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Molly’s Fire Chapter 5: The Service
The organ played softly in St. Luke's Church. All the pews were full. Molly had recognized nearly everyone when she'd walked in. All the kids from school sitting by their parents. All the teachers, fishermen, shopkeepers -- everyone from Keenan seemed to be there. Molly knew them all, but there were a few elderly men and women sitting in the back near Jane and her grandmother whom Molly had never seen before. She thought they might be farmers, people who knew her dad when he was a boy growing up outside of Gainsville. Molly fiddled with her white gloves and took a deep breath: candle wax, perfume, sweat, all familiar church smells. She'd make it through if she pretended it was just another Sunday service. She didn't have to listen to anything Reverend Olson said. She could lose herself in the pattern of the stained-glass window behind the altar. Jesus in the clouds, the angels at his feet singing. But what about after? What about the part where she had to stand beside the gravestone? The Birminghams came in, walked right up to the front pew across from Molly's family, and sat down. Molly turned and met Peter's dark eyes. His brows lifted. She blushed and faced forward. She was here for her mom. Her mom needed her to sit through this. It didn't mean anything. She wanted Peter to know that. A ray of purple light fell through the window. Molly followed the shaft as it touched the tip of the cross, cascaded down the choir loft, and came to rest on a tall bouquet of carnations. She took off her glove and felt in her pocket for the piece of blue glass she'd brought. Not red, she reminded herself as Reverend Olson stepped up to the lectern, his back cutting into the ray of purple light. The reverend cleared his throat and leaned over the lectern, staring at the congregation. People coughed, shuffled in their seats. Adjusting his glasses, he said, "Please join with me and sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers,' page two hundred thirty-four in your hymnal." "Daddy's not a soldier," said Kevin. "He's a fighter-pilot." "Shhh," warned Mom. They stood to sing. Molly dutifully marched the words through all three verses till the last note died away, then sat down again, relieved. Reverend Olson sighed and ran his eye along every row of parishioners. Hymnals were closed and slipped into the backs of the pews again. Everyone hushed. "We're here today to honor a brave man," he began. "George Fowler was a family man, a fisherman, an ordinary man in many ways, at least that's what we may have thought. But George was no ordinary man. He was a hero. It took a war to show us that." He paused and pulled a letter from his Bible. "I have here a letter from Waist-gunner Sergeant Frank Murphy. Mrs. Fowler wanted me to read it to you today." He unfolded Sergeant Murphy's letter. Molly clenched her blue glass and looked over at her mom. She hadn't told her Reverend Olson would be reading the letter. The reverend cleared his throat. "This letter was written seven months before George Fowler's death. It tells the story of the heroism that won George Fowler the Silver Star last February. The letter begins, 'Dear Mrs. Fowler: I'm writing to you and your family from my hospital room. I want you to know I'm alive today because of Lieutenant George Fowler.'" Molly closed her eyes. She'd read the letter so many times, but she'd never heard it read by a man. "'Several weeks ago,'" continued Reverend Olson, "'on February 24, 1944, our B-17 was separated from the formation and attacked over France by a swarm of enemy fighters. A blast hit our center section, tearing through the landing gear and wounding Sergeant Mathews and myself. I got a piece of metal in my side and was losing blood fast. With only the Tail-gunner left to defend us, it was just a matter of time before we were hit again. This time the blast damaged our left wing. We lost altitude. With Messerschmitts gunning us from all directions, we thought we were goners, until Lieutenant Fowler saw the mess we were in. He flew down in his Thunderbolt and fought them off one by one as we raced toward home.'" Molly glanced over at Peter. His eyes were wide, a look of awe on his face. "'It was one against five,'" continued Reverend Olson, "'but Lieutenant Fowler didn't let up until we were safe. His plane was hit over France. He bailed out over the English Channel a few minutes before our plane hit the runway.' "'Minutes later, my buddy and I were rushed to the hospital. Both of us made it.'" Molly tried to swallow, her tongue was too dry, her ears were ringing. "'After my surgery, I learned the RAF had rescued Lieutenant Fowler from the channel. I have to say I was glad to hear it. I wanted a chance to personally thank the man who saved my life. "'I'm proud to say I was on the mission that won Lieutenant George Fowler the Silver Star.'" Reverend Olson looked up, slowly removing his glasses. "My daddy did that," said Kevin. Molly reached over, took his hand, and held it as Reverend Olson talked on about the hardships of war, the sacrifices. She didn't let go until he asked them all to pray. Mom, Kevin, and Grandma were on their knees. Molly knelt and bowed her head. She'd pray, but not for someone who was dead. She'd ask God for a sign. For some kind of sign.
Rain drum rolled off the umbrellas on the hill above St. Luke's as the people huddled around the grave. Molly watched her mom's high heels sink into the soft earth as she stepped forward and placed a small bouquet of roses on the ground before the gravestone that read:
GEORGE FOWLER DECEMBER 2, 1911-AUGUST 18, 1944 DIED BRAVELY IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. DEATH TOOK HIM FROM US, BUT HE LIVES ON IN OUR HEARTS.
At last the service had come to an end. One by one, people began to leave. Molly stood beside Grandma, left hand in her sweater pocket touching the smooth surface of blue stained glass, right hand extended to shake people's damp hands. "So sorry," they said. "He was such a good man." She kept her eyes on the empty grave, watching the roses bob up and down in the rain. Mrs. Larkin stepped up to Molly. Took her hand and gave it a squeeze. She didn't say she was sorry or that her father was a good man. Instead, she looked deep into Molly's eyes, nodding her head up and down as if they shared a secret. Molly dodged her light blue eyes and concentrated on her soggy hat. The lime-green netting was torn near the brim. Someone had tried to fix the tear by stitching on a cloth rosebud. "Come on, Grandma," said Jane, nudging her along the line. Molly avoided Jane's eyes and looked down at her own crepe dress. The cloth had darkened in the rain, if black could get any darker. Her bare legs poking out beneath the stiff cloth were covered in goose bumps. Nearly everyone had left before Peter stepped up to her. He didn't try to shake her hand, but came a little closer, running his fingers through his damp hair. "Kind of wet out," he said. "Yeah." Molly stared into his dark eyes. She wanted to tell him about the gravestone, how the words were all wrong, how it was all a mistake. She needed to tell someone her dad was alive, especially here. Especially now. Would he understand if she... "Peter?" called Mr. Birmingham. "Time for us to go." "Just a minute, Dad." He cleared his throat. "I've gotta head back to Stony Brook tomorrow, Molly. Wish I could -- " "Come on, son," called Mr. Birmingham impatiently. Peter tightened his jaw. "Sorry, Molly. Sorry about...about everything." He walked toward his family, then turned and took one last look at her before disappearing over the hill. Late that night, Molly lay in bed and listened. The sobs coming from Mom's room earlier in the evening had finally stopped. Molly closed her eyes and tried to picture her dad's face again. Nothing. She shut her eyes tighter, trying to imagine Dad laughing, Dad looking serious as he read the paper. She couldn't see him. His face was gone. The words on the gravestone had taken him from her. She slipped out of bed, hesitated a moment, then grabbed the black dress from the closet and tiptoed downstairs. In the front hall she put on her dad's heavy wool coat, then went outside to the tool shed. A soft September rain pattered against the tin roof as Molly felt her way into the shed. A rake, a hoe: She touched each tool in turn till she found the familiar thick wooden handle of the shovel. With the dress bunched up against her chest and the heavy shovel resting on her shoulder, Molly crossed the deserted street, passed Birmingham's department store, Dee's Antiques, and the post office. She turned up Quincy Avenue, the town so quiet in the dark she could hear the flag on the town hall lawn, flapping in the wind. Reaching St. Luke's, she skirted the old wood building and climbed the grassy hill to the graveyard. At her father's gravestone, Molly tossed the dress to the ground, laid Mom's roses beside the black fabric, and started to work. With the town in blackout, the moon became her solitary work lamp. She plunged the shovel into the muddy earth in front of her dad's gravestone. There was no body in this ground. Just dirt, roots, and worms. Working her muscles, she lifted shovelful after shovelful and dumped the wet soil into a pile. When the hole was deep enough, she tossed in the dress and buried it. Laying the shovel on the ground by the roses, she knelt and patted down the earth with her bare hands. Mud seeped between her fingers as she worked. Through wet bangs, Molly read the words carved into the granite. DECEMBER 2, 1911-AUGUST 18, 1944. Heart pounding, muscles tensing, she pushed mud into the date of death and pressed it in with her thumb. DIED BRAVELY IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. She grabbed another handful of mud, feeling a sweet release as she filled each lying letter. In the rain. In the dark. Molly worked until there were only three words left on the stone. GEORGE FOWLER...LIVES... Copyright © 2000 by Janet Lee Carey --From Molly's Fire, by Janet Lee Carey. © May 2000 , Atheneum used by permission. |
