There was a knock at the door. Perhaps, more of a rap then a knock, for I could barely hear the sound. Somehow, I expected her. It should have been me to go to her. I required time alone to process the news in my own mind. She needed me.

 Her sour face, wrinkles generous across her forehead, confirmed distress had reached its peak. A white head stretched up in a pitiful position; a bamboo cane prevented her from toppling forward. Bloodshot eyes angled up at me; her shoulders and top half-body slumped horizontal to the tiled floor, resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

She handed me the letter. Bent thin fingers clung shakily. Hard for her to let go, I thought.

“Read it for yourself. Read it.” She found her way to a wooden chair and huddled by the heat register. I could smell sauerkraut. Her face pale, as though she had smeared flour all over it. Cooking and baking reminded her of her mother in the old country. She hid herself in the kitchen cooking always, like some hide themselves in books. Oh, the heartaches she went through in Canada. Could it have been any worse in the Czech Republic before she boarded the plane to a better life?

What could I do to ease her pain? Maybe, a hug might do?  And so, I gave her one with difficulty. She taught us not to show our emotions. To store them away in a dark cellar. Only there were they allowed to flow incessantly. But, she couldn’t take anymore. A few tears slipped down a flawed trail. Ratty Kleenex in hand, she dabbed them as soon as they escaped. I turned away to provide her privacy.

Buddy fought the good fight. They were sent as Peace-Keepers.

Mother warned him while her fists pounded on his chest, and tears distorted her vision, “You won’t see me alive again once the troops leave Camp Shilo.” The thoughts of her own funeral beat her apathetically. The possibilities stripped Buddy’s insides, but he had made up his mind. The Canadian Army trained him to be tough—strong in character. Most of all, they pounded confidence into the men—all for the love of their country, and for the impoverished Afghanistan’s.

Terrorists! Those sick bastards utilized suicide. How can you fight that breed? Their resolve shone like a shooting star in 9/11 for the entire world to witness. America and the rest of the world sat stunned while glued to their T.V. sets.

Later, Prime Minister Jean Chrétien refused to join in the massacre of Iraq. Then the people elected a mascot for Bush. The Blue Beret Peace Keepers were given a new hat, and became combat ready aggressors.

 I can’t believe Buddy died by friendly-fire. How…how could it be? Killed by our American allies. ‘Accidentally’, the letter states. ‘We hate to inform you Buddy Frazer, admired by all his comrades in will be flown home tomorrow with the rest of the fallen soldiers killed in the same mishap. Plans for the funerals will ensue.  Sincerely, Captain Smiley.’

Another funeral. No disgrace eminent here.

Grandma raised Buddy and I. Katie, our birth mother, earned minimum wage as a waitress at some cheap joint close to where we lived. We couldn’t afford to buy a light bulb. The cockroaches gorged on our tastiest crumbs.

Katie ended up working the streets. A friend of hers introduced her to Madame Cloutier; a polished woman who ran the red light district.  Katie called it ‘take home money’ to keep Grandma and us boys off welfare. I don’t think to this day Grandmother knew what she actually did for a living. What Katie had to do to earn hard cash shaped her into a vile woman.

Grandmother we knew as ‘mother’. Katie? Well, Katie was Katie. She slept all day, dressed sleazy for her night job, and paid the bills. When I think of Katie now, and the hell she went through, I gag.

All her body-parts dissembled, loosely placed in a cheap card-board casket unopened at the funeral. Not many showed their faces to pay their respect.
 
Lucky for us. The black garbage bags had been located in a dumpster with a hand plunged through one. Long red fingernails she filed for defense; they ended up as evidence for the DNA. She would have been on the missing list. At least, we comforted ourselves in knowing swine no longer exploited her.

We had nothing to do with the funeral. Buddy’s casket, draped with the Canadian flag, appeared honourable. A twenty-one gun salute followed. Government officials embraced us, showing their respect. Every thing that could be done followed helping us through the ordeal. So unlike Katie. She fought a different war. No special service for her though she gave her life for her family. Katie attended the funeral that day. Proud as a peacock. There was a knock at the door.

Copyright:Beatrice Louise Hebel