While they waited for their table at the Nile Hilton's Italian restaurant, Jan was struck by the crowd of people and the general lack of concern with the war that was raging less than five hundred miles away. Even more amazing were the lights. She asked the waiter to seat them next to the window overlooking the river. For the first ten minutes she did nothing but watch the boats and ferries moving up and down the Nile as she sipped her wine. With their lights blazing, it was easy to convince herself that there was no war, at least not that night. Perhaps, she thought, the American withdrawal would put an end to it.
When the waiter took their order, Jan asked for veal parmigiana with the largest plate of spaghetti they had. Fay laughed, reminding Jan that she would pay for every ounce of it for a month. Jan made a face, telling Fay that she was tired of living like a hermit and eating yogurt and salads, that the soul needed a good shot of Italian food every now and then.
When the waiter finished taking their order and left, Jan went back to looking out the window, thinking of what she would do once the U.S. forces were gone and Scott was back in town on a more stable basis. Fay sat across from her quietly sipping her wine, looking down at her glass between sips.
Several minutes passed before Fay spoke. "I heard you saw Scott today."
The mention of Scott's name by Fay caused Jan to jump.
"I'm sorry, Jan. I didn't mean to disturb you."
Jan, recovering her composure, wondered who had told Fay that Dixon was there. No matter — the damage was done. But was there more? Jan looked into Fay's eyes for some kind of sign. She didn't know what she expected to see; she never had been in a situation like this before. Seeing curiosity and not anger, Jan collected her thoughts for a second before responding. "Yes… he was there when we arrived, doing some kind of briefing."
Half in jest, half bitterly, Fay asked, "Did you manage to talk to him without scratching out his eyes?"
Cautiously, not knowing where Fay was going with the conversation, Jan answered yes, they had not even argued. It was the truth, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Fay paused, picked up her glass, and drank, emptying it in one long sip. Finished, she placed the glass on the table, filled it again, then played with the stem, slowly turning it, looking at the red wine, thinking. Jan watched her, not knowing what to expect. Finally Fay began to speak in a low tone, staring at the glass while she did so. "Jan, now that this thing is over, I'm going to ask Scott for a divorce." Pausing, she continued to fiddle with her glass.
Jan was fighting a dozen emotions, urges, and fears. The word "divorce" surprised her, then, in a flash, brought joy. In the next second the joy was replaced by fear — fear that someone had seen or, worse, heard Scott and her. So Jan sat there, outwardly as dispassionate as she could be, inwardly wanting to scream at Fay to continue instead of torturing her like that.
Lifting her glass, Fay took a long sip, then put it down. "I don't think I love Scott anymore." She paused, made a face, and shook her head, as if she were trying to erase her last sentence. "No — what I meant to say was that I don't think we love each other." Again she paused and thought about what she had said. Finally, with a questioning look on her face, she looked at Jan. "You know what I mean, don't you?"
With a straight face Jan simply nodded. "Jan, I thought that I could make Scott see… I mean, make Scott understand that I'm just not cut out for the Army anymore." Fay paused long enough to empty her glass and refill it before she continued. Her face was so serious, so intent, that it was streaked with hard, deep lines. She leaned over the table toward Jan, almost knocking over the half-empty wine bottle. "God, Jan, you don't know how horrible it is to go to another woman, a friend, and tell her that her husband is dead, that he's not coming home anymore."
Sitting up fast, Fay picked up her glass, took another drink, and put the glass down without looking, almost missing the table. "I did that. Sixteen times I did that. Ten of those visits were on one day… the third of August." Fay looked at Jan; her eyes were becoming glassy. "You see, Jan," Fay said cynically, "the boys had a hard day at the office." Pausing only long enough for another drink, she continued. "For weeks I lived in fear of the doorbell. Every time it rang I died a little, sure that it was another wife coming with the chaplain to tell me I was a widow." Fay put a mock smile on her face. "But do you know, that wasn't the worst of it. No. I thought that was hard. But I was wrong." She pointed a finger at Jan. "It's the funerals that get to you. They're so long. And so sad. And so…"
Fay stopped. For a second she fought back the tears. She looked away from Jan, out the window, taking deep breaths and clenching her jaw until she had regained her composure. When she continued, she didn't look at Jan, fearful that Jan would see the tears welling up in her eyes. Instead, Fay set her gaze on an object in the distance.
"The escort officer brings the widow and family to the cemetery in one of the limousines. A soldier opens the door for the widow and holds it until the escort officer comes around. He's the very image of the soldier: tall, straight, and proper, decked out in his dress blues, hair freshly trimmed, ribbons in place and brass gleaming. Next to him the widow — a woman in black — a broken woman. They slowly walk past the coffin. It's there already, with a clean, bright flag neatly draped over it. People on either side say nothing. They only bow their heads and avert their eyes when the widow passes.
"Once everyone is in place, the ceremony commences. A friend who knew the man, if any are left, says something. Mostly they mumble a few words that are meant to cheer the widow and her children." Fay turned and looked at Jan, a forced smile on her face. "They never do — the words, that is. They never make anyone feel good about what happened."
Jan could feel herself fighting back her own tears. She so wanted to get up and wrap her arms around her friend, to ease her pain. But she didn't.
Looking back out the window, Fay continued. "The chaplain follows. Like the friend, he tries hard to create meaning out of death, to provide a word that will put it all in perspective. At least they speak better. When he's finished, the officer in charge of the funeral detail takes over. From out of nowhere they come — the firing squad — eight of them. They advance at a slow pace, very deliberate, very precise. It's almost as if they want to prolong the agony, to remind everyone assembled that this is it, the last time the deceased will be with them. Once they're in place, the officer orders the firing squad to prepare. In quick, precise, mechanical moves the firing squad bring their rifles up and fire. I always jump. Three times the commander of the firing squad calls out his commands. Three times they fire. Then…"
Fay paused and took a long drink, emptying her glass again. "Those who have managed to hold their tears up to that point lose it as soon as the bugle starts. God, I hate that bugle!" Jan sat for the longest time and waited for Fay to continue, but she didn't. She just looked out the window, lost in her memories.
They remained silent, Fay looking out the window, Jan watching Fay. Only the arrival of dinner broke the silence. As the waiter put the plates down and arranged the meal, Fay looked back at Jan, forcing a smile. "I swore that I would never, never do that again. Scott promised me he wouldn't let it happen. But he lied. So now he can go tromping around playing the world-class boy scout all he wants. But he'll have to do it without me." Fay picked up her fork, stabbed at the veal, then looked up at Jan again. As she spoke, her face grew serious, deadly serious. "I refuse to wait patiently at the door like a good Army wife, waiting, waiting. I want a husband, not a folded flag and twenty-one shell casings."
Jan sat there for a moment, watching Fay begin to eat. She had never felt so awkward, so uncomfortable in her life. And the reason she felt so uneasy was not Fay's story or her unsolicited outpouring of sorrow. Jan felt uncomfortable because in the depth of Fay's despair, she had seen a glimmer of hope for her and Scott.