Faith digs her
red spiked heels from beneath the dusty bed and squeezes her toes inside the narrow shoes, which rub against her rough heels. From a far
corner of the closet she pulls out a plastic-covered black dress. She slips the smooth dress over her shoulders, inhales, wiggles the dress
over her hips, zips up, exhales, looks in the mirror, and pats her tummy.
In the
bathroom, she fluffs her caramel-colored hair, puts on bright red lipstick, plucks a stray eyebrow, and brushes on mascara--not too thick.
On the way
downstairs, she tiptoes inside Robbie’s room. She closes the book that lies across his chest, straightens his blanket, and kisses him
goodnight.
In the hallway,
the clock strikes nine. Faith puts on a sweater, grabs her keys, and opens the front door.
From her usual
spot on the sofa in the living room, her mother yells over the blare of the TV, “Where you going so late?”
Over her
shoulder, Faith says, “Out. I’ve got my cell phone. Don’t wait up.”
A fine mist
glazes the car windshield as she drives to the Quik-Trip for some candy and a bottle of white zin. Three twentyish males sharing a six-pack
whistle when she walks past them on her way back to her car. As she pulls onto the road one of the men waves and blows her a kiss. A smile
tugs at the corner of her lips then quickly disappears.
Gravel crunches
beneath her tires when she pulls into the vacant lot behind Mater Dolorosa church. Faith parks,
turns off the motor, and tucks the candy and bottle of wine inside her purse. The wrought iron gate that leads into the graveyard creaks when
she slips inside.
A full moon
leaks out from behind thin clouds, spreading warm light across nubby grass. Faith inhales a hint
of jasmine and honeysuckle as she zigzags across the manicured lawn. She stops at the familiar spot, kneels in damp grass, makes the sign of
the cross.
After mumbling
a few prayers she learned by rote from her childhood days, she twists open the cap on the bottle of wine and lifts the bottle high. “Happy
anniversary, Bobby.”
She takes a
long drink, wipes her mouth with the back of a hand. Sighs. “I’m wearing the outfit from our first date.”
After pouring what’s left of the wine on the grass, she removes a box of Good and Plenty from her
purse. She shakes the open box and sprinkles the ground with pink and white candy.
“Your
favorite,” she sighs. “Can’t believe you’ve been gone three years.”
She blows her
nose, dabs her eyes. Mascara rims red lids. “Robbie’s in second grade now. Plays soccer. He’s the goalie. Mom still likes to nag, but she
helps out a lot. We all miss you.”
With damp
fingertips she trace her beloved’s name, rank, and branch of service—Robert Engel, Private First Class, United States Army Infantry—then
straightens the plastic American flag someone has stuck in the ground. She turns the flag over and, in the moonlight, reads the tiny
label—made in China. She wads up the cheap plastic flag, picks up the rest of her trash, and tucks it all in her purse.
A thick
cloud rolls in front of the full moon, casting shadows of dark crosses across the grass. Faith touches
the drooping roses from the bush Robbie planted on Father’s Day and plucks some faded petals from her beloved’s earthly bed. Her spike heels
dip into the soft ground when she stands. She bends forward, kisses the cold stone cross, and whispers goodnight.