The Old Man and the Marine

The old man didn’t have long. Wires and monitors suction-cupped his chest and hands and feet. A tall, rectangular machine dominated the sterile room with a mechanical beep, interrupted only by the shrill scrape of metal grommets holding up the curtains.

“Good evening, Mr. Commet,” said a nurse. “Someone’s hear to see you.”

She stepped away and behind her loomed a Marine. His uniform was just as starched as the hospital grounds, but the vibrant navy blue was a comfort of color. The gentleman startled when he met the sad, watery eyes of the old man. A speckled hand reached for his gloved white one; the Marine took it.

“Son,” he rasped. “I’m glad you came.”

Their clasped hands seemed to give a renewed strength to the patient, whose knobby wrists were flimsy with sleep. The nurse went about checking his IV and writing notes on a clipboard pinned to the wall. “This one here is a real flirt,” she said. The old man shared a secret smile with her. “Keep an eye on him for me. I’ll be back in a hour to check on you.”

Her soles squeaked along bleached tile and she left with all the others, leaving the old man and the Marine alone. No sounds but the mechanical orchestra of machines enveloped the room. The old man drifted in and out for several hours while nurses came and went, adjusting dials and adding blankets and asking if there was anything they could do to make him more comfortable? Through the quiet chaos, the Marine sat with pristine posture. He watched the staff occasionally, but studied the man with a guarded sadness. He, of course, was not unfamiliar with death. But this was undeniably different.

Midnight. The old man opened his eyes, suddenly intent on speaking. “Son, son...I never wanted you to go, boy, but there’s not a father alive who could be any prouder...” The Marine wished to gently shush him, but the old man continued. “I’m sorry I didn’t write...Your mother—” A fit of coughing interrupted. The Marine offered him water and the old man went on, continued with apologies and stories and advice. “She was so proud of you...both of us were...

“Listen to your superiors, boy, but don’t let them bully you. And don’t forget to wake up on time so they don’t razz you for sleeping in—you deserved it that time...” The Marine smiled at that. “Take care of everyone you meet...everyone is fighting their own battles...” He drifted on back to sleep with less resistance. After each fit of sudden worry to speak, he appeared less and less rushed to say something.

More than anyone could guess, the resolve of the Marine was slowly thinning. Death was different on a battlefield—faster—and all that they needed to say was already written in letters. Their unexpected call wasn’t quite unexpected. They didn’t have the time, nor the regrets, to wrestle with speeches like the old man did. Again he woke, this time to remind the Marine of his first trip to the principal’s office, how angry the old man was of this alleged fight, until he heard it was to defend a classmate. He knew, he said, when his teenage boy wanted to join the Corps, he remembered that moment and knew he would be a good Marine.

Sometime around two, he was ready for one last fragmented speech. The nasal tube wrapped around his face and looped over his ears chugged out hissing air, which battled the whispered words that came next. “Son,” he said. The Marine sat closer with tensed focus. “About that girl...I know you didn’t...didn’t want to put her through that...the distance...”

The Marine’s eyes widened. How did he know?

“...she was something special, boy...your mother and I liked her...but you, you did the most, boy...you hear what I’m saying? You liked her….and she liked you...”

He did hear. The old man grabbed his forearm and shook it with a desperation. “Listen to me, son...listen, don’t—” Another horrific fit of coughing took hold, hard enough to rattle the bed, and the Marine called a nurse. After she did what little she could do, the Marine sat down again, watching the old man’s paper thin lips. “Don’t sleep in….don’t sleep in…you hear me, boy? I’ll write to you when I die, but you can’t read the letter if you go and sleep in...” The Marine stayed close the entire time.

When the time came for the old man’s breath to stop and for the weave of monitor graphs to flatline, the hospital hardly stirred. Mr. Commet, with skin yellow and sickly as candle wax, lay in puddles of blankets with only a blank expression on his face. The staff didn’t rush around but approached the bed with solemn understanding. The Marine drew breath, held it, and let it go. His buckled shoes crossed the tile to the exit. His back was sore from sitting so long, but he didn’t mind. When he was halfway out the frame, a nurse called him back. “Sir, you’ll have to stay for a moment.”

“Pardon, miss?”

“Next of kin must fill out the paperwork.” She held a bundle of stapled packets. “There’s a just a few signatures we need from you.”

He gave her a polite smile. “I’m not his son.” Her eyes widened as he gazed at the body. “His real son was killed yesterday in combat, and I was sent to tell him. They told me Mr. Commet would be on seventh floor with the other cancer patients.”

“So you’re not related?”

“Tonight we were.”

He gave a respectful nod and walked away. He took the stairs and crossed the lot, out into the strange coolness of late night and early morning. As the rumble of the car engine thrummed home, he grappled with all the old man said, what he suspected his own father would’ve known and told him… When he reached home, he double-checked his alarm was set, smiling to himself. Then, he resolved to make the important call for tomorrow morning like the old man had told him to. And if she answered...Well, if she answered, he’d wait for her letter.