Angry and frustrated, she had not slept for almost two days. Their mother had passed away, and the funeral was scheduled for that day. They really could not put it off any longer. She reported to her father, almost shamefully, that nobody could locate his two sons. Her father looked away, sad. “Bring the boys home,” was all he said, then walked away.
Karen turned her coffee cup in her hand, looking out the window, recalling the events of the past few days. With the help of the bourbon, she had not cried, but her eyes remained moist, ready to gush whenever the switch flipped. She watched curiously as a sedan pitched and rocked, slowly making its way to the house. By then she could see some writing on the door of the car.
Usually, uninvited visitors in that part of the country did not bring good news. Had she paid the taxes this month, she wondered? Was she behind on her fertilizer payments? As the car parked in the gravel lot to the front of the wooden porch, she read the words: u.s. government on its side. The car stopped, and she watched the blond woman step out of the driver’s seat. She was wearing a nice blue dress with high heels. Karen checked her own visage in the hallway mirror as she stood. Trademark ponytail yanked into a knot revealing a fresh, sans-makeup look.
The funeral was not for another two hours. What could she be doing here? And who was she? She let the woman knock on the door.
Walking to the door, she pondered what bad news the woman would bring. Her mother was dead, her father was ill, and she had been in her room crying for two days. Where she got her strength, she did not know. But it seemed to grow with each passing moment. For some reason she knew she could hold on. Opening the door, she stared at the mountains behind the woman’s pale hair.
She could feel their strength building inside her, as if her mother’s passing had left something tangible in her character; another I-beam. She would need it.
“Hi. I’m Meredith,” she said, seeing Karen in person for the first time. “You must be Karen.” Meredith looked at Karen’s clean face, so fresh and pure. Her eyes were penetrating, like they knew what she was thinking.
“That’s right,” Karen said, blankly, not making a connection. She held the door open with one hand, her body blocking the entrance to the wooden foyer.
“Karen, may I come in for a second? I’ve driven down from DC.”
“No. Let’s sit on the porch,” she said, closing the door behind her, as if to protect what remained of her family from the intruder. The porch was a typical farmhouse addition. The roof hung over a high wooden structure that had old metal chairs that would rock if one leaned back in them hard enough. The red bricks from the house were stained with red clay. She let the screen door slam behind her and walked over to a metal chair, taking a seat.
“I’m sorry, Meredith, did you say?” She cupped her hands on her knees. “The funeral’s not for another two hours—”
“I’m so sorry for the loss of your mother,” Meredith responded, covering her mouth with her hands. She had been traveling for the past two days on her return from Palau. A secretary had told her that Matt’s mother had died and that a woman was trying to get in touch with him for the funeral.
Her first stop, though, had been at the home of Chief Warrant Officer Ron Peterson outside of Seattle, Washington. She accompanied the casualty-assistance team on their grim notification duties and passed Ron’s identification tags to his wife, as she had promised Matt. Now, having just arrived on the East Coast, Meredith was exhausted, but decided to travel to the farm, two hours away, immediately, and inform the Garrett family of the situation.
“Karen. I have some information on Matt and Zachary,” Meredith started.
“Yes,” Karen said, eyes darting up quickly, “tell me.”
“Both of your brothers are in the Philippines. We have communications with Zachary, who is in the jungle with his company. They have been fighting, but he is fine. Matt,” she sighed, “Matt …” She hesitated again.
“What’s happened to him?” Karen screamed as she stood and approached Meredith dangerously.
“Karen, Matt’s been taken hostage by some Filipino rebels,” she said, finally.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she screamed. “My family. What’s happening to my family?” Meredith stood and hugged her, dropping her purse on the wooden porch. Karen was limp in her arms and actually pushing away from the bearer of bad news. Meredith’s clutch was too tight, though, and they both were crying.
“We’ll get him back. He’s special, I know.” Karen hugged Meredith back, more from lack of strength than for any other reason. The dam of stoicism burst under the relentless pressure. Even the bourbon couldn’t help. The news had sapped her strength the way the sun sucked the life from a man stranded in the desert. She felt isolated, with nowhere to turn, so she held on to Meredith for no particular reason. She could not show her father such emotions. She had to be strong for him.
But her father watched from the field. He saw the two hugging on the porch and had heard her scream. Once again, he dropped his hoe, took a knee, and grabbed a fistful of dirt, squeezing tightly, trying to wrench one more drop of good fortune. He knew that something was badly wrong and only wanted to make it right. His family had toiled hard for decades. They had served their country better than most.
Looking at the loose, red dirt in his hand, he prayed for the safe return of his boys. “Bring the boys home,” he said, loudly and with passion. “Bring the boys home!” he screamed at the heavens, arms stretched high reaching toward the God he knew and loved.
Karen retrieved her father, and they moved inside to the parlor, as they still called it in the Garrett house. Karen had started to fix coffee, but Meredith quickly took over, floating around the kitchen as if she had lived there forever. Soon she came out with a tray of coffee and hot tea. The Garrett family drank heartily, warming their dank spirits. Meredith repeated the story, this time with less emotion on both sides. She said that the Departments of State and Defense were doing everything they could to get a handle on the situation. Meredith tried to be positive, talking up the actions of Zachary’s company. Word had gotten back to the Defense Department that he and his soldiers had acted bravely, she told them.
“I expected nothing less,” Mr. Garrett said, proudly.
Then Meredith told them about the airplane and how lucky Matt was to be alive. She choked on her words when she said it, but she was looking for something positive. It had backfired, though, only serving to underscore the gravity of the situation.
Meredith stayed with the family that day, attending the funeral and meeting many of the fine people of Stanardsville, who had always relied so heavily on Karen and the rest of the Garrett family. They reminded her so much of her own family and friends from her part of Virginia. The accent was the same: Elizabethan English. They all pronounced their “ou” words with the same throaty mountain drawl. The “u” was never silent. “House” became a two-syllable word, stressing the long “u.”
It seemed that everyone from town came to the funeral. The Reverend Early arrived beforehand and consoled Karen and her father. He delivered a warm and powerful eulogy, describing their mother as a woman of the soil. Recalling her family tradition throughout the county, he quoted from Romans 11: “If the root is holy, so are the branches.”
“Elizabeth Garrett was a loving and caring person,” he had said. “Someone who would give a stranger water if he was thirsty, someone who would feed a starving man, someone who provided for her family without complaint. She was holy, and her life produced three holy “branches,” two of which are not here. She was a rock, and the Blue Ridge formed around her; indeed this community formed around her. And now she returns to the soil that sustained her, the dirt she had tilled and caressed.”