, very gently.

Wendy swallowed and used that touch to moor herself back to the living, leaving the dead to rest.

"Yes, thank you," she whispered back. Then she introduced herself, to further confirm her own existence. "I'm Wendy. Wendy Allen."

The young girl beamed, showing every tooth, and rose up on her toes almost merrily. " -'m Olivia. Olivia Cursty."

They couldn't say more, cause the finish of this sad event was coming.

"-Confirm us in our hope that they will be created anew," Father Hank declared, splashing the holy water. "-on the day when you will raise them up in glory to live with you and all the saints forever and ever. Amen."

"Amen," they congregated echoed. They crossed themselves in the way taught since the time of Christ: forehead, chest, right shoulder, left shoulder. Father. Son. Holy. Spirit. The thing that went on living, when all else was ash.

Wendy didn't dare let go of Olivia's hand, but something like an olive branch was budding inside her, something like hope after the flood.

My cousin David died over the Pandemic and we finally were allowed to have to his funeral this summer. He was always very kind to me. He lived in a small town, grew up the 1950-60s. His funeral was an old-school Catholic Mass. Good-Bye coz:

David A. DiSanto Sr. January 1946-March 24,2020