Memorial Day

Joe dropped the phone receiver with a thud. Without a word, he walked through the dining room and and kitchen. As the back door slammed behind him, he heard his wife's shoes clattering in pursuit.

Evonne caught with him next to the newly-dug rows of their Victory garden. “Joe, what's the matter? Who called?” Evonne demanded.

A lump the size of a fist grew in Joe's throat as he fell to his knees. Evonne knelt beside him.

“Joe, are you sick?” she asked. “Do I need to call a doctor?”

Joe looked at his hands, now balled into tight fists. He could feel his nails biting his palms. Evonne's hands felt warm and small on his back.

“Look, Joe, just talk to me,” Evonne urged. “I'm sure it will be all right if you just talk to me.”

Joe tried to swallow, but the lump fought against his throat. In fury and anger, he raised his head and fists to the sky and began to howl. Evonne scrambled around her husband. Joe barely felt her pulling at his arms and grabbing his head.

The rage and scream abated, and Joe found himself laying on his side, his head cradled in Evonne's apron. He slowly sat up and faced his wife.

“He's gone,” was all he could say.

“Who's gone where, Joe?” Evonne asked.

Joe licked the tears from his lips. “Art,” he said.

Joe watched Evonne's face freeze, then crumple. Her hands found her mouth as her own tears sprang from her eyes.

“No, it's cant' be!” she cried. “Not Art!”

“Shot down over Germany,” Joe moaned.

“No, this can't be true! That's just crazy talk!”

Joe gathered Evonne in his arms. “I wish it were,” He sobbed.

Word Count: 295