Part 77 (1/2)

Because she has finally picked up on Mother Mitch.e.l.l's-or her mother's-suspicions that I am the reason she doesn't want to go home to Kan . . . Arkansas. That's why, stupid.

”Oh, how awful!” Bab's mother said, sounding sincere.

”She was on an Air Force medical supply aircraft that crashed,” Pick said.

”A nurse?”

”No, ma'am, she was a war correspondent.”

”Jeanette Priestman,” Babs Mitch.e.l.l said. ”Of the Chicago . . . Chicago . . . what?” what?”

”Tribune,” Pick said. ”The Pick said. ”The Chicago Tribune. Chicago Tribune. And it's Priestly, not Priestman.” And it's Priestly, not Priestman.”

”Sorry,” Babs Mitch.e.l.l said.

”Don't be silly.”

”My son and his wife, Major Pickering,” Mr. Mitch.e.l.l said, ”I still don't really understand why, recently became Episcopalians. The funeral service will be an Episcopal service. Are you familiar with-”

”Yes, sir,” Pick said. ”I was even an altar boy once.”

”Were you really?”

He's pleased. He doesn't think I'm trying to get-or have already been-in his son's widow's pants.

”Yes, sir, I was. And before that I sang in the choir of a church also called Saint Paul's.”

”Really?”

”Yes, sir.”

I think I just made the first goal for Protestant Episcopal Christian virtues.

h.e.l.l, make sure!

”Jeanette's body is being returned later this week,” Pick said. ”So I suppose you could say that Babs and I are trying to support each other. . . .”

Unless, of course, you are aware of the McGrory theory concerning two people of opposite s.e.xes who have both experienced an emotional trauma.

There was a Cadillac hea.r.s.e outside Saint Paul's Church, through the windows of which a flag-draped casket was visible. And a flower car. And several more Marine-green staff cars. And half a platoon of Marines, in dress blues. Two-thirds of them were carrying Garands, and the others were apparently pallbearers.

A function normally performed by one's brother officers.

But they're off on a Far East Deployment and thus unavailable.

Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l took Major Malcolm Pickering's arm as they followed Mr. and Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l and Babs's mother down the aisle of the church toward a reserved pew near the altar.

As Major Pickering dropped to the kneeling bench- So you haven't done this in years.

So maybe you're a little hypocritical.

So what? The point of the exercise is to convince Mr. and Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, Babs's mother, and of course Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l herself that you are not only a fine Marine Corps officer and gentleman, but a Christian gentleman who wouldn't even think of nailing Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l.

-he saw sitting directly across the aisle from him, in dress blues, Brigadier General Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC. Beside him was Mrs. Dawkins, looking like a slightly older version of the officers' wives who had been in Babs's- Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l's-apartment.

Both looked at him. Mrs. Dawkins smiled. He smiled back.

Marines carried the casket in and set it on a catafalque in the aisle.

The ceremony began.

It was, Pick thought, mercifully brief.

The Marines carried the casket back down the aisle.

Captain Kane came to the pew and indicated that it was now time for him to lead the widow back down the aisle and out of the church.

Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l took his arm, and he did so.

She didn't cry. But that doesn't mean she's not all torn up.

How do I know that?

Does it matter? I do.

On the slow drive to the cemetery, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l said, ”I was surprised the ceremony was so short.”

Well, that's the way we Whiskey-palians do it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and out of the church and into the ground.

”That's what d.i.c.k liked about the Episcopal church,” Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l said. ”The . . . I guess the word is 'liturgy.' I thought it was a beautiful ceremony. And d.i.c.k would have loved it when they sang 'The Marines' Hymn' as a hymn.”

The two squads of Marines who would fire the salute were already lined up, standing at parade rest.

Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l took Major Pickering's arm and he led her from the limousine to a line of folding chairs set up under a tent.

The pallbearers carried the casket from the hea.r.s.e and began to set it down on the casket-lowering machine.

”Oh, G.o.d,” Mrs. Babs Mitch.e.l.l said softly. ”I guess this is really it. Oh, d.i.c.k!”

When Pick looked down at her, tears were rolling down her cheeks and she had a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.

Without thinking about it, Pick put his arm around her shoulders.

Then she gave in to the sobs.

Pick gave her a comforting squeeze.