Bloomington, Illinois.
Loraine Blake stood before the fireplace, staring at the mantel. There was no fire in the grate on such a warm night, only a mess of grey ash. Shutting her eyes for a moment, Loraine drew a deep breath. It was like an altar, she thought, her fingers brushing the varnished fluting about the corners of the mantelpiece. No, not an altar. A shrine. A shrine to some distant god, his cold idol alone remaining, unremembered, unremarked. Almost without feeling them, her numb fingers grasped the photographs and lifted them down. This was her nightly ritual once the children were in bed, nightlights burning on the stairs to keep the ghosts away.
There were two photographs, both of the same man. Twin photos in twin dark wooden frames. Loraine knelt back on her heels, staring at them, almost without seeing. The first was an army photograph. A handsome, middle aged man in dress uniform, hair severely parted, stiffly creased beige shirt, dark commander's hat, Colonel's insignia pinned to the lapels of the jacket. For a long, long moment, Loraine stared at the photo, but there was no emotion, only blankness. This was not Henry. Just another soldier. Just another official-looking letter delivered in the post. Molly running into the kitchen with that unsteady five year old gait, waving the post in one chubby fist, full of pride because she'd got to it before Janey. The dog, a bouncing tumble of gold at her heels, barking so that his pink tongue curled. A bill, a letter from Henry's sister, a party invitation from Andrew's friend Michael. And a crisp white envelope containing a single typewritten page. A cheap print-off of an army photograph and the words 'died in service to the American Dream.' Capital letters, just like that.
It was only in the other picture that Henry looked real. She had taken it in their garden in a summer almost seven years ago. He wore ragged blue shorts and a floppy, colourless hat decorated with little jewel-bright fishing flies. His arms were big and hairy and sunbrowned, his feet bare, eyes cheekiest, palest blue. This was the real Henry. Not a commander, not a surgeon. God knows, not a soldier. Just an idiot of a man with a big grin and a stupid hat. Holding the photograph tight against her chest, the woman that he had once called Sweet Loraine broke down and wept.