CHAPTER 8
When Daisy opened her eyes, the clock on the night table told her, with its red numbers in the darkness, it was 3 a.m.
She recalled her dream, and his arms around her.
Arms around her? The fleeting feeling of their intertwined fingers disappeared, at its place the realistic feeling of his arms around her waist, his face buried against her chest and their legs intertwined as their fingers did in her dream.
They were hugging each other, and she didn't remember how it started.
Did they cross the imaginary boundary between them during their sleep?
Or did Enos wake up and hug her while she was asleep? Improbable.
He was still sleeping in her arms, and she didn't even try to wake him up, knowing pretty well that if she had woken him up, he would have parted from her (and he would have probably spent the last part of the night sleeping in the bathtub: it wouldn't have surprised her).
She didn't even move in order to let him sleep.
Enjoying the feeling of his body so near, she closed her eyes and she fell asleep.
"Daisy, it's time to wake up," his soft voice called her.
When she opened her eyes, he was sitting on the bed and he was wearing a black jacket: black trousers, blue shirt, black tie, and black jacket. He was already ready for the funeral, and he was wearing his uniform, inclusive of the jacket he rarely wore.
"What time is it?" sitting up, Daisy rubbed her eyes and she looked at the clock.
9 a.m.
Did they sleep hugging each other, or was it another strange dream of hers?
Looking at his back as he bent down in order to put his shoes on, she thought of her dreaming about his mother's funeral.
She stretched her arm out, reaching his right shoulder and squeezing it, "I'm by your side, sugar," her voice echoing something still trapped in her mind.
He turned his head to her, glancing at her and smiling, "Thanks."
When he tried to stop the trembling of his hands, fighting with his tie, she helped him, "Let me help you, please." That dream's echo resounded, again, in her mind.
He blushed, averting his eyes from her, "Thanks."
"OK, I'll be ready in few minutes," she got up and she reached the bathroom, where she washed her face and she wore her violet dress.
Few minutes later they came out their room and they reached the Hotel's hall used for breakfast. She sat at one of the small rounded wooden tables and she waited for him, realizing that people sitting at the other tables were looking at him, surprised to see a cop in that room, a cop wearing a uniform different than LAPD's uniform.
While he sipped just a cup of coffee, she ate her breakfast, ashamed of her hunger.
"It seems you're really hungry, Daisy"
She blushed furiously, she swallowed her last pancake and drank her coffee, trying to control her embarrass, "Sorry."
Surprisingly, he laughed, a brief and sweet laugh, "It's a good thing. I like to see you eating."
She smiled and she calmed down, cherishing that close and pleasant relationship.
When he woke up, in the morning, were they still hugging each other? Did they really sleep that way? Coming out the Hotel, Daisy kept on asking herself these questions.
It was a winter day in L.A., and dark clouds were covering the sky: a terrific day for a funeral, the first funeral for an officer killed on the line of duty Daisy has ever been to, in her life, and she hoped the last one.
Being an officer wife: what did it mean?
Turk had no wife, unlike his partner; Daisy couldn't help but looking at that young woman, a small child by her side, her small daughter wearing a small violet coat. That small girl, was she really understanding what was going on? Probably not, too young to understand it, young as Daisy, when her parents died.
Her throat became dry and rough like sand-paper as she thought of that woman: was she concerned about his husband's safety every time he was out for work? That day, when the phone rang or the doorbell chimed, when someone told her that her husband was at the hospital, injured in the line of duty, what did she feel? And when she finally arrived at the hospital, she found out that her life had just changed completely.
Daisy folded her right arm around her waist, trying to protect herself from an invisible and chilling wind, while her left hand squeezed Enos' right one. He was crying by her side, his head down and his left hand covering his eyes while his shoulders were shaken by soft sobs; respecting his private pain and his pride, Daisy didn't look at him but she kept on looking at what's going around her.
ENOS STRATE
1952-19
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
The black tombstone, surfacing from her nightmare, made her shiver.
She tried to erase that image and the thought of her small daughter, looking away from the officer's wife and her girl.
But, if the sight of a wife who has just lost her husband is terrific, even more terrific is the sight of a mother who has just lost her son: Mrs. Adams was hopelessly crying into a white handkerchief, a young and gorgeous black woman (probably Turk's sister) by her side, and it broke Daisy's heart. Nothing can console parents on the loss of their son, 'cause any parent knows that you should never have to bury your children.
When the families took their place at the front of the chapel and people began to file by paying their respects to the families and to the officers, Enos parted from her, whispering, "Please, wait here for me."
After his hand left her one, that invisible and cold wind running past her fingertips got even colder: it was winter, after all, or… maybe it wasn't because of the winter but because of Enos' icy tombstone still pierced in her mind, her imaginary hand trying to remove the dust covering the last two numbers of his death's date.
"Come on, Daisy. You aren't goin' crazy and it's not a premonitory dream. You had five vivid dreams about you and Enos in the last couple of months, and I think we could explain it": closing her eyes, she recalled uncle Jesse's wise words, and it warmed her more than her folded arms were doing. She thought of the kitchen's table at the farm, the sun entering the room and her family around that table, and she calmed down, her only desire to go back to that warmth, holding Enos' hand and bringing him with her.
Coming back to reality, back to L.A. and away of Hazzard, Daisy glanced at uniforms from LAPD all around her, and also at different uniforms, probably from neighboring towns, Enos with them: they were honoring their fallen comrades and paying their respect to their families. From her spot, she saw also few police officers' wives paying their respects to the new widow (wives knowing each other), and she recognized in their eyes the fear that this could happen to them too. Were her eyes showing the same fear?
Finally, when some officers in their finest uniforms carried the caskets to the hearse, Daisy averted her eyes: it was too much. She couldn't help but thinking that it could have happened to Enos during the time he spent in L.A.; it could be his casket.
"Daisy, are you OK? You're pale."
Enos was still by her side, and she relaxed, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face against his chest.
"I'm sorry I've involved you into something so sad. You shouldn't be here," his voice cracked, "I don't want to see you crying, Daisy, please," his arms gently circled her.
Daisy nodded and looked at him, trying to smile, "It's not your fault. I decided to come with you in order to help you, and now it's you helping me. What a shame," she wiped away her tears and she kept on smiling, holding his hand as they walked outside the chapel.
Late in the afternoon, they came back to the Hotel, physically and emotionally exhausted.
Daisy walked to the bed and flopped down onto it, her teary eyes staring at the ceiling as she tried to wash away any image about the graveyard.
After putting his jacket off, Enos flopped down by her side and stared at the ceiling, sharing her desire to forget about everything.
The rain hit the wide window with a soft roar.
They didn't move, they didn't talk, they simply looked at ceiling while the rain ticked against the window.
Her right hand moved to him while his left hand was moving to her.
They stayed there, lying on the bed and holding their hands.
"Daisy? May I…?"
Daisy held her breath: what was he trying to ask her?
"Yeah… I'm here, Enos," she squeezed his hand.
"Don't think I'm insensitive or weird… but… you see… I'd like to…"
Her heart raced in her chest.
"Daisy, I'm hungry. I haven't eaten almost anything since yesterday, and now… if I don't eat something I'm goin' to faint," in his voice all his discomfort, "I'm sorry… thinking of something like that in this moment."
She smiled, "Enos, there's nothing strange in it. You're right. You haven't eaten almost anything since yesterday. So, we're going to have a good dinner before to sleep, OK?" She sat up, his hand still in her one, and she looked at him, amused by his usual naivety.
"And now, what are you waiting for? Go and talk to him! Make your dreams come true!" Uncle Jesse's true words were stuck into her mind.
She decided to wash away her nightmares and pain, trying to enjoy their last day in L.A. before their come back to Hazzard, the day after.
She stared at Enos, smiling: they were alive, and they were together. Turk's death, despite the grief and pain in it, was saying her she was lucky to be alive and to have Enos by her side. That death was a sort of urge to life, now.
"Everything in life has some good in it. And when something awful happens, the goodness stands out even more. It's sad, but that's the truth." With this new awareness in her mind, Daisy held Enos' hand.
"Everything in life has some good in it. And when something awful happens, the goodness stands out even more. It's sad, but that's the truth." Banana Yoshimoto (she's my favorite writer, beside Haruki Murakami... if someone hasn't realized it, yet).