"Take This Man" by Kathleen Cochran

An excerpt from the first chapter of this novel. Available on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/Take-This-Man-Kathleen-Cochran-ebook/dp/B00FFLAZA4

"Karla. Can't you say anything pleasant about your ex-husband?"

"Yes. He's dead."

***

That was a week ago.

Three women sipped from their coffee cups, cast in the Limoges

pattern selected by this law firm for the sole purpose of impressing

their current and any potential clients. These attorneys did not

leave such details to chance. They were very good at making sure,

in any set of circumstances where there was money to be made,

they were the ones to make it - for their clients of course.

Sometimes they represented corporations, sometimes whole

countries, and sometimes individuals.

Washington, D.C. was a place where any one of those entities

could offer such a challenge to a group of legal eagles who were

always on watch for the next lucrative prey. Like these women, for

example. Today the firm was representing a man who had recently

passed away, leaving behind an estate to be divided among his

heirs. Those heirs were primarily these three women.

The beverages being sipped were telling indicators of the

differences between the ladies. One ordered coffee - black no

sugar. One replied to the offer with a hesitant - decaf, please, with

extra cream and three sugars. And the third at first said, "Nothing

for me thanks," but with urging accepted a green tea with lemon,

"thank you very much".

Attorneys at Braxton, Braddock, Bedford and Associates, were

accustomed to pandering to the rich or soon to be. It was their

stock in trade. But of all the myriad glimpses into the human

condition these lawyers had experienced in their century-plus of

will reading, from the ridiculous to the sublime, this reading was an

odds-on favorite to be the stuff of telling and re-telling over fingers

of Johnny Walker Blue Label for years to come. And with three

women involved and only one deceased husband, the smart money

was on the ridiculous - not the sublime.

The women sipped, seated on three sides of the conference table

that mirrored their imagines in its high gloss finish. The imagines

were also accompanied by reflections of the china settings, a

centerpiece of fresh yellow roses and blue iris in a Waterford

crystal bowl, and issues of The Washington Post, The Wall Street

Journal, and The New York Times, Monday, May 23, 1994,

editions. An attorney who held their collective fate between the

crisp pages of the last will and testament would take his place at the

head of the table when the precise time for the reading arrived.

That was only moments away. For now, the women sipped - each

lost in thought, wandering through her own memories of the

events a mere six days past.

***

Other places are quiet.

Arlington is still.

The cherry trees, the stark white crosses, the Stars of David, the

winding avenues ascending to the Custis-Lee Mansion; all that is

Arlington.

It is funeral teams in Dress Blues. Statuesque. Eyes front.

Shoulders back. Not a wrinkle on their uniforms. Not a shadow

on their brass. The sun glinting off the luminescent steel of fixed

bayonets. Every deep blue jacket embroidered with decorations in

flawless alignment as per troop-adopted regulations not yet written.

Every pair of bright blue trousers showing a bold golden stripe

down the full length, straight as an arrow on men standing at

attention out of respect for their fallen comrades. Some of those

comrades fell on battlefields that are still hot today with M-16 fire.

Some died in their beds with uniforms hanging in their closets that

had only seen service in feeding the mole population for decades.

Today it was an officer drop. The First Battalion of the Third

Infantry, better known as The Old Guard, did hundreds of them

every year. Their assigned station was the place they knew as "The

Garden." Honoring America's soldiers who have gone on to their

reward was the duty they pulled. These men performed proudly,

professionally, and sometimes consciously. They could do it in

their sleep. The march, the turns, the gestures were not any

different this time from all the times, all the times before.

It was rare, though, to do a drop for nobody but the corpse and

the Arlington Lady. Arlington Ladies were blue-haired volunteers,

mostly wives of retired officers living in or fertilizing the D.C. area.

One Arlington Lady came to every funeral as a courtesy and

insurance that all protocol was properly observed. The conviction

among these black-draped, grief groupies was that even if this Full

Colonel being buried today didn't rate a single mourner, by Army

regulation he rated as dignified a ceremony as a Patton or an

Eisenhower. If they are all going to push up fescue together, they

all deserved a proper burial - the famous all the way down to the

known but to God.

The soldiers stood there. Gazing past the flag-draped casket.

Hardly blinking. Allowing movement in their chest cavities barely

sufficient to sustain much more life than the corpse. The rookies

might wonder how this bastard bought it. The vets knew better

than to give a damn.

As the team went through their paces, a white limousine slowed

to a stop at the curb. It would have gone totally unnoticed except

for one fairly green troop who had it directly in his eye line with

white marble grave markers framing the polished Lincoln. As it

became his focal point, he remembered a late model limo roaming

the area earlier. It was not a particularly familiar sight in The

Garden, most non-military vehicles being confined to tourist

parking.

Without moving his eyes from the required straight-ahead

position, he saw the chauffeur emerge, open the rear door and,

without a doubt, a woman's leg appear. This was where the years

of self-denial and dedication paid off. Only a Strack, gung-ho type

troop could master this skill. With perfect appearance of attention

in posture and eye position, the soldier's acutely developed

peripheral vision allowed him not to miss the emergence of a first

class pair of legs. A lesser soldier would have missed the show.

What he saw could be cataloged as three-inch burgundy heels

tapered to show a delicate instep, slender ankles, artisan calves

nicely tanned, and a straight, dark gray skirt starting just above

sculptured knees then stretching slightly over what had to be satin

smooth thighs. Then a subtly plaid gray and burgundy jacket

cropped at a hand-spread of a waist, flaring to reveal an open collar

white blouse that was obviously silk; moving with breasts the way

nothing but silk can. If only, the soldier thought, they gave a medal

for this.

Dark auburn hair was close-trimmed around a delicate face in

what would have been a severe style except for a burst of soft curls

at the top of her head falling into bangs just above her large green

eyes. She didn't appear to be wearing much make-up, and she

didn't appear to need much. This woman looked to be in her early

forties or late thirties: alluring but commanding. The kind of

woman who could hurt you, the soldier thought. But if given the

chance, he'd play with pain - gladly.

She approached the casket deliberately, ignoring even the

Arlington Lady. She exhibited no evidence of crying, and she shed

no tears over the coffin. She positioned herself beside the gaping

grave, opposite the casket team and its burden. At this point, the

young soldier lost the stunner from his line of sight and turned his

attention back to the task at hand.

The Army Chaplain officiating the ceremony nodded towards the

woman and began an enthusiastic reading of the twenty-third

Psalm. Now that he had a genuine audience, he allowed his

bellicose words to be carried on a northerly breeze. Before he

could conclude his Shakespearean recitation, a yellow cab pulled up

behind the limo, distracting the Mac Beth out of him.

The front door of the cab opened, and a woman could be seen

leaning away from it, apparently paying the driver. With some

difficulty she had climbed out of the low car parked too close to

the inclining curb. "Heavy-set" would describe her graciously.

"Petite" would also be kind. "Oriental" would boarder accuracy.

She was most likely Korean from the wide face and narrow slit

eyes. She wore a multicolored floral dress that would define the

word "frumpy."

One of those frizzy permed hairstyles was cut too short to fall

nicely around her face but was left too long to stay neat in the

breeze. She had to be 45 or more, and she seemed more concerned

with getting her change into her worn wallet while pulling her

black, cardigan sweater closed around her barrel chest than with

the notion anyone might be watching her. She almost staggered to

the grave site, collecting her shoulder bag along the way.

Stopping at the foot of the casket, the woman took several

moments to arrange herself. She became aware of the Chaplain still

working his way through the Psalm, made the sign of the cross,

and bowed her head to stare at the pile of mud at her feet.

The Chaplain came to the last chorus, "And I shall dwell in the

house of the Lord forever. Amen."

The frumpy woman repeated the Amen and crossed herself

again. As the rifle team moved into place, a late model, white

Grand Am pulled up behind the D.C. cab, the driver's door

opening abruptly. A rental decal was displayed on the trunk, which

is as far as the young woman got before realizing she'd left on the

lights. She did a combination skip-run back to the driver's door,

flung it open and extinguished the lights. It was a sunny morning

and, not being part of a funeral procession, the headlights were not

required. Perhaps this young woman thought being in a cemetery,

probably for her first time, was reason enough to observe this

protocol.

She was definitely a natural blonde because no woman would dye

her hair that dirty-yellow color intentionally. She had cow brown

eyes and eyelashes exceptionally dark for the rest of her coloring.

She was young looking, but not particularly pretty. Five feet, two

inches would be a good guess at her height. Fully-pleated gray

pants and an oversized, black blazer hung on her too-small frame.

She appeared to be solemn from her appropriate facial expressions

and too young to be present at a funeral unaccompanied. She

lined herself up with the burial team as if becoming a part of it.

Her eyes stared straight ahead, becoming expressionless, while

awaiting the team's next command with obvious knowledge of the

progression of the ceremony.

Three authentic mourners: an ageless babe, a frumpy broad, and

some kid girl, made up the entire assembly to see this Full-Bird

planted. The volleys of the twenty-one-gun salute rang through the

stillness. Three volleys with seven rounds each for Colonel Michael

Jefferson Madison, III. Kid Girl stiffened, squared her shoulders,

and stood at attention but was involuntarily jolted by each

explosion. Ageless Babe stood unmoved by the gunshots, as if she

didn't hear them. Frumpy Broad made it obvious that she had no

idea what the Hell was going on, jumping with every blast.

"Jesus Christ," she blurted out holding her hands over her ears

and twisting and turning to locate whoever was making the racket.

Kid Girl flashed a disapproving glance in her direction. Ageless

Babe just stared off into the distance, composed but braced for the

next portion of the ceremony: the always-unnerving strains of

"Taps."

"Day is done . . ." As the bugle tribute was played all three

women were frozen by the simple notes clearly sounded over the

funeral party. Only Ageless Babe moved in any noticeable way.

She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and held it until the last

strains were carried away by the breeze.

The casket team began the mechanics of folding the flag,

denuding the coffin. Movements honed in repetitions, faithful to

traditions never questioned. The same gesture of respect regardless

of race, religion, regardless even of that most sacred to the military:

rank. Protocol dictated Old Glory in a triangle be presented to the

deceased's wife; if none, parent; if none, child; if none, nearest

relative along with the delivery of the same remarks: "-with the

thanks of a grateful nation."

The Officer in Charge made no excuses for the fact that, at this

one-for-the-saloon-stories-drop, you couldn't tell the players

without a program. The service began with only those present who

were under orders to be there plus the always-faithful Arlington

Lady. It was ending with the arrival of three unannounced women.

Who they were and what their reasons were for being in attendance

was anyone's guess.

The OIC, a Colonel, required to render honors to his fallen

comrade of the same rank, made a rapier about-face at the head of

the coffin and, using the full dignity of his command voice, broke

the silence. "The flag will be presented to the nearest family

member of the deceased. Is Colonel Madison's wife present?"

Ageless Babe, Frumpy Broad and Kid Girl all stared directly at

the officer and made this drop even more bizarre with their

response. All three answered in one voice:

"I'm his wife."