Souvenir by James R. Benn

you wonder about that, about living? If making it out alive wasn’t maybe the most terrible loss of all?
    Fire.
    Jesus Christ!
    “You okay, Dad?” Chris whispered as the smoke drifted over the tombstones and the firing party returned to their positions. Clay looked at him, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open.
    “I—it caught me off guard, that’s all.”
    He shook off Chris’s hand on his arm. Who the hell did he think he was anyway, his nursemaid? The sudden movement left him unbalanced and he wobbled, slipping in the damp grass, regaining his footing after a brief flail with both arms. He felt his face flush, his mouth turned down in a grim frown. He wanted to go home, fed up with this foolishness. Bob was dead days now, put his body in the ground and be done with it. He didn’t look at Chris, or Addy. He watched as the folded flag was handed to Joanne, who cradled it in her hands.
    “Let’s go,” Clay said, and stalked off to the car. Chris could take care of Addy, he’d only be in the way.
    Bob and Joanne’s house was filled with people. Joanne’s house now, Clay corrected himself. Wonder if she’ll move. Florida? In with her daughter? Or will she stay here, with the memories embedded in the walls along with the family photographs and pictures of Bob in uniform? A small snapshot in a standup frame stood on the mantle. A black and white, nearly faded, of Bob in khaki, standing in front of a tent, a big grin spread across his face.
    Clay sat next to Addy on the couch in the living room. Folding chairs were everywhere and people scurried busily between rooms, trays of food, bottles of liquor, cakes on platters, all being transported to the kitchen and then dispersed throughout the house.
    “Clay, ah could eat somethin’” Addy said. When she said his name, she had to roll it around so it would come out right. It sounded like two words, Cla – ay. Clay smiled, hiding his secret wish that Addy might recover, speak clearly, walk easily with him. He felt ashamed, but couldn’t stop himself from wishing it. He patted her knee, pushed himself up and off the couch with a grunt, and walked through the narrow archway into the kitchen.
    Nodding at people he knew he should know the names of, Clay shuffled along in line, paper plate in hand, scanning the mounds of food set out on the kitchen table. Addy liked little bites, things that were easy to chew on one side of her mouth. Especially in public. He chose chicken salad for her, a small roll with roast beef for himself. He wasn’t hungry, but it gave him something to do.
    In the living room, Joanne was in his seat and Addy was holding her hand.
    “…blessin’. Coulda been so much wor…wor…been so bad,” Addy said to her. Some words defeated her entirely. Clay was never certain if she couldn’t say them or couldn’t remember how they ended. Either way, she was right. Bob was too young to go, but who was to say a sudden stroke now was worse than a lingering disease five years from now? It had been quick, out on the sidewalk on Colony Street, right after a cup of coffee at his favorite diner.
    “I know, dear,” Joanne said, “I know. Like Marcy Stevens, her husband had brain cancer. He wasn’t the same man after the operation, and she cared for him day and night. I don’t know if I could—” Joanne stopped, suddenly aware of Clay standing in front of them, holding two plates of food. She hesitated, not knowing what to say next. It wasn’t her place to comment on the ability of people to take care of each other, not with Clay and Addy.
    “Here, Clay, sit down,” she said, halfway up before he put a hand on her shoulder.
    “You stay, Joanne,” he said, as he handed Addy her plate. “I can eat a sandwich standing up. I’m not that decrepit.”
    “Yet,” said Addy. She smiled her odd half smile, as if she wore that theater mask, half comedy, half tragedy.
    “Sweetie,” Joanne said, leaning her shoulder against Addy’s, “I’m glad you’re