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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v115) (the February 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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A Beautiful Demise

Bob Strother

    Standing on the fourth step of the pull-down door, Wallace Mott surveyed his mother’s attic. Late morning sunlight stole through a slatted vent. Dust motes glowed like tiny fireflies as they crossed through the beams and then disappeared into the shadows. The air was still and close, musty, but not unpleasant. He sighed as he took in the trash and treasures of a lifetime: stacks of children’s books, an old phonograph, sheet-shrouded furniture, boxes and trunks full of who knew what.
    It had fallen to him, as the son and because he lived nearby, to make all the arrangements for his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t minded; he loved her deeply. She’d made it simple—living will, insurance and bank records easily accessible and meticulous, and a pre-paid burial plot next to Wallace’s father. She even had the music picked out for her service, all the more remarkable since she’d been in excellent health when she died.
    They were going to have lunch at the Anchor Inn that day, something they did most weeks during the summer, a time set aside to enjoy the lake view, reminisce, and talk of future plans. His mother was ten minutes late when he heard the sirens and got a funny feeling inside. He left the restaurant and took the route she would have traveled, hoping he’d meet her. Instead he found police and rescue vehicles gathered near one of the sharp curves overlooking the water. He parked and walked to the precipice, his heart beating an ominous rhythm in his chest. The rear of the burgundy Enclave bobbed in the sun-drenched water sixty feet below.
    A half-hour later, Wallace watched as the wrecker winched the Enclave onto the shoreline. Saw them place his mother’s body on a gurney. Cried openly as the ambulance pulled silently away.
    Now, the funeral service over, friends and relatives departed, he was left with the task of sorting through his mother’s belongings. He stepped up onto the attic planking and turned on a light. “Well, Mom, let’s see what you thought was so important you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.”
    By three-thirty, Wallace had compiled a preliminary list of articles that could be donated, those destined for the curb, and some he had no idea about. He supposed most survivors had the same problem—photographs and keepsakes that had meant so much to your mom or dad. No self-respecting son or daughter wanted to discard them, but what did one do with them?
    Carefully, he climbed down from the attic carrying a box of photograph albums. Inside one he’d found faded color shots of his mom and dad attached to the pages with “L”-shaped adhesive corners, and captions written in his mother’s hand. He took a seat on the living room sofa and placed the album box at his feet.
    Across from him above the fireplace, framed photographs lined the mantel—Wallace’s mother in her wedding dress and his father in his Army uniform, another with his father and their dog, Chang, sitting on the front steps. Yet another of his father in helmet and fatigues standing next to a troop transport truck. Jim Mott had been a handsome man and looked even more so in his uniform. At least his mom thought so, judging from the number of photographs his she had kept in virtually every room in the house.
    Wallace smiled, wishing he’d known his father. But he’d been a toddler when his dad was killed in Viet Nam. When he was older, his mom had taken his face into her hands and looked him in the eyes. “Your daddy died a hero, Wallace, trying to save his fellow soldiers. It’s important you know that. It’s the knowledge you’ll need to help you find your own place in this world as you grow up and become a man. Be honest and strong and courageous. If you do, your father will be proud of you and so will I.”
    Wallace had tried to do just that. Even when he’d seen the other boys playing catch with their fathers, shooting hoops in the driveway, or loading fishing tackle into their cars, he hadn’t cried. He’d wanted to, especially at his high school graduation, when his mother stood with him amidst the milling families and camera flashes capturing that “cap and gown” moment for posterity. When her eyes had misted over and she’d said, “Your father would have been so proud.” And finally, when Wallace’s unit came back from Iraq, and she was there waiting for him. She’d brushed her fingertips over the ribbons on his uniform and hugged him tightly. “You’re a hero just like your father,” she’d said.
    He hadn’t really been a hero, at least not in his own eyes, but it was enough that his mother thought so, and maybe his father did, too.
    Wallace got a Pepsi from his mother’s fridge then returned to the sofa and reached for the first album. He sipped the soft drink and began flipping pages, reliving vicariously his mother and father’s high school days. He smiled at one photo which showed his mom standing between two boys, one of whom was his father. It had been taken at some lake, he imagined, since they were all wearing swimwear. The boys were striking muscleman poses while his mom looked embarrassed.
    The next portfolio had few photos, but on practically every page his mother had pasted in letters she’d received while his father was in Army basic training. Wallace read through a few, noting that the news was always pretty much the same: nasty drill sergeants, hard work, bad food, endless routine, and an unflagging affection for Wallace’s mother.
    Photographs in the third album were largely taken while his father was home on leave following basic training. It showed the happy couple being married, leaving the church in a car with No Sleep Tonight scrawled on the rear window in white shoe polish, and honeymoon shots from what Wallace guessed was a Florida beach.
    The remaining few collections were filled mostly with pictures of Wallace as baby and a toddler. He skimmed through them, wondering idly if his early memories were really that, or if he’d manufactured them after seeing the photos at some point later in his life. Under the last album he found a stack of correspondence bound with a frayed rubber band. The return address identified the sender as the Department of the Army. Curious, he pulled the first letter out, removed the envelope, and smoothed the folded paper across his lap.

    Dear Mrs. Mott, it began. This letter serves to notify you that your husband, PFC James P. Mott, has been officially declared AWOL from his posting at Fort Irwin, California. Should the AWOL period extend beyond thirty (30) days, PFC. Mott may be considered to have deserted his post...

    The rest of the letter went on to state the potential ramifications of his father’s remaining on AWOL status, how that might affect spousal subsistence payments, and numerous other items.
    Wallace sat for a while, clutching the open letter, staring at nothing. Then he replaced it inside the envelope and opened another. This letter, dated a few weeks after the first, told of PFC Mott being arrested by the military police, stripped of his rank, and placed into incarceration. The third, some months later, dealt with his shipping out to Viet Nam.
    Well, Wallace thought, at least that was good news. This was the opportunity where his dad had redeemed himself for his momentary lapse of judgment—where he’d made the ultimate sacrifice to save his buddies. Who knew why he went AWOL? There might have been several justifiable reasons. Whatever they were he’d made up for it in the end, hadn’t he?
    Wallace’s good feeling was short-lived.
    The last letter in the stack had been crumpled at some point, showing wrinkles and creases even three decades hadn’t erased. He opened it and began to read. When he finished, he read it again. Then, in desperation, he reread the address on the envelope and rechecked the salutation. They were correct, of course, and the words written on the page undeniable. His father had been shot and killed while looting a storage facility on the Cam Ranh Bay Army Base outside Saigon. Further investigation had revealed his participation in a black market operation along with several other soldiers assigned to the base.
    A single tear rolled down Wallace’s cheek. He drained the last of his drink, tossed the letter into the box, and walked to the living room window. Outside, birds chirped, kids played in the street, and people went about their lives.
    He was still standing there when his cell phone rang.
    “Hey, babe, how’s it going?”
     “It’s going, I guess.”
    “Finding anything interesting?”
    Wallace turned and looked down at the box of albums. “Just the usual stuff—photos of Mom and Dad when they got married, baby pictures of yours truly, things like that.”
    His wife chuckled. “Bring some home with you. We can show them to Charlie, see how much y’all looked alike when you were younger.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, Charlie says you promised to play catch with him this afternoon. Maybe you can leave the rest of the sorting for another day.”
    “Yeah,” Wallace said. “I’ll do that. Tell him I’ll be home soon.”
    After Wallace rang off, he bundled up the letters, slipped the rubber band back around them, and tossed them in the trash. Then he walked to the mantle and picked up the photo of his mother in her wedding dress and his father in his uniform. They both looked very happy.

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