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Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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they—all the while they were speaking so politely but emotionlessly with us—mentally repeating to themselves:
Not me, not my family; please, God, don't let this happen to me?
It's not fair,
I thought.
It's not fair that it happened to Kevin.
The army guys' shaved heads made me think of those pictures we had snuck a peek at all those years ago—me and Dwight—Uncle Jack's pictures of the concentration-camp Jews. Americans were supposed to be the good guys. Americans were supposed to win.
But I'd seen enough war movies to know that sometimes the new young guy got killed, especially if he was showing off pictures of the family or the sweetheart back home. Kevin hadn't been foolish enough to be showing pictures of us, had he—or of Millicent Oschmann, whom he'd taken to the senior ball?
These are awfully stupid thoughts,
I told myself,
for someone who's just been told her brother is dead.
I tried to concentrate on what the army guys were saying, but my mind drifted back to World War II again. I remembered the man my father had had to shoot—the wounded one. I wondered if two army guys had shown up on his doorstep, with a telegram for his family.
"My son didn't want to go," Dad told these two army men, these strangers. "It was different in 1942. But I wouldn't listen."
"People got killed, even in 1942," one of them said.
"Yes," Mom whispered so fervently I was sure th'ere was a story there that I had never been told.
Mom was the one who ended up calling Uncle Bud and Uncle Jack to tell them what had happened.
Dad just wandered from room to room, or he'd arrange and rearrange meaningless things, like the pictures of us on the mantel—our formal school portraits, the snapshot he had taken of Kevin and Millicent Oschmann on their way to the senior ball. "Ifs just...," Dad would start, over and over, then he would shake his head, never finishing.
Mom was the one who selected DiVincenzo's Funeral Parlor and made the arrangements for Kevin's body to be picked up from the airport, and for the funeral service, and for everyone to come back to our house for a meal afterward. She snapped at Aunt Ida and Aunt Lise every time they tried to do what Mom estimated was something
she
was supposed to handle. Dad stayed out of her way. Maybe she would have accepted help from me, but I didn't know what to do, and seeing her bite off Aunt Ida's head once was enough to warn me off.
The only time Mom lost it was when Mr. DiVincenzo refused to open the casket. "You don't understand," she told him. "This is my son. He died in Vietnam. I haven't seen him since he left three months ago."
"I
do
understand," Mr. DiVincenzo said in that professional voice of his that never seemed stressed or flustered. "But the casket has been sealed."
"Unseal it," Mom told him, obviously on the edge of adding something along the lines of
you big, dumb fool.
But Mr. DiVincenzo was shaking his head, and he told her, "That can't be done."
"Maggie," Dad said.
Mom ignored him. "Is it soldered?" she asked in a voice that from me she would have called sarcastic.
Mr. DiVincenzo didn't take offense at her tone. "Please," he said reasonably. He hesitated, but obviously he wasn't convincing her with gentle stubbornness. "The body is prepared differently if there's going to be an open casket That hasn't been done."
I could see Mom forcing herself to be reasonable. "Well, have them do it now." She shrugged off the hand Aunt Lise tried to set on her shoulder.
"It can't be done now," Mr. DiVincenzo said. "Please try to understand."
"I
don't
understand. It doesn't make any difference. It's just for die family. You can close it again before the general viewing." She saw Mr. DiVincenzo's glance in my direction. "For me alone, then. I need to say good-bye."
I looked at Dad to see why he didn't say anything. I could see why from his face. I hated my mother at that moment because I knew she was backing Mr. DiVincenzo into a comer from which he'd have to say what Dad
Not me, not my family; please, God, don't let this happen to me?
It's not fair,
I thought.
It's not fair that it happened to Kevin.
The army guys' shaved heads made me think of those pictures we had snuck a peek at all those years ago—me and Dwight—Uncle Jack's pictures of the concentration-camp Jews. Americans were supposed to be the good guys. Americans were supposed to win.
But I'd seen enough war movies to know that sometimes the new young guy got killed, especially if he was showing off pictures of the family or the sweetheart back home. Kevin hadn't been foolish enough to be showing pictures of us, had he—or of Millicent Oschmann, whom he'd taken to the senior ball?
These are awfully stupid thoughts,
I told myself,
for someone who's just been told her brother is dead.
I tried to concentrate on what the army guys were saying, but my mind drifted back to World War II again. I remembered the man my father had had to shoot—the wounded one. I wondered if two army guys had shown up on his doorstep, with a telegram for his family.
"My son didn't want to go," Dad told these two army men, these strangers. "It was different in 1942. But I wouldn't listen."
"People got killed, even in 1942," one of them said.
"Yes," Mom whispered so fervently I was sure th'ere was a story there that I had never been told.
Mom was the one who ended up calling Uncle Bud and Uncle Jack to tell them what had happened.
Dad just wandered from room to room, or he'd arrange and rearrange meaningless things, like the pictures of us on the mantel—our formal school portraits, the snapshot he had taken of Kevin and Millicent Oschmann on their way to the senior ball. "Ifs just...," Dad would start, over and over, then he would shake his head, never finishing.
Mom was the one who selected DiVincenzo's Funeral Parlor and made the arrangements for Kevin's body to be picked up from the airport, and for the funeral service, and for everyone to come back to our house for a meal afterward. She snapped at Aunt Ida and Aunt Lise every time they tried to do what Mom estimated was something
she
was supposed to handle. Dad stayed out of her way. Maybe she would have accepted help from me, but I didn't know what to do, and seeing her bite off Aunt Ida's head once was enough to warn me off.
The only time Mom lost it was when Mr. DiVincenzo refused to open the casket. "You don't understand," she told him. "This is my son. He died in Vietnam. I haven't seen him since he left three months ago."
"I
do
understand," Mr. DiVincenzo said in that professional voice of his that never seemed stressed or flustered. "But the casket has been sealed."
"Unseal it," Mom told him, obviously on the edge of adding something along the lines of
you big, dumb fool.
But Mr. DiVincenzo was shaking his head, and he told her, "That can't be done."
"Maggie," Dad said.
Mom ignored him. "Is it soldered?" she asked in a voice that from me she would have called sarcastic.
Mr. DiVincenzo didn't take offense at her tone. "Please," he said reasonably. He hesitated, but obviously he wasn't convincing her with gentle stubbornness. "The body is prepared differently if there's going to be an open casket That hasn't been done."
I could see Mom forcing herself to be reasonable. "Well, have them do it now." She shrugged off the hand Aunt Lise tried to set on her shoulder.
"It can't be done now," Mr. DiVincenzo said. "Please try to understand."
"I
don't
understand. It doesn't make any difference. It's just for die family. You can close it again before the general viewing." She saw Mr. DiVincenzo's glance in my direction. "For me alone, then. I need to say good-bye."
I looked at Dad to see why he didn't say anything. I could see why from his face. I hated my mother at that moment because I knew she was backing Mr. DiVincenzo into a comer from which he'd have to say what Dad
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