CHAPTER 21 - THE GREATEST GIFT

            I wore Michael's dog tag hidden under my clothing, next to my heart. Whenever I felt alone, my hand would creep to my chest where I would feel the outline of the metal beneath the fabric, and be assured that somebody cared. I was confident that if my parents should ever notice the tag, they would merely assume that it was Joey's. My father had already made several less than kind comments about the display of Joey's photographs and medals atop my dresser. He referred to it variously as an altar and a shrine. He would simply view my wearing Joey's dog tags as yet another manifestation of what he so disparagingly referred to as hero worship. 

***

            The next Sunday afternoon found me once again at Michael's front door. I had finally abandoned the pretense that my daily walks had any other purpose beyond visiting Michael. I was finished making up excuses to go to the corner store just so that I could "happen" to pass by Michael's house and stop to chat. No, today I was in a melancholy mood, and I just wanted to see my friend.

            The front door was open and through the screen door, I could hear music coming from the record player, Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs by Derek and the Dominos, aka Eric Clapton and friends.

            As I raised my hand to knock on the door, I noticed Michael in the living room beyond. He was shirtless, wearing only a faded pair of very comfortable-looking blue jeans. Only a few feet away, he was sitting in the large armchair with his bare feet resting on the coffee table in front of him. The breeze from a box fan in the window played gently with his silky hair like the fondling fingers of some unseen lover. His hands were folded across a washboard stomach and his eyes were closed. He appeared to be sleeping as he reclined in the chair listening to one of the true guitar gods of the 20th century musically agonizing over his love for his friend's wife.

            I was almost loathe to disturb the peaceful scene before me, but I risked a tentative tap on the door.

            Michael, meditative but not sleeping, sat up at once. Greeting me with a genuinely pleased smile, he rose and padded across the floor to admit me. "C'mon in, Magnolia! What brings you out and about on this nasty, hot day?" Michael was definitely correct in his assessment. We were facing yet another day of triple-digit temperatures.

            "Feel like some company?" I asked.

            "Your company? Always," he assured me, and there was something very tender in the way he spoke. "Want some tea?" he offered. Michael was always the considerate host. "Just made a fresh jug this mornin'. It oughta be good 'n' cold by now."

            "That'd be good. Thanks," I replied as I forced myself to gaze into his eyes, at the ceiling, at the light switch on the wall, and anywhere else I could think of to keep from staring at his perfectly sculpted and exquisitely bare torso.

            He must have noticed my embarrassment because he was wearing a white tee-shirt when he returned with two glasses of iced tea. Unfortunately, this tee-shirt looked as though it had been applied by an aerosol can of spray paint. I have a vivid imagination, and the snug fit of this particular garment didn't leave a whole lot to it. It was a shame that I felt too gloomy to properly appreciate the scenery.

            "Have a seat," he directed, and I settled myself on the sofa. "Did you sing with the choir this morning?" He asked, taking for granted that I had been to church. And, from his casual attire, I took for granted that he had not.

            "No, we had the day off. We had ‘special musical guests' instead. Some singing group from Baylor, I think." I was referring, of course, to the Baptist university in Waco.

            "They any good?"

            "Okay, I guess," I replied with a noncommittal shrug. "But I could've done as well. Or better."

            Michal smirked. "If you do say so yourself?"

            "Hey, I'm just statin' facts," I rejoined defensively, "An' I've been singing solos in church since I was three years old, so yeah, I think I've got a little room to talk."

            Michael was surprised. "Since you were three?"

            I shrugged again. "Yeah, I think Grampa Shannon instigated it. They took me up to the front of the church during the morning service, and someone held a microphone in front of me and told me to sing Jesus Loves Me. So I did. When they asked me if I knew any more songs, I offered to follow up with Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, but they declined. Narrow minded bunch, if you ask me."

            Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter. "I would love to have been a fly on the wall that day! You actually remember all that?"

            "Yeah, pretty much. I can remember everybody laughin' and me not knowin' why. Hey," I explained with another shrug, "I just liked singin' and a song was a song to me. My mom says I used to stand up in my crib and sing along with the beer commercials on television. I don't remember it, but I suppose I was probably just a little over a year old then."

            Michael shook his head in wonder. "Sounds like you were quite a handful, Magnolia."

            Under normal circumstances, there was nothing I loved more than just sitting with Michael, exchanging playful banter. Today, though, my heart really wasn't in it. The final notes of Layla faded into silence, and Bobby Whitlock began to sing Thorn Tree in the Garden. It wasn't the words as much as the emotion in the singer's voice that tugged at my heart. Sniffling, I remarked, "All the songs on that record are so sad."

            "Yeah, they are," Michael agreed, looking away for the briefest of moments as he added somewhat wistfully, "They're all about wantin' what you know you can't have." By this time, it was common knowledge that the song destined to become one of the best known anthems in rock and roll history had been inspired by Eric Clapton's love for George Harrison's wife.

            I sighed heavily, and Michael regarded me with concern. "What's up with you, Maggie Mae? You seem awfully quiet this afternoon."

            "Can't help it. Been thinkin' 'bout Joey," I confessed. "Today's been two whole years," a pause as I steeled myself to utter the words, "since he died."

            Michael understood better than anyone. "I know, sweetie, anniversaries can be tough." He gave my knee a gentle pat. "Anything I can do?"

            "Not really," I replied, shaking my head. "You just bein' here is enough. It's nice to have someone I can talk about Joey to. My dad never has much of anything to say . . . to me, at least."

            Michael gave me a sad little half smile, "Well, I'm happy to listen, darlin'. It's one of the things I do best."

            Listening was one of the things that Michael was very good at, and I found myself sharing memories of Joey. After a little while, Michael asked, "Do you wanna take a ride? We could go out to the cemetery if you like."

            Normally, I'm not sentimental about cemeteries. I don't think of my loved ones as being in those places. The divine spark that made them who they were has gone on to another place. Their memories remain in my heart. I don't have to visit a monument just to think of them and feel near them. Even so, on this day of days I'll have to admit that a visit sounded appealing. "I think I'd like that," I said, "if you don't really mind."

            "I'd be honored," he said, and something in the tone of his voice told me that he sincerely would be. "Just let me put on my boots, and I'll be ready to go."

            He disappeared into his bedroom, and I heard him moving around. When he emerged, he had changed into attire slightly more appropriate for a visit to the grave of a fallen brother in arms. He was now wearing a clean pair of blue jeans and a navy polo shirt. 

***

             The afternoon sun was relentless as we rode up Jacksboro Highway toward University Drive. Michael stopped near the entrance to the Rockwood Park Municipal Golf Course where a peddler was selling Tyler Roses from the back of a beat-up station wagon. Michael purchased a dozen roses for just a couple of dollars, and we continued on our way. Within minutes we had arrived at our destination, and I directed Michael to the Shannon family plot.

            Michael parked his motorcycle on the lane, and a hatchet-faced woman passing by glared at him for disturbing the sacred stillness with his noisy machine. He paid no attention, but I glared back at her, barely resisting a rather immature urge to stick out my tongue. Today I was in no mood for people whose only purpose in life seemed to be passing judgment on everyone else. I'd gotten my fill of those this morning at church. Seeing that neither of us had been cowed by her disapproval, she flounced indignantly away.

            I led Michael up the gentle slope to where a tall oak tree shaded the graves of my uncle and grandparents. As we walked the short distance in silence, Michael handed the bouquet of flowers to me. I knelt and placed them in the cemetery vase at Joey's grave, separating out a few blossoms for my grandparents' grave as well. Then I sat back on my heels to survey the effect and enjoy the cool shade. Michael sat down in the grass on the opposite side of Joey's grave.

            I looked first at my grandparents double marker, and then at Joey's single one, remembering a poem I'd once read. "My life closed twice before its close," I whispered, "It yet remains to see If immortality reveal A third event to me."

            Before I could quote the next line, I heard Michael finish the stanza in his deep and quiet voice, "So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell," he paused and looked at me for a brief moment before closing his eyes and reciting, "Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell."

            "Emily Dickinson," I whispered, wiping away a tear.

            Michael nodded.

            I shook my head, "After all this time, I'm still wondering why." I looked at Michael. "Pastor Barlow was talking this morning about how God has a divine plan for everyone's life, but I can't believe there was anything divine about this." I wiped at my eyes again.

            "I wish I had an answer for you," Michael said, "but I'm probably the last person to discuss theology with. I believe in God, and I try to do what's right, but I'm just a commonplace sinner like everybody else." He grew serious. "If the world was fair, Maggie, it would've been me who'd died instead of your uncle and instead of Father Frank."

            The thought horrified me, but Michael continued. "Think about it. When I was over there, there was nobody here waitin' for me. No family, no friends, no sweetheart. If anybody was ever expendable, it was me."

            I wanted to protest, but Michael went on, "Father Frank was a good man, too. In fact, he was the closest thing to a real father that I ever had. He had everything in the world to live for, an' he still took the bullet that was meant for me."

            By this time, Michael was tearing up, too, and his voice broke as he related the incident. "We were on patrol an' ran into a unit of VC. We didn't usually engage the enemy when we were on a mission, at least not that directly, an' it turned into a shootout. Afterward, we were searching the bodies for papers, y'know things like maps and information about troop movements and strength. One of the soldiers was playing 'possum, an' when I rolled him over, he had a pistol. He would've shot me if Frank hadn't gotten between us. Frank took the bullet that should have killed me because he loved me, an' he wanted me to live." Michael paused and wiped at his own eyes "Frank died because I was a medic, an' I couldn't save him." He bowed his head. "It was a gift I can't repay, but every day I try my best to be worthy of it."

            "I think you're worthy of it," I assured him. Perhaps I was about to reveal too much of my feelings, but I had to be honest, "An' you're wrong about there not being anyone waiting for you. Even if neither one of us knew it at the time, I was waiting for you." I looked down at Joey's grave. "I wish you could have met Joey. I think you would've liked each other."

            Michael nodded. "From everything you've told me about him, he sounds like a good man. I'm sorry we never had the chance to meet."

            I smiled for what felt like the first time all day. "He was a gentle soul, and I think you're like him that way."

            Michael shook his head and laughed. "Oh no, not me, honey," he protested. "I might be a lot of things, but I am not a gentle soul."

            "You are with me," I countered.

            He regarded me with affection, "If that's true," he said gently, "then it's only because you bring out the best in me."