The Visitor: A Memorial Day Story

The sun peeked its red eye over the hazy horizon.  It was 6:22 a.m and Fort Loudon Lake was like glass.  The fishing boat glided gently toward the dock; its engine making the only sound for miles around. A tall, blonde man eased the throttle of the Mercury outboard motor back, reversing the engine’s thrust. The boat slid slowly past the wooden planks of the dock.  He reached over and grabbed a rope and looped it over the metal clasp on the dock.

He quickly tied the front and the back of the boat up and put out the put out the boat’s bumpers.  He pocketed the key and took one more sip of coffee out of his travel cup.  Another sunrise. Another morning alone on the Tennessee River.

It’s the way he preferred it.  Alone. He wasn’t much for people anymore. Most of his friends were quiet like he was anyway.

He walked up the hill toward his cabin. He looked out at the sun rising over the Smoky Mountains.  Today was the day. Today was the day when he went and visited a friend.

He walked in the cabin and was greeted by his Yellow Labrador, Norman. Norman was named for General Norman Schwarzkopf the famed general from the first war with Iraq.  He liked dogs. They listened and didn’t say anything back. Life was too short for unnecessary chatter.

He had been married to the love of his life.  But she couldn’t be married to a man who had stopped talking.  And then there were his nightmares. The deep, terrifying nocturnal screams.  They were still friends — whatever that meant.  She had gotten the house and the kids. He had gotten the cabin and Norman.  Not a fair deal, but who said that life was fair.

He thought about her as he dried off from the shower. He could still smell her perfume.  “I miss her, Norman.” Norman wagged his tail in agreement.

He carefully picked out his shirt and ironed it. Old habits die hard.  He went in to the kitchen to fry an egg and bacon.  Norman appreciated this part of the morning routine. “Here you go boy.” The bacon was gone before it hit the kitchen floor.  “I’m going to visit a friend today. You hold down the fort. Your aunt Stacy will be over to let  you out.”

A box sat on the kitchen counter. It was small and covered with black velvet. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.  He then grabbed his Jeep’s keys, fired up the engine and drove it up the steep gravel driveway.  It was another gorgeous East Tennessee morning.  But he had a long drive ahead of him.  Time was precious.

I-75 to I-40 to I-81 to I-66. The trip to Washington, D.C. was about eight hours in length. But he did it in seven.  When he saw the Washington Monument, he knew he journey was about over.  His friend didn’t know he was coming.  But he knew he wouldn’t complain.  He crossed the Potomac and got off at the exit for the Pentagon, his old office.  He half-saluted and got off at the exit to where his friend was.

A three-year-old yellow Jeep turned left into the main gate of Arlington National Cemetery.

It was headed to the place he had seen so many times on the map. Like a homing pigeon on a mission, he guided his Jeep right to where he needed to go.

He took the box out of his pocket and walked up to one of the many numerous gravestones.

Sgt. Frank Johns. U.S. Army.

He started to speak, a rarity, but was interrupted by a MD-88 taking off from Washington Reagan Airport.  He then recollected his thoughts and said,

“Hey Sarge. Happy Memorial Day. I needed to talk and I knew you’d listen. The last few years have been tough — although I know I have nothing to complain about compared to what you went through.  I still have nightmares of the I.E.D. and the gun battle afterwards.  I still see you manning the machine gun on our Humvee.  I still see how you sacrificed yourself so I could live.  Just to let you know, I went to OCS after that day and rose to the rank of Major.  I moved on. But my soul is still in Iraq. It’s still with you.  Oh, this is really yours, Frank.  Just wanted to know how much I appreciate your sacrifice.”

He then opened the small box and pulled out his Silver Star medal. He placed it at the foot of the grave, saluted and turned on his heel.  “I was in the neighborhood.  Just wanted to say hello.”

And with that, the silent man headed back home.  Some people celebrate Memorial Day at the beach. Others behind the grill. Major Thomas Garrett celebrated the only way he knew how.  He visited an old friend and said thanks.