Birthday Coke and Nutter Sandwiches
A/N: I borrowed the idea for this snippet from one of FaithinBones' wonderful Memorial Day stories, "Memories."
Booth pulled his SUV into a parking space, turned off the engine, and released his seat belt with a small sigh. As the father of two children with Temperance Brennan, he had long since given up on driving around without using safety restraints. Safer, perhaps, but a pain when you needed to exit a vehicle quickly. And this was one of those times. The occupant of the back seat would have already been out of the truck had it not been for his booster seat preventing access to the seat belt buckle.
Booth smiled to himself, remembering the discussion he'd had with Brennan when they'd purchased the car seat for Christine. He would have indulged his little girl's love of pink and lavender, but his wife insisted upon neutral charcoal gray, since it would blend in with the SUV's interior and hide any future spills. The one they bought for her Prius was royal and navy blue. Once they learned that Hank Jr. was on the way, he'd been glad there was no need to buy a second 'boy' colored seat.
It was James Rawlins' birthday and Booth thought Pops would appreciate an extra visit to his best friend's grave. Booth unbuckled the seat belts, freeing his excited son and handed him a small insulated lunch bag.
"Are these the 'nutter san'wiches and Coke, Daddy?"
"Yup, Bub, just what Pops and James ordered. Come on, he's over here."
Hank remembered when he rode atop his father's broad shoulders to the gravesites.
"Where's all the little flags?" he asked.
"It's not Memorial Day, son. Today is Pop's friend's birthday."
James' white marble tombstone was just off the neatly-manicured roadway, and easy to spot. Booth squatted down on his haunches to be eye-level with his youngest child, and pointed to the lettering.
"R-A-W-L-I-N-S" Hank spelled. "That's his last name, right?"
"Yes. See this date? OCT 12 1924. That was James' birthday."
"That's today," Hank said.
"Yup, it is, only many years later. James would be 96 years old today."
Hank didn't know what to make of that. He had only recently mastered counting to 100. Memorization had come easily to his sister, but he was more interested in Uncle Hodgins' bugs and T-ball. Brennan's patience was frequently strained when drilling her wiggly son on counting. The alphabet had come easily, but for some reason, remembering numerals was a bigger hurdle.
Booth settled cross-legged on the grass, and pulled Hank into his lap. He told Hank how Pops and Corporal Rawlins had been on sentry duty one quiet morning when a Jeep came bouncing down the road. Not having been able to shower for several days, Hank thought the driver and his companions seemed very clean by comparison, and felt his hackles rise-
"I did?" Hank asked, puzzled.
"No, your great-grandfather did. . . ."
He continued his story. The newcomers had answered their challenge questions appropriately, until James asked about Fibber McGee's closet. Suddenly the Jeep's occupants fired on the GIs and a gun battle ensued. When Pops had come to, the Germans were gone and his friend was in bad shape. Ignoring his own injuries, Hank got on the radio and summoned help. Booth didn't share with Hank that Rawlins was near death. There was time for those details in the years ahead. He recounted the soldier's Coke and sandwich last request.
"James loved the peanut butter sandwiches and Coca Cola his mom gave him after school. He asked Pops to bring some and share with him when he visited."
Hank considered this for a moment. "His mommy must've not known that pop causes tooth decay."
Booth stifled a smirk. Brennan's children absorbed her healthy eating doctrine early.
More silence, then, "Daddy, how could James eat them?"
"He didn't, Son, just wanted his best friend to remember him once in a while."
"Well, can we eat now? I'm hungry!"
The pair opened ziplock bags, and Booth popped open their cans. Little Hank took a big bite, then turned to the white marker and saluted.
"Thanks, Mr. Rawlins! You had a great idea! I LOVE nutter san'wiches!"