Two Coffins

Two Coffins


Part 1: The Happiest Day of My Life


        My seven-year-old feet barely skimmed the ground, sprinting home down the half-mile track of asphalt from the bus stop. Mom had instructed me not to tell anyone because she didn’t want kids “underfoot with so much setting up to do.” Besides, our tiny living room could only “hold a handful at once.” All day I had struggled to conceal my secret.

        Sunny and hopeful – today marked the delivery date of our first television set. My father had wired home enough money to buy it. Working in Alaska, far from our Port Orchard home, he shared a small apartment with my oldest brother, Donald, stationed in the Army construction corps.

        Until now, we kids had been at the mercy of Gary and Dougie Knight who owned the neighborhood’s first TV set. For a whole month, I had followed the same ritual: get off the bus, go home, wash up. Then head down the street to the Knight’s house where, at the magical hour of 4:00 p.m., eight buddies semi-circled the black and white Motorola, waiting for the next adventure of "Hopalong Cassidy." Dressed in black, like the outlaws, but with his snow-white hair and white stallion Topper, Hopalong always saved the day by defeating the forces of evil.

        A few commercial breaks simply gave us kids the chance to talk about the on-screen events. Then, the Ovaltine ad concluded, the TV transported us back to the Old West where Hopalong brought crooks to justice and made the world safe.

        "It's time," Mrs. Knight announced with her warm, freckled-faced smile. "Your folks will be expecting you." After Hopalong, we were obliged to leave. No “Lone Ranger.” Good manners and Mrs. Knight’s ground rules made it that way. Owning the first neighborhood TV saddled her with a sense of responsibility and bridled us kids with a sense of obligation. So, reluctantly, we shuffled off to do our chores and homework – later to listen to “Fibber McGee and Molly” or other radio shows.

        But today promised a difference. Since the new Philco console was scheduled for delivery this afternoon, Hopalong and others would now ride in my living room. Wanting to savor this moment, I slowed to a walk. Noting an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house, I puzzled, One of my mom’s friends admiring the new arrival? Eagerly I turned the door knob.

        Mrs. Nelson, our next-door neighbor, met me in the kitchen, her face wearing a grave expression. In the living room, Mrs. Lippert’s arms encircled my mother, patting her back softly. Mom was crying – sobbing and rocking back and forth on the threadbare, floral-patterned sofa.

        “Maxine, Gary’s home,” Mrs. Lippert gently coaxed.

        When Mom heard, she dragged herself to me, tears streaming down her cheeks, and hugged me close. “Donald’s dead,” she moaned.

        While my heart sank, I blurted out the question, “How?”

        “It was an accident. He was cleaning his rifle. The telegram said he died instantly."

        I clung to her and looked at Donald’s black and white photograph in his uniform, hanging on the wall. Glancing at the spot reserved for the TV, I noticed only the walnut, circular table holding the lamp with the faded, yellow shade. Then I shuffled to my room to shed quiet tears for a brother I never really knew.

        My body felt heavy, lying on my bed. Thoughts blurred, memories of my brother few. Donald was fourteen years older. I couldn’t even recollect living in the same house with him. I did overhear my parents say that he ran away from home once. They thought the Army might “shape him up.” I recalled struggling to carry his new bowling ball to his car after a Sunday visit. Its dead weight nearly overpowered me, but I endured until he rescued me and hoisted it inside his 1938 Plymouth.
       
        Words from the living room slowly drifted into the bedroom. My dad would arrive on Saturday. My brother’s body would be flown home. My dad would fly on the same plane. Funeral arrangements . . . . It all seemed matter-of-fact – like a grocery list. Sorrow for my brother filled me, but another emotion elbowed inside – anger. A few moments ago I was alive with anticipation; now, I felt cheated. At that instant, I hated Donald.

        Stupid! Stupid! Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. But instead . . . .  I closed my eyes, trying to shut out those wicked, hateful thoughts, but they hung around as I drifted into fitful sleep.

*    *    *    *    *

        The funeral took place one week later. Friends and neighbors attended. The pastor said nice things about Donald. He assured us that Donald’s death would serve God’s greater purpose.

With the organ playing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee”, people filed past the polished, metal casket to pay final respects. When I reached the open coffin, my father’s strong but trembling hands lifted me for a look. An overwhelming feeling of dread welled up within. I cried out “no” and buried my face in his shoulder afraid that even in death my brother would see my selfishness.

        Our first television set arrived the next day.



Part 2: The Metal Box


        “What are you doing in that ice box?” my mother’s voice rang out, a warning in her tone. I froze, but managed to answer as she approached with hands on hips.

        “Just getting some fishing gear for Blackjack Creek.” I was puzzled. That old refrigerator hadn’t worked in years. We used it as a storage cabinet in the utility shed behind our house.

        “Go ahead. Get all the fishing stuff you need, but don’t touch anything else, especially that metal box. It’s none of your business. Don’t ever open it! It’s private!”

        The metal box sat on the top shelf. Old, scratched up, with a broken lock – the lid was held shut by a thick, red rubber band. What could be private about an old metal box?

        I picked out some sinkers and hooks for the fishing expedition and left. Later, I returned with a small stringer of trout. Rinsing them in the utility room sink and needing a knife to clean them, I opened the old fridge. The forbidden box beckoned; my twelve-year-old eyes locked onto it. Recalling my mother’s warning, I checked outside. No one in sight; a peek wouldn’t hurt.

        I carefully slid off the rubber band, opened the lid, and peered inside. A brown, cloth pouch filled the space, supporting a stack of official-looking documents with one single airmail envelope perched on top – unopened and addressed to Mr. Donald Denton. My mother’s name appeared in the upper left corner.

        Donald, my eldest brother, had died five years ago in Anchorage, Alaska. My dad’s story remained consistent: “Donald was cleaning his rifle at the kitchen table late when it accidentally discharged.” Dad said he jumped from his bed and reached Donald’s side “before he hit the floor.”

        My father, scheduled to return home before Donald’s death, fell in love with Alaska and wanted to move the whole family. But Mom “put her foot down.” She said she wasn’t leaving “God’s country.” They owned a house on a half acre near Puget Sound, “plenty of room”. So, Dad gave in to Mom’s demands, gave up his dream, and returned home – with Donald’s body.

        Tempted to open the envelope, but knowing I would be caught, I sighed and returned the unopened letter to the box, closed the lid, and slipped the rubber band in place. No one ever found out.

*  *  *  *  *   
   
        Thirty years later my parents died within six weeks of each other. A massive heart attack struck down my father without warning. However, my mother had suffered from chronic complaints for a number of years – ever since Donald’s death. Because my father was her caretaker, it surprised no one when my mother followed him so soon.

        My sister, brother, and I sifted through the stuff that years are made of – for my parents, a lifetime of memories. However, only a few things held meaning for us. We arranged for the sale of the home, claimed things we wanted, organized an estate sale, and gave the rest away. Neither my sister nor brother knew anything about the metal box . . . . I claimed that forbidden fruit.

        Weeks elapsed before I dared explore the box. One evening, I finally lowered it from my linen closet, red rubber band still intact, and carried it to the kitchen table. My eyes examined the dull, steel container unchanged with broken lock and scratches. Its power still lingered from my mother’s warning, “Don’t open it! It’s private!” The passing years could not mute her voice.

        When I started to slide the brittle, rubber band off the box, it broke and fell, unresisting to the table. Opening the lid wide, I stared at the undisturbed contents. I placed the unopened, airmail letter to one side and scanned the documents of condolence and inquiry written by officers of the Army base. One read, “He was pronounced dead on arrival at 3:00 a.m., 22 March, 1951 . . . following a gunshot wound in the right temple.” The words startled me. My father was wrong; Donald’s death was no accident. A rifle shot to the right temple indicated my brother had taken his life. However, officially, they ruled his death “accidental, occurring in the line of duty.” The decision allowed my brother’s body to be flown home at government expense and buried with military honors.

        Next, I pulled out the pouch. Lying on the table, it remained rectangular in shape from so many years encased within the box. Unfastening its drawstring, I released the contents one by one: cigarette case, a wallet containing a snapshot – my first grade photo. The two small cardboard boxes contained U.S. Army belt buckles, cuff links, tie tacks, and Donald’s eyeglasses – the left lens broken when he fell.

        Last, my eyes moved toward the unopened envelope addressed to Donald, the words “RETURN TO SENDER” stamped on the front. The postmark read March 20, 1951, two days before his death. I sliced it open and began reading the letter.

        Most of it was newsy – telling about us kids. Mom made an attempt at humor: “Been thinking that you would write but came to the conclusion that you have the writers cramp.” Then I read the haunting lines, opening a window to my mother’s heart: I’m glad your Dad is finally coming home. Just hope I’m doing the right thing about him quitting (the Alaska job) . . . . I just couldn’t see selling the house and moving up there. We have just the kind of place we have wanted all our lives – a place to raise chickens and a lovely garden spot. And you know how your Dad loves to fiddle around in the garden and yard.    . . . Well Honey work hard and make good. Your Daddy wrote you were doing fine and he was very pleased. Bye now, Love, Mom.

        I sighed. After all these years I understood my mother’s denial of truth regarding my brother's death. I could hear her question: What could I have done differently? And her answer: I could have moved the family to Alaska. She blamed herself for Donald’s death, and the metal box became a miniature coffin where his personal effects and cause of death were laid to rest.

        Aware of the taboo of suicide during the 1950’s, I understood her motives. But I wished she had faced the truth. Donald’s death remained an accident to her. Maybe she believed it. But her chronic illnesses since his death declared otherwise. By choosing self-deception over the truth, she allowed her guilt over the death of her oldest son to haunt the rest of her years – neatly wrapped and buried inside the metal box.