"Take This Man" by Kathleen Cochran

"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."