Author: Robyn Carr
Cooper stood uncertainly for a moment. “Could we sit down in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee?”
Without answering, Rawley turned and headed toward the kitchen. Once there he brought a fresh cup out of the cupboard and filled it for Cooper. Then he filled his own cup. Then, to Cooper’s surprise, he put cream and sugar on the table, along with a spoon. And he sat down.
Cooper didn’t really know where to begin. “Mac said you’ve been hanging around the bait shop for a few years now.”
Rawley nodded.
“Where did you work before that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Odd jobs. Here and there.”
“And lived here with your dad?”
He shook his head. “I just got reconnected with my dad four years ago. Ben forced that issue,” he said, naming their late friend.
“Where were you living before that?” Cooper asked.
“Here and there.” Cooper decided to wait him out. He sipped his coffee, excellent coffee, and just didn’t speak for a couple of the longest minutes of his life. “I didn’t get on with people so much after the war,” Rawley said. “It wasn’t like now—folks didn’t celebrate Vietnam soldiers too much. Made a person want to disappear. That, and bombs going off while you sleep—makes a man just want to be alone.”
PTSD issues, Mac had said. “Understandable,” Cooper said.
“I stopped by to see my dad sometimes. Just for a day or so, every few years or so, but not for long. I had burdens. You know.”
“I know,” Cooper said. And he thought, there are so many of us. Men without strong attachments who just wander. Cooper didn’t have PTSD issues that he was aware of, but he still felt like a loner often enough. And, like Rawley, after leaving the service he hadn’t gone home to his family. He’d kept moving.
“My dad used to fish off Ben’s dock,” Rawley said. “He’d have a shot of Wild Turkey sometimes before heading home. Ben found me. I hung out with a couple of vets around Eureka, not too far from the VA. Sometimes if we needed something, like food or money to eat, the VA was as good a place as any. Used clothes, too. Then Ben said my dad was doing poorly. He hadn’t been fishing in so long, Ben checked on him and my dad couldn’t get himself upstairs to go to bed most nights so he slept in the chair. Ben said my dad needed help. He said he’d give me a part-time job if it could be worked out.”
“So you came home to help your dad,” Cooper said.
“It’s different coming home because you’re needed than coming home because you’re needy,” Rawley said.
Cooper lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “Exactly right,” he agreed.
They drank their coffee in silence for a while.
“So, you have a house here,” Cooper said. “Place to live and a job. I guess that means you’ll be staying.”
“It’s almost habit now,” Rawley said.
“You keep this place real nice, Rawley,” Cooper said. “It must have made your dad real proud to leave it to you.”
“Like I said, it’s just us. Buried my mother some thirty-eight years ago. The Red Cross brought me home from Vietnam. Since I was an only son.”
“And then you went back?”
“Yeah. But that was okay at the time. I knew how to act over there. I wasn’t real sure over here. Times were different. Soldiers weren’t heroes back in those days. It was hard times here.”
“I’m glad you told me this, Rawley,” Cooper said.
“Why?”
“It’s not easy to work side by side with a man you don’t know anything about,” Cooper said. “I realize sometimes a man’s private.”
“I ain’t all that private,” he said. “Sometimes you get to know a person and you’re sorry.”
Cooper laughed. “I guess that’s true, too.” He drained his cup and stood up. “You order a box for your old man yet?”
“Yup,” Rawley said, standing.
“No funeral, huh?”
“A graveside prayer. A prayer for soldiers, that’s all he wanted. He was real specific. He was in the Army, too. But I think he ordered it up more for me. He was that kind of man.”
“Where is the service?” Cooper asked.
“Why?”
“I thought I’d come.”
“Why?”
“You’re my friend.” Cooper remembered the day Rawley handed him the envelope with Ben’s will and a key without a word and then just high-tailed it out of there. “In fact, one of my first friends since I’ve been here, even if you did leave me to deal with that shithole of a befouled bait shop alone.”
And at that, Rawley grinned. He had a good pair of dentures. “Stank up real bad, didn’t she?”
“Real bad,” Cooper agreed. “But that’s rotten septic over the dam. Now, I’d like to take care of that casket for you, Rawley. I think if Ben were alive, he’d want to do that.”
“Charity don’t sit well with me,” he said.
“Sure it does. You took all Ben’s old clothes and stuff to the VA. The washers and dryers, dishes, glassware and flatware went to some church group you knew about. You could’ve kept it and had a garage sale, but you didn’t. I have no doubt you’d give the shirt off your back if someone needed it. Now take the sign out of your truck, tell me what funeral parlor is taking care of the box, what time to be at the cemetery and where. Let’s not argue. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”
So Rawley told him where to be at 10:00 a.m. on Thursday.
“You have a suit?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t need a suit. My dad might not even recognize me in a suit.”
Cooper laughed. “My brother-in-law is some big-shot executive, but he got fat. My sister sent me a few of his suits. I’ll be here at eight on Thursday morning with one of my hand-me-down suits that I never wear, anyway. If you don’t drown in it, it’s yours. With any luck, you’ll wear it exactly once. Unless you get married or something.”
“Coop,” he said, using a name on him for maybe the first time. “Ben was right about you. You’re a kick in the ass.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Flattery will get you nowhere.”
* * *
Rawley filled out the suit pretty well. There was more to him than met the eye. In his old worn-out jeans and shirts, with his thin hair and drawn face, he looked scrawny, like a skinny old guy, but in fact he was sixty-three, long-legged and had some strong arms on him. Cooper should’ve guessed; Rawley worked pretty hard at the bar, especially buying and delivering large boxes of supplies. And now that he thought about it, there had been no wheelchair lift in their house. Rawley had probably been carrying his father to bed. If he had a run-down look about him it probably had more to do with living an unstable life for forty years or so.
He had shaved, something Rawley didn’t do every day. His hair was slicked back, his nails clipped, his best shoes cleaned and polished. And he was very somber.
“I’ll drive,” Cooper said. “This is a tough day for you.”
“He’s resting now. The last few years were hard on the old man.”
“I’m sure. At least he had his son with him.”
“You ever had a son, Cooper?” Rawley asked.
Cooper shook his head. “No son, no wife. We’re a lot alike, Rawley. Couple of guys just moving where the wind blows us. Drifters.”
“Maybe that’s set to change,” Rawley said.
“Let’s get to the cemetery and say a last goodbye.”
There was no more talking until Cooper had driven them almost to the cemetery gates. Then Rawley said, “He was a real good father when I was a kid. When I was growing up. He was a better father than I was a son.”
After a moment of respectful silence Cooper said, “I think maybe a lot of us feel that way about our dads, Rawley.”
The cemetery appeared to be crowded for a Thursday morning—plenty of cars parked along the winding roadway. And then Cooper saw the Sheriff’s Department SUV and Gina’s old Jeep. And there sat the van from Carrie’s Deli. But Rawley was the one to speak first.
“What the hell,” he said. “What did you do, Coop?”
Cooper shook his head and looked for a place to park. “I didn’t say anything. I only told Sarah and Mac, that’s all. And I only told them so they’d know why I wasn’t going to be around this morning.”
“Well, Jesus,” Rawley said. “Lookit those people. Must be twenty or thirty of ’em. They didn’t know my dad.”
Cooper pulled along the side of the road and killed the engine. “They’re here for you, Rawley.”
“They don’t know me, neither.”
“Sure they do, Rawley. Maybe you don’t chew the fat a lot, but most of those folks see you all the time. You’re one of them. By the way, was there anyone you talked to regularly?”
Rawley shrugged and made to get out of the big truck. “Ben. Just Ben. Till you came around. Am I gonna have to make conversation with all of them now?”
“I don’t think they expect that,” Cooper said with a laugh. “If the spirit moves you, you might thank them for the effort.” They walked toward the casket. “It must be a comfort to know Ben will be holding the door open for your dad.”
The casket was covered with an elaborate spray of white flowers.
“I didn’t buy no flowers,” Rawley said.
Cooper said, “I just took care of that one bouquet at the end there. It’ll sit on the grave site after we’re gone.”
Rawley and Cooper stood on one side of the casket opposite the minister, who could only be identified by the fact that he held a bible. Mac and Gina and the others stood respectfully around the grave and waited for the minister to start the service.
“Shall we begin? Just a few words before we lay our friend William Goode to his final resting place—William was a kind and patient man. It was about a year ago when he told me he was tired, that he was ready to go, that he had no regrets about his life and hoped that when he met his maker it would be a joyful reunion. His wife departed long ago and he had missed her every day but was confident he’d see her again. And I thought to myself—I hope I face my final days with that peace and tranquility. Bill, as he liked to be called, was difficult to understand since his stroke a year ago, but I asked him if he’d made his peace with God and he nodded and said, ‘My staying any longer is a waste of time and medicine. This is enough.’
“He wanted one prayer. He wanted to honor our military and chose the veteran’s prayer. He was very clear—no elaborate fuss—just a prayer to ‘launch him’ as he put it. He said a toast now and again wouldn’t offend him. William Goode is right with God and on his way home. Here’s to you, William Goode.
“And William wanted a poem written by a soldier to be read at his burial. This poem—‘Final Inspection’—was written by Sergeant Joshua Helterbran.
The soldier stood and faced God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
No, Lord, I guess I ain’t
Because those of us who carry guns
Can’t always be a saint.
I’ve had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough,
And sometimes I’ve been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny
Cooper stood uncertainly for a moment. “Could we sit down in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee?”
Without answering, Rawley turned and headed toward the kitchen. Once there he brought a fresh cup out of the cupboard and filled it for Cooper. Then he filled his own cup. Then, to Cooper’s surprise, he put cream and sugar on the table, along with a spoon. And he sat down.
Cooper didn’t really know where to begin. “Mac said you’ve been hanging around the bait shop for a few years now.”
Rawley nodded.
“Where did you work before that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Odd jobs. Here and there.”
“And lived here with your dad?”
He shook his head. “I just got reconnected with my dad four years ago. Ben forced that issue,” he said, naming their late friend.
“Where were you living before that?” Cooper asked.
“Here and there.” Cooper decided to wait him out. He sipped his coffee, excellent coffee, and just didn’t speak for a couple of the longest minutes of his life. “I didn’t get on with people so much after the war,” Rawley said. “It wasn’t like now—folks didn’t celebrate Vietnam soldiers too much. Made a person want to disappear. That, and bombs going off while you sleep—makes a man just want to be alone.”
PTSD issues, Mac had said. “Understandable,” Cooper said.
“I stopped by to see my dad sometimes. Just for a day or so, every few years or so, but not for long. I had burdens. You know.”
“I know,” Cooper said. And he thought, there are so many of us. Men without strong attachments who just wander. Cooper didn’t have PTSD issues that he was aware of, but he still felt like a loner often enough. And, like Rawley, after leaving the service he hadn’t gone home to his family. He’d kept moving.
“My dad used to fish off Ben’s dock,” Rawley said. “He’d have a shot of Wild Turkey sometimes before heading home. Ben found me. I hung out with a couple of vets around Eureka, not too far from the VA. Sometimes if we needed something, like food or money to eat, the VA was as good a place as any. Used clothes, too. Then Ben said my dad was doing poorly. He hadn’t been fishing in so long, Ben checked on him and my dad couldn’t get himself upstairs to go to bed most nights so he slept in the chair. Ben said my dad needed help. He said he’d give me a part-time job if it could be worked out.”
“So you came home to help your dad,” Cooper said.
“It’s different coming home because you’re needed than coming home because you’re needy,” Rawley said.
Cooper lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “Exactly right,” he agreed.
They drank their coffee in silence for a while.
“So, you have a house here,” Cooper said. “Place to live and a job. I guess that means you’ll be staying.”
“It’s almost habit now,” Rawley said.
“You keep this place real nice, Rawley,” Cooper said. “It must have made your dad real proud to leave it to you.”
“Like I said, it’s just us. Buried my mother some thirty-eight years ago. The Red Cross brought me home from Vietnam. Since I was an only son.”
“And then you went back?”
“Yeah. But that was okay at the time. I knew how to act over there. I wasn’t real sure over here. Times were different. Soldiers weren’t heroes back in those days. It was hard times here.”
“I’m glad you told me this, Rawley,” Cooper said.
“Why?”
“It’s not easy to work side by side with a man you don’t know anything about,” Cooper said. “I realize sometimes a man’s private.”
“I ain’t all that private,” he said. “Sometimes you get to know a person and you’re sorry.”
Cooper laughed. “I guess that’s true, too.” He drained his cup and stood up. “You order a box for your old man yet?”
“Yup,” Rawley said, standing.
“No funeral, huh?”
“A graveside prayer. A prayer for soldiers, that’s all he wanted. He was real specific. He was in the Army, too. But I think he ordered it up more for me. He was that kind of man.”
“Where is the service?” Cooper asked.
“Why?”
“I thought I’d come.”
“Why?”
“You’re my friend.” Cooper remembered the day Rawley handed him the envelope with Ben’s will and a key without a word and then just high-tailed it out of there. “In fact, one of my first friends since I’ve been here, even if you did leave me to deal with that shithole of a befouled bait shop alone.”
And at that, Rawley grinned. He had a good pair of dentures. “Stank up real bad, didn’t she?”
“Real bad,” Cooper agreed. “But that’s rotten septic over the dam. Now, I’d like to take care of that casket for you, Rawley. I think if Ben were alive, he’d want to do that.”
“Charity don’t sit well with me,” he said.
“Sure it does. You took all Ben’s old clothes and stuff to the VA. The washers and dryers, dishes, glassware and flatware went to some church group you knew about. You could’ve kept it and had a garage sale, but you didn’t. I have no doubt you’d give the shirt off your back if someone needed it. Now take the sign out of your truck, tell me what funeral parlor is taking care of the box, what time to be at the cemetery and where. Let’s not argue. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”
So Rawley told him where to be at 10:00 a.m. on Thursday.
“You have a suit?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t need a suit. My dad might not even recognize me in a suit.”
Cooper laughed. “My brother-in-law is some big-shot executive, but he got fat. My sister sent me a few of his suits. I’ll be here at eight on Thursday morning with one of my hand-me-down suits that I never wear, anyway. If you don’t drown in it, it’s yours. With any luck, you’ll wear it exactly once. Unless you get married or something.”
“Coop,” he said, using a name on him for maybe the first time. “Ben was right about you. You’re a kick in the ass.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Flattery will get you nowhere.”
* * *
Rawley filled out the suit pretty well. There was more to him than met the eye. In his old worn-out jeans and shirts, with his thin hair and drawn face, he looked scrawny, like a skinny old guy, but in fact he was sixty-three, long-legged and had some strong arms on him. Cooper should’ve guessed; Rawley worked pretty hard at the bar, especially buying and delivering large boxes of supplies. And now that he thought about it, there had been no wheelchair lift in their house. Rawley had probably been carrying his father to bed. If he had a run-down look about him it probably had more to do with living an unstable life for forty years or so.
He had shaved, something Rawley didn’t do every day. His hair was slicked back, his nails clipped, his best shoes cleaned and polished. And he was very somber.
“I’ll drive,” Cooper said. “This is a tough day for you.”
“He’s resting now. The last few years were hard on the old man.”
“I’m sure. At least he had his son with him.”
“You ever had a son, Cooper?” Rawley asked.
Cooper shook his head. “No son, no wife. We’re a lot alike, Rawley. Couple of guys just moving where the wind blows us. Drifters.”
“Maybe that’s set to change,” Rawley said.
“Let’s get to the cemetery and say a last goodbye.”
There was no more talking until Cooper had driven them almost to the cemetery gates. Then Rawley said, “He was a real good father when I was a kid. When I was growing up. He was a better father than I was a son.”
After a moment of respectful silence Cooper said, “I think maybe a lot of us feel that way about our dads, Rawley.”
The cemetery appeared to be crowded for a Thursday morning—plenty of cars parked along the winding roadway. And then Cooper saw the Sheriff’s Department SUV and Gina’s old Jeep. And there sat the van from Carrie’s Deli. But Rawley was the one to speak first.
“What the hell,” he said. “What did you do, Coop?”
Cooper shook his head and looked for a place to park. “I didn’t say anything. I only told Sarah and Mac, that’s all. And I only told them so they’d know why I wasn’t going to be around this morning.”
“Well, Jesus,” Rawley said. “Lookit those people. Must be twenty or thirty of ’em. They didn’t know my dad.”
Cooper pulled along the side of the road and killed the engine. “They’re here for you, Rawley.”
“They don’t know me, neither.”
“Sure they do, Rawley. Maybe you don’t chew the fat a lot, but most of those folks see you all the time. You’re one of them. By the way, was there anyone you talked to regularly?”
Rawley shrugged and made to get out of the big truck. “Ben. Just Ben. Till you came around. Am I gonna have to make conversation with all of them now?”
“I don’t think they expect that,” Cooper said with a laugh. “If the spirit moves you, you might thank them for the effort.” They walked toward the casket. “It must be a comfort to know Ben will be holding the door open for your dad.”
The casket was covered with an elaborate spray of white flowers.
“I didn’t buy no flowers,” Rawley said.
Cooper said, “I just took care of that one bouquet at the end there. It’ll sit on the grave site after we’re gone.”
Rawley and Cooper stood on one side of the casket opposite the minister, who could only be identified by the fact that he held a bible. Mac and Gina and the others stood respectfully around the grave and waited for the minister to start the service.
“Shall we begin? Just a few words before we lay our friend William Goode to his final resting place—William was a kind and patient man. It was about a year ago when he told me he was tired, that he was ready to go, that he had no regrets about his life and hoped that when he met his maker it would be a joyful reunion. His wife departed long ago and he had missed her every day but was confident he’d see her again. And I thought to myself—I hope I face my final days with that peace and tranquility. Bill, as he liked to be called, was difficult to understand since his stroke a year ago, but I asked him if he’d made his peace with God and he nodded and said, ‘My staying any longer is a waste of time and medicine. This is enough.’
“He wanted one prayer. He wanted to honor our military and chose the veteran’s prayer. He was very clear—no elaborate fuss—just a prayer to ‘launch him’ as he put it. He said a toast now and again wouldn’t offend him. William Goode is right with God and on his way home. Here’s to you, William Goode.
“And William wanted a poem written by a soldier to be read at his burial. This poem—‘Final Inspection’—was written by Sergeant Joshua Helterbran.
The soldier stood and faced God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
No, Lord, I guess I ain’t
Because those of us who carry guns
Can’t always be a saint.
I’ve had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough,
And sometimes I’ve been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny
