A midnight thunder storm had blown, spattered, and pasted large wet sycamore leaves and tufted seeds on the VW. Pigeon bombs had been washed away. From a distance the car had looked inexpensively decorated for a parade. Asif, a future doctor of applied physics, put the petal to the metal, backed the Karmann ghia’s cousin from the driveway and, ignoring the large canal on his left, headed east. The O’Dwyer homestead more than filled the rear-view mirror as the tires tracked the freshly striped road toward Abilene; but the image scaled down, scaled down some more, and soon vanished from sight—but not from memory. The siblings ignored the fallow land, the run-down homesteads, and didn’t even hear the pea gravel pelting the undercarriage. Neither man spoke for a time—or a time and a half—although the radio buzzed blissfully below the dash.
“Are you sorry we made the visit?” asked Asad, after muting the noise.
“No, we needed to come, if only to deliver Jinny’s memorabilia, but I am troubled. Where did Lance go this morning?”
“Perhaps he had chores. It was nice of Megan to arise early and see us off, though.” Asif read a passing road sign. “Asad, where did you put directions to the cemetery?”
“Megan slipped a Post-It note inside this book she gave us, but your stomach tells me you need directions to breakfast.”
Asad stripped the note from beneath the book’s cover and read aloud: “‘Wish I could have made you breakfast. Loved your visit.’” Asad thumped his tummy. “Yes, let’s get breakfast and then make haste to the—here it is—to the Abilene Memorial Cemetery.” He scrolled down his I-Pad screen. “The website says gates open at 7 a.m., and Megan’s little map gives the exact location of Mama’s grave. I had hoped to tell you that General Eisenhower is buried there, too, but Google says, no, his grave is near the Presidential Museum off S.E. 5th Street.”
As they passed stores and shops in downtown Abilene, the first eye-catching sign stood atop a café. It looked like a double-decker Union Pacific dome car—and that’s what it was. The gaudy-colored neon tubing formed the words: Eisenhower Express Cafe. “Hmm. Maybe the General will wait our table. Not funny?”
“Not funny.”
As they entered the café, Asad paused to hold the door for a group of well-dressed women who looked askance at him and hurried through without a word. He smiled and posed. “What do you think of my profile?” he quipped in his native Pashto.
After breakfast, each brother held a free souvenir toothpick with his fingers. “Wonder what these are for?” mused Asad as he rolled it across his palm before letting it fall to the pavement. Both knew the answer. Neither smiled. Both climbed into the cockpit. Asif pushed the starter button, the VW shook, and then settled into a comfortable rhythm. Asad recited directions to the cemetery, picked up the gifted book, and examined its worn cover.
“Asif, did I hear you say that Megan said, ‘you’ll love this’?” No reply. Asad shrugged and opened to the first page. “Keep your eyes on the road. I’ll do the reading. ‘This book belongs to Jinny O’Dwyer.’” Below her signature she had added, “‘My poetry may not mean much to you, but it reflects who I am and what I believe—even the goofy stuff?’”
“We’re here.” Asad lent his lame brother a strong arm, a willing hand, and together they solemnly followed Megan’s map to the marker. A small porcelain vase holding three rain-soaked, long- stemmed roses had dropped crimson petals onto the etched granite headstone. Asif removed a clean café napkin from his pocket, knelt, brushed the petals aside, and read the inscription. Asad clapped his hands to his mouth.
| Virginia O’Dwyer Gunnerson Veteran, United States Army B. 4 July 1996 D. 7 August 2036 Buried Alongside Her Sons. Asad and Asif. B. 4 July 2036 D. 4 July 2036 Once separated, now together forever. |
After unfolding and laying a large sheet of white paper across the small marker and then brushing with the side of a pencil to copy its message, the brothers stood and meted out their last goodbyes. As they walked away, arm in arm, one said, “Now together forever?”
“Have faith, little brother, have faith.”