Broken Buckets

By Tamera du Trieux

A harrowing and heart rending story about the American truths nobody wants to talk about, Broken Buckets looks at what can go wrong when we don’t make sure that things go right. It is a tribute to teachers and veterans, and to children, delivered in a riveting read. This is a compelling contemporary tale of love, loss, trauma, and forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483500225

Book preview

soldiers.

One

Mount Calvary Cemetery

Her rayon skirt rippled in the strong spring wind, just like the flag her tired eyes were fixed on. Old Glory lay across the casket that entombed her uncle Jimmy. The flag had somehow been pinned securely to the casket though the wind wanted to take it to another place. She noticed that the blue field of fifty stars lay at the head of the casket, and it made her think of the crown of stars mentioned in Revelations. Sarah Keller felt relieved that the flag was there, as if somehow it comforted her uncle to lie beneath it. As if somehow it offered protection, for him, for her. She was painfully uncomfortable in this setting. Uncomfortable and alone, though a small crowd surrounded her. She hadn’t been to a funeral since her mother had died two years ago, and this occasion was bringing back all the memories of that loss, as if they were as fresh as the flowers blossoming in bunches all around the cemetery. June flowers, though, are a soft touch. The searing pain Sarah had experienced at the loss of her family one by one over the course of her twenty-four years couldn’t be softened, only accommodated and tolerated. It was part of her person, and she felt it was visible to anyone who looked at her, like her freckles and her curly auburn hair or hazel-green eyes. Now she was here burying her last local relative. Her father’s brother, Uncle Jimmy, a quiet, old Vietnam War veteran and life-long bachelor who she had never been able to really get to know. And now it was too late. He had passed away, as quietly and unceremoniously as he had lived. Sarah was surprised at the degree of guilt she was suddenly feeling for not having tried harder.

Standing at the back of the small crowd gathered at the burial, Richard Morang noticed a young woman seated in the front row near the casket, catching a glimpse of sweet white thigh as her skirt fought against the brisk breeze. He managed to show no reaction on his face, though he had to look away momentarily. He stood at attention as his body was still accustomed to doing, while the retired US Army chaplain stepped to the front of the small gathering and silently commanded everyone’s attention.

Richard had known Jim Keller for only a couple of years, since the younger man had returned home from Iraq and taken a job as a laborer in a trucking warehouse where Jim had been employed since he had been discharged from the service himself and was now a supervising foreman. The guy had always been decent to him, clearly understanding the challenges of reintegrating into civilian life after combat duty. He had been just about the only person Richard had been able to talk to about his wartime experiences since coming home. Jim had been a good listener, and Richard had come to the funeral service today to pay his final respects with gratitude. Richard didn’t have a lot of friends and wasn’t a very outgoing guy, but he thought of old Jim as a friend. He would miss that man, though he regretted how little he had bothered to really get to know him. And now, thoroughly distracted by a brief flash of leg, he was surprised by the degree of guilt he was feeling.

With concerted effort he turned his attention to the chaplain, who, because he did not really know Jim Keller either, began to give a traditional talk about the thirteen folds of the flag while referring to a cheap black binder.

You are probably aware that the honor guard pays meticulous attention to correctly folding the American flag thirteen times, the chaplain was saying. You may have been taught it was to symbolize the original thirteen colonies, but there is a deeper meaning to the tradition that would be fitting to share with you today. Pausing, the man looked up from his binder, which he was holding as if it were a holy book, and glanced around at many of the people listening to him. His words sounded more recycled than rehearsed.

Richard felt the familiar sick feeling of annoyance wash over him and tried not to let himself get angry. His disappointment in the way he was treated as a vet paled compared to the disrespect he felt Keller was being shown. Richard was familiar with this trite speech that had become popular the last few years and, thanks to the Internet, had become accepted, though it was not traditional and was not even historically accurate. With each of the thirteen reasons the chaplain attributed to the folds in the flag Richard took a calming breath as he had been training himself.

‘After the flag is completely folded and tucked in, it takes on the appearance of a cocked hat, ever reminding us of the soldiers who served under General George Washington, and the sailors and marines who served under Captain John Paul Jones, who were followed by their comrades and shipmates in the armed forces of the United States, up to and including former First Sergeant James Patrick Keller. All of these men and women preserving for us the rights, privileges, and freedoms that we enjoy today, and tomorrow. Let us leave here with hearts full of the gratitude that they deserve. Rest in peace, he said, turning with a formal salute, his back to the crowd. Then he turned again to the mourners and said, Go in peace."

Richard watched closely as the flag was then ceremoniously folded thirteen times by two uniformed soldiers. Their white-gloved hands skillfully and perfectly carrying out their prescribed duty. The first of them saluting the flag for three seconds, before passing it on. The second soldier also saluted for three seconds, before he marched forward several precisely measured steps, lowered himself to one knee, and presented the flag to the young woman with the pretty legs.

On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation, the presenting soldier said in a proud but consolatory tone. Sarah blinked at him as if she were befuddled by his words or his gift, but it was Richard that had been blinded. She accepted the triangular bundle with one hand on top and one hand on the bottom as if it were something she had done many times before. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

A tape-recorded version of Taps was played, which sounded simultaneously beautiful and pathetic. Awkwardly, Richard made his way toward the front of the group where he waited near the casket, to Sarah’s right, one eye sneaking glances at her from this new angle, while one by one the older veterans gave their final salute before him. When the last of them had taken their turn at saluting, Richard, as the youngest vet present, stepped forward and with dramatic deftness, gave his final salute. Spinning on his heels he did not bring his hand down from his brow until he had locked gazes with the recipient of the flag who met his gaze with a confidence that transfixed him. All Richard could see was a field of blue stars, blazing bright and beautiful.

Two

He looked so handsome, saluting her uncle’s casket and then her. He was so graceful but strong and forceful. He was a stranger, yet his presence implied an intimacy with her uncle Jimmy that made him seem safe and trustworthy. They stood before each other, silent and still, each taking the whole of the other in, while the service went on around them in a simmering hum. Soon they were interrupted by people who wanted to express their condolences to Sarah with an endless array of hard words meant to be soft. Their clunky words of comfort were offerings of the obligatory nature. Some people reached out to touch her hand or stroke her arm. Some couldn’t make the words that they wanted to say come out and just met her gaze with a nod of understanding. Throughout the many minutes that seemed to drag on, the young man didn’t move, and she watched him there while she held her triangular bundle to her bosom, acknowledging each and every one of the folks who approached her. Finally the procession ended, each mourner moving on, returning to their own lives, which would continue to be what they were before. They moved slowly, as if rushing would somehow make a difference. A few more moments of silence lingered between Sarah and Richard. At last, she broke the stare, overcome with shyness. He took a step forward and held out his right hand, while his left reached into the breast pocket of his black suit coat.

Sarah reached out and gently shook his hand while watching to see what he would extract from his chest pocket. To her surprise, he pulled out a clean and tightly pressed white handkerchief, which he extended to her. Chewing on the inside of her lip to try hiding a sudden smile, she accepted the offering and dabbed at the few stray tears she had shed. To her, it was the sweetest gesture imaginable. So old fashioned and gentlemanly. A gentle man, she thought, like Uncle Jimmy.

The stranger spoke, his voice also sweet. I’m Rich Morang, and I’m truly sorry for your loss.

Thank you. How did you know my uncle? she asked while passing back the handkerchief.

You can keep that, he said, as they turned and started walking together across the wide expanse of grass, talking as they went, in easy alternating turns.

I worked for him at the plant. He was a good man. I really liked him and respected him, Richard told her.

He walked her to her car and her dog, a big drooling oaf named Oscar of no discernible breed, that she introduced to him. They stood by the car, trying not to kick up dust on the unpaved road. They talked easily for quite a while, more talking than Richard usually engaged in over a whole week. It was uncharacteristic for Richard to talk about himself, and especially uncharacteristic for him to reveal truths about himself. But standing there, in the middle of a cemetery watching cars slowly exiting into traffic, Richard revealed to Sarah why he had come, that her uncle had been kind to him, had not just listened to what Richard had to say about serving overseas but had really heard him, and was the only person Richard had known that had really understood what that was like. Sarah watched him talk and seemed to really hear him, too. He felt encouraged by her attention and the way she often nodded as he spoke.

Finally, gathering the courage he had honed in war, he asked Sarah for her number. They exchanged cell phone numbers before finally parting ways. Sarah felt, reflectively, that meeting this man had really helped to alleviate the aloneness that had been threatening to weigh her down for the last few days, and had been especially foreboding this morning. Driving away with a little wave of her hand and the handkerchief he’d given her, she couldn’t help feeling—dare she admit it?—happy. Richard stood on the side of the dirt road and watched her go, feeling exactly the same way.

Three

The office was ugly. The stark but insipid collection of mass-produced art hanging on the wall was insulting. Likewise, the uncomfortable Army-issue furniture seemed more like it was made for the inside of a high-security prison than a high-level psychiatrist’s office. Or a high-security mental institution. The whole crappy setup is offensive, thought Richard. Not at all conducive to helping a guy unwind and relax.

Richard was irritable, and he wanted to verbally unleash on the patronizing army doctor he had driven so far to meet with. Everything about this guy and this place reminded him of everything he had disliked about being in the service. Bureaucracy and bogus behavior. The big and implausibly clean desk, protected the doctor like a shield, no less than his epaulets did and the unspoken code of conduct that controlled every word and movement both of them made even though he had assured Richard that he could and should speak candidly.

Can I candidly describe how I’d like to kick your ass? Richard wondered. He cleared his throat and silently crossed his right foot over his left knee and bounced it there, giving him something to look at besides the perfect peach of a face of a guy who had never, would never, see combat. He fingered the narrow hem of his Levi’s in a transparent gesture to calm himself.

Tell me what it felt like just before you lost your temper, the major commanded.

It felt a lot like I feel now, Richard thought, but after a few moments of reflection, he said, I felt angry. Very angry. And agitated, sir.

Well, certainly. Major Malick didn’t bother to mask his condescension. But describe how that feels to you physically.

Umm ... Well, it gets hard to breathe, sometimes my hands and feet throb, there is a strong feeling in my chest, then I just kind of blank out.

The major made a few notes in an open folder on his desk and then casually asked, Feelings of panic?

Yes, sir, sometimes.

Leaning back in his more executive chair, Major Malick held his pen horizontally in front of his perfectly pressed dress shirt, his well-manicured fingertips lightly holding opposite ends of it. He looked at the pen and gave it a few thoughtful spins. Then he launched into a speech, one that also seemed perfectly groomed.

I want to assure you that what you are feeling is perfectly normal, Morang. Soldiers returning from war have been experiencing these feelings since time immemorial. The very worst cases used to be called shell shock. It will lessen in time, and there are some things you can do to help that happen. You need to figure out what your triggers are and learn to recognize them before they become overwhelming. Maybe even keep a journal. You need to find some methods of relaxation that work for you and use them especially when you are experiencing invasive thoughts. Physical exercise and spiritual pursuits are what helps the most. Alcohol helps the least.

Let’s see, the major paused to skim his file again, you survived a bomb in a mess hall, a few sniper attacks, mortar attacks on your unit’s convoy ... Is that right? he peered over the