JPG: Stories: Photo Essay: Grace

Grace

By Abby Shaffer

1 May 2009

Jordan stared at her reflection in the frozen pond. It was going to be weird going home this Christmas, knowing that Bev wasn't going to be there. She sat down on the bench, her entire life crammed into the suit-case at her feet. She recalled the day she'd heard the news. That day like yesterday, like every day, it played over and over in her mind. It was still fall then. She stood in the Union watching a couple of guys getting hassled by a cop. She remembered joking with a friend about how the T.U. Police they only seemed to enforce stupid rules. Her phone rang, the number had surprised her.

"Colgan?" He never called. He hated talking on the phone.

"Bev's dead." He was blunt, but is there really any nice way to say someone's dead? Bev had been deployed in early September. His unit had been on patrol when they got caught off guard in a firefight. He was shot in the back trying to protect a wounded friend. They said he died a hero.

She remembered going to the graveyard. There had been protesters there. They'd shouted horrible things. She hadn't understood. When had it become ok to disrespect the dead? Whether you agree with the cause or not, no one deserved that. Now Jordan thought about Colgan and Bev's mother, she was a strong woman. She'd walked through that cemetery gate so proud, never turning to give the fanatics the satisfaction. She'd tried to hold her youngest son Michael close, to protect him, but when there's that much hate it leaches through even the strongest aegis. The service had been quiet, somber. Colgan sat with his mother and younger brother. There was nothing left in his expression.

The protestors hadn't left when the service was over. One particularly overzealous participant decided to spit in Colgan's direction. Big mistake. He cut out of line before anyone could stop him and punched the guy as hard as he could in the nose. The man fell bleeding on the grass. It had taken Dillon and four others to pull Colgan away, luckily before any police arrived on the scene. Jordan rode back with them to the house. Colgan sat in the back seat staring out the window and when they got home he'd made for his room and locked the door. Jordan remembered sitting on the couch with Dillon idly talking—he did that when he was nervous. It had been strange to think that just a few months before the house had been full of music and friends.

At dinner Colgan had come down stairs, he looked worse than before. There was a bloody bandage tied around his right hand and from what they could see his knuckles were torn up pretty badly. He mumbled something about a broken mirror. It was an awkward dinner. No one knew what to say, so no one said anything. After that, he'd left. Colgan had always been the one people went to with their problems, so where does a guy like that go when he's got his own? There wasn't any word from him that night or all the next day. It wasn't until a few days after Jordan had gotten back to school that she heard he had finally made it home. Dillon said Colgan was doing better, she hadn't believed him.

It had been hard at first, getting back in the swing of things. She'd wanted to be home and every day she worked in anticipation of the break. She buried herself in her studies and now that the semester was finally over she was nervous about going back-- what would she say?

Her phone rang, Dillon. She walked toward the garage looking for his old beige sedan, not prepared to see both him and Colgan standing outside the car. She took a deep breath and walked over. Dillon ran up and attacked her with a hug. She stopped in front of Colgan and they looked at each other. Loneliness lingered somewhere in his eyes, but there was something else there too. She couldn't figure it out. Maybe it was hope.