Bearing the Unbearable

TW: Death, War

This could have been anywhere in America, but today it was a suburb outside of Lexington. It was our last job of a grueling week of house calls and much to my relief, Magoffin volunteered to drive today. He insisted that the reason for his offering was that he didn’t live far from the neighborhood and wanted to invite me for a bite to eat afterward, but I understood that he saw how work had been taking a toll on me lately. Magoffin had a keen sense for these things, and he knew damn well that he could twist my arm with Ellie’s fresh baked cookies and a little bit of fine bourbon.

“Who’s our man today, Cap?” Magoffin inquired, turning the dial of the stereo down to break our silence. Our briefings always indicated that we were a few minutes away from our destination.

I reached behind Magoffin’s seat to grab our file, careful not to disrupt the package on my lap. “Pvt. Kennith E. Lawson- that’s ‘Kennith’ with an I-T-H. Twenty-two years.“ I answered as I thumbed through, carefully examining the telegram.

“Pvt. Lawson, huh? ’Kennith’ with an I-T-H…” He echoed, stroking his chin as he pondered. “A kid,” he declared as he shifted gears as he slowed to turn left onto Cherrywood Boulevard.

“They’re all kids, sir. At least, lately they are. And a lot more of ‘em.” I gazed out the window and observed the community enjoying their first glimpse of summer afternoons; the smell of daffodils and fresh cut grass, with heavenly rays of light poking through lush green trees. Neighbors chatted over lunch while some folks worked in their gardens, and the children laughed as they rode their bikes up and down the dead-end street until they spotted our olive sedan, our own pale horse. I avoided their stares as they dispersed from our path, snaking behind our vehicle with curiosity and caution as they whispered to each other and slowly pumped their petals. The adults looked up from their chores and conversations, holding their breath in anticipation until we swept past their homes as if we were archangels passing them over; even the mailman froze between two houses, pretending to shuffle through envelopes until we cruised by.

It didn’t take us long to roll to a stop on the streetside next to a mailbox hand-painted with bright flowers and eloquently labeled The Lawsons. I took a second to observe: the mailbox flag was raised and eagerly awaiting the postman’s arrival. A large American flag gently swayed in the breeze over the porch, which was lined with crisp white lilies and vibrant tulips. I noted that unlike many of the neighbors, there were no toys and no tire swing hanging from the strong, solid oak tree in the front yard. As Magoffin killed the ignition, I thought to myself how the absence of children made our work a little less arduous. Like clockwork and without a word shared between us, we smoothed our khaki dress shirts and dress blues, donned our dress covers, and gathered our things- my file and triangular package, and Magoffin’s King James Bible. After nearly three years of working as partners we no longer measured each other’s strides, but instead marched in perfect step with our glossy black heels hitting the paved driveway with a soft unified click, click, click up to the front door.

We felt the nervous gazes of the community upon us as Magoffin gave three steady knocks, then stepped back when the door opened. A young lady emerged with strawberry blonde curls cascading down her shoulders, wide blue eyes, and freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. She wore a pastel green cotton dress that clung to her frame, which was slender apart from a prominent bump on her belly where she protectively rested her hand.

“Good afternoon, miss.” I greeted her curtly and nodded slightly. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, not much older than my own daughter, and bearing a glittering emerald on her left ring finger. “We’re looking for a Mrs. Molly Lawson. Is she home right now?"

I watched her lip tremble for only a moment as she scanned our uniforms, officer pins, and the gold emblem on our covers before looking into my eyes. “That would be me, sir,” she slowly responded as if she were trying to remember how to say the words out loud, “I’m Molly Lawson. You’re here about Kenny, ain’t ya? I haven’t heard from him since April…”

I tried hard not to let her see me swallow hard. “Ma’am, I’m Captain Fischer and this is Chaplain Magoffin. May we come in?” I found the delicate balance of tact and compassion in my voice. Mrs. Lawson backed away from the doorway, hand remaining on her belly as Magoffin shut the door behind us. I lowered my voice, “You may want to sit down-“

“I’m just fine right here, sir. I suppose I know why you came today,” she stated with an unwavering gaze. It wasn’t our place to decide what strength looks like in these wives, mothers, and fathers, but Mrs. Molly Lawson stood firmly with all the courage she could muster. I opened the file and routinely read from the telegram to the next of kin. “Mrs. Lawson, we regret to inform you that your husband, Private Kennith E. Lawson, died in Vietnam on May 1^st, 1969, while a prisoner of war, as a result of wounds received in action. He was previously listed as missing in action. Information of his death was received from a returned prisoner of war. Please accept our deepest sympathy.”

Molly drew in a sharp sudden breath and covered her mouth as though I had struck her. The color drained from her face and her knees buckled, and she wilted all at once. Magoffin and I caught her by her arms before she could collapse onto the floor, guiding her to the dining room table in a synchronized well-rehearsed dance. I sat across the table as Magoffin pulled a chair a bit closer to her, producing a handkerchief just in time for Mrs. Lawson to release a sob that she had been stifling for weeks.

Our duty for casualty notifications were simple- I was to read and deliver the telegram, flag, and dog tags, while Magoffin explained the what the next few weeks would bring for the next of kin. Lately, we’d gotten in the habit of lingering just long enough for these folks to realize that they weren’t on the verge of waking up from a bad dream; it was the least we could do.

“Was your husband a believer, Mrs. Lawson?” Magoffin asked as he tenderly placed his hand on the leather cover of his book, “I would be honored to recite his favorite passage.”

“Baptist.” Molly said simply after wiping her eyes and drawing in a sharp breath, “My daddy baptized him before he left.” She chose a few psalms for him to read. Magoffin had a great talent for opening his Bible almost to the exact page he sought after, though sometimes I suspected that he hardly needed to open it at all anymore. The more jobs took, the less I listened to the chaplain’s brief sermons, and I almost became irritated with the relentless conviction that flowed through him as he tried to mend the shattered souls. I chalked my attitude up to envy and a bit of secondhand grief, but never held it against him.

When he finished talking, I carefully removed the tri-folded American flag from it’s wrappings, carefully placing it into Mrs. Lawson’s hands. I thought of how those same hands would soon hold her own infant, mother and child crying through sleepless nights. A lump quickly seized my throat and I determined it was time.

“Your husband was a brave man, Mrs. Lawson.” I stated. Magoffin took the cue and rose from his chair. We saluted and took our leave with the same harmonized steps to the car. As we pulled out and drove down the road, I looked in the rearview mirror to see neighbors and friends already starting to clamor toward the Lawson’s painted mailbox.

“It never gets better, Captain. We can’t change that,” Magoffin reminded me, “But we can try to make it easier.”