Then Surely We

Chapter 1: Gone

Kyle Franklin narrating

I didn't want to talk, so I blocked all phone numbers but family and work, and family meant, primarily, Ayla. For three months, I dealt with only Ayla and work.

My phone rang.

It jarred me awake. My mind was thick, my thinking was slow, and the ringing penetrated my thick skull. With a groan, I pushed the phone off the bed and rolled over, clutching a pillow to my ears. It continued to ring on the floor. What time was it? There was a digital clock on the table. I lifted my head to see it: 3:13. Zero three thirteen hours, as Jill would say. I smiled derisively. Jill was my childhood friend, always my best friend. She was my lovely wife, the one who promised to love me.

The ringing stopped. I relaxed.

It started to ring again. Had time passed? "Ugh!" I dropped a pillow on it, but it still clanged. I rolled to the edge of the mattress and looked over the side. I reached down and pulled the pillow off it. The screen was lit. Ayla.

I flopped onto my back. Great. Her sister, Ayla, pronounced EYE-LUH. I imagined this conversation in the middle of the night:

"Kyle? Why didn't you answer?"

"Because I drink too much now. It's what I do. I don't have a life without a bottle. I haven't worked. Haven't read a book. Haven't nuthin'ed." I wanted the despair that those statements suggested—but they weren't all true. I'd worked some, checking edits by some of my editors. I'd talked to Sharon Ackerman, my boss. I'd texted a lot with Murray. Murray took on a lot of my work. I just said I had a personal problem, and those two didn't question it. I let out a little more to Murray over the months, so I was sure they both knew what was up. They were workmates and friends. I was still drinking, but only in the evenings, to prevent dreams. It didn't work.

Ayla would sigh and mumble but avoid berating me, probably. She would think, but not say, "Get off your ass, Kyle. It's been three months." Ayla was just a little superior in attitude, because she was a little superior to just about everyone in all the ways that mattered. Ayla was pretty great in every way. She'd smother me with understanding.

I should hang up, or just put it down and roll over. Something. I didn't know what I'd do.

The ringing stopped and thus ended the need for decision.

Ay rarely called me before the Troubles began. Since then she'd called every few days. Once she called for her parents to say I was welcome to come to them, to live with them until things worked out. The other times she called to say that she knew Jill and the Troubles could be overcome, love could win. At that, I hung up. Everything with them presupposed a reconciliation, at least as a positive eventuality. I wasn't morally opposed to reconciliation, but I had to consider divorce as a likely and maybe the best outcome. Life without Jill was something I'd never considered before. Not ever.

I considered it for three months. I had time, I thought. She wouldn't be home for months, yet. Afghanistan was far away.

The phone started ringing again, and I ignored it until it went away. Perhaps there was some great family meeting ongoing, or Jill demanded a decision on divorce, or Ayla was drunk. Yeah, imagine Ayla drunk! Maybe Gil was getting another degree and we all needed to know immediately, middle of the night, emergency family situational awareness: aren't you happy for him?

When you are at the bottom, you want company. Gil was my friend; he should join my misery.

It rang again a few minutes later. I rolled over and saw the light of it on the floor under that pillow. So much, so often, so late. She was persistent. I reached for it, pushed the pillow aside, saw it. Ay again, of course. I answered to make it stop.

"Yeah, Ay, hello?" I asked. "Don't fuck with me, please."

Ayla was quiet, unusually quiet. I waited for her anger. I'd ignored her, her mom, her dad, and her husband since learning the truth about my marriage.

Patiently, creating a moment of silence, Ayla finally said calmly, "Kyle. Kyle listen. Listen closely. She was killed, Kyle. Jill. In Afghanistan."

I felt a blow and a sudden hollowness, a twisting within. I saw as if down a tunnel. I said nothing because so many emotions commenced in succession. Hate and satisfaction and sorrow and justification... and... and loss. (I didn't realize justification was an emotion.) They piled on. I was on the bottom and emotions were jumping on me. I was heavy inside. Jill was dead.

I cried out, frustrated and angry and empty. "NOOOOO!" I was less than I had just been, and I'd never be so much again, I was sure. Life could get worse, worse than the worst I'd experienced.

Donne was right: death diminishes us all, no matter how small we already are.

Ayla was patient, waiting. I breathed into the phone. I wished she were here. Someone to hug. No, not someone, not anyone: Ayla to hug.

"No. Just no. Ay, why'd they come so late? At night," I asked. Jill had said they didn't come in the middle of the night.

"They've been looking for you for two days. They couldn't get you with your cell number. They were worried it would leak out; no one in Sixth Marines could call home until her next of kin and family were notified. They broke a rule coming so late."

"I see," I said. "I blocked everyone but work and family. Ay, I need some time, please."

She said, "Call me when you want to talk, Kyle. Or when you're sober. I know how you must... I realize your predicament. We're all awake, and will be. Call whenever. Or just come over whenever you're ready." I heard crying in the background, and then Ayla crying, as she hung up, as if she'd been holding it together and now could let it go. I'd heard her cry before, but not like this. I'd never heard her wail.

The line died. I put the cell phone down on the table, staring at whatever was before my eyes, not seeing it.

I was sobered by the news, awakened, but still that heavy-headedness of too much drink for too many days had to be endured. I let all of our lives crush me.

Memories piled on. We were little kids climbing trees, hitting baseballs, and skinning knees. We ran together, played, loved, hurt, cried... together. In summers and on Saturdays, I'd be at Jill and Ayla's backdoor by nine most mornings. Sometimes, I'd hear Jill calling in two notes at mine even earlier: "Kyle! KYYYYLLLE!" My dad didn't have the heart to scold Jill, whom he liked very much, when he was home trying to sleep. Until she joined the Marines, through Naval ROTC, we did everything together.

Dead. A woman I loved was dead.

I went to the cooking area and made coffee. I sat at the motel's little table, staring at the steam rising from the joe, and sipped it black. I hated it black, so I sipped it that way now. I stared as I'd seen my grandmother stare in the very early mornings of my childhood, looking at nothing, seeing nothing, daydreaming. Was she remembering Grandpa? Mornings were good times to stare, to sip bad coffee, to gather wool, to not think.

I closed my eyes and I could see Jill running bases, typing at a keyboard, reading at church. I saw her studying in the library, hiking a trail, laughing in a restaurant. Kissing me, her lips soft and willing. I saw her wearing that bikini the day we lost our virginity, her right hand behind her back to unfasten the clasp.

I remembered making love with her so many times, enjoying her as he had that last year, which jarred me into dissonance. I pushed that thought away with a will. We still counted, we mattered. We were real for a long time. I remembered before the affair: the feel of her, the softness, the fun in her body, the knowing and emotion and soul. I felt the loss of it and the lost possibility of it.

No woman I loved had ever died before. Now, every woman I ever loved had died.

Did she die in his arms? Did she die with his name on her lips? Did she die begging him one more time to say he loved her?

Is it acceptable to cry over the death of a wife who didn't love you?

Chapter 2: A Remembrance

Ayla Kinnison Gilstrap, Jill's sister, narrating

Dad and I talked about that night several times. It was the worst night of our lives.

Two Marine officers arrived around 2:30 in the morning. Mom and Dad went to the door together, worried about a late night visit. Dad said, "Let me open it," so Mom stepped aside. He unlocked the door, opened it a crack and then the whole way. As soon as Mom saw them, she fainted, but Dad was ready and caught her. It was only a moment before she revived, and one Marine helped Dad get her to the couch.

"I'm Captain Thomas Shehan, the Casualty Assistance Officer here," he began. "This is Lieutenant Mark Smith. I'm sorry. I must verify your identity. Are you the parents of Major Jill Kinnison?" the captain asked.

"Yes, Captain," Dad said, holding Mom, who was crying.

"We were unable to locate the listed next of kin." He looked at them directly, took a deep breath, and went on.

"I regret to inform you that Major Jill Kinnison, USMC, was killed in action... " the captain said, and continued to the end of his prepared statement.

Dad and Mom clung to one another. The silence must have been hard when he finished.

"Sir," the Marine went on after a sympathetic pause, "we have been unable to contact the major's husband, Kyle Franklin. His cell phone number is out of service, and he has not been at his residence aboard Camp Lejeune."

"No, Kyle's somewhere around here. Our other daughter can call him. I need to tell her..." said Dad, beginning to function again.

It was a call I never want to remember, so I won't put it here. I was naked and awake, Gil and I having just made love a few hours before. He was asleep. I liked listening to him breathing as he slept. I answered the phone during its first ring, scared at the late call. Dad talked. I cried her name into Gil, "Jill," and he could tell she was gone. He held me for a few minutes as I listened to Dad. "I'll be over soon," I said. I surrendered into Gil.

I calmed down in his arms. I kissed him and got up, throwing on last night's clothes. My mind flitted from detail to detail. "I need to call Kyle. They can't reach him. I have to go to my parents' house. I'll call him from there. Marines are there, Dad said."

He nodded. "I'll keep the girls home. I won't tell them until you're back," he said. "Let me know what you need. Just drive safely."

I married a good and steady man. He kissed my forehead then, and I left.

Just a few minutes later, I rushed in the front door of our house and threw myself into Mom and Dad's arms. I saw the look the one Marine gave the other. Men are men, and I saw those looks a lot, even more as I was into my thirties, and even now at notice of my sister's death. But I didn't see a smile; it was more a widening of the eyes. There was nothing inappropriate.

"Kyle, have you reached Kyle?" Mom said. Even in these last troubled months, Mom kept Kyle first. "They couldn't find him."

The captain was nodding. "We aren't supposed to come so late, but there has been a search in North Carolina, with no luck. We worry that the communications blackout in Afghanistan might fail, and there was another KIA whose family found out yesterday. We didn't want you to find out on the internet." I could tell he was worried that he'd broken the rule about late night notifications.

I saw that Mom and Dad were too devastated to converse yet, so I spoke up. "We understand completely. I can reach Kyle, if he'll answer. And I think I know where he's staying." I was holding it together for now. For Kyle.

"Ma'am," the Marine said, "we're supposed to notify him in person..."

I shook my head.

"No, he'd rather hear it from me. And he won't want us to see him the way he is now," I said. Kyle was probably drunk. He'd been drunk several times that I'd called in the evenings. I looked at the captain, right in his eyes, and I think he saw honesty. "Kyle's my best friend," I added. "I'll make sure he understands."

He nodded. He was breaking protocols, but at least the mission was progressing.

I reached Kyle after several tries while the Marines sat in the living room talking quietly with Mom and Dad. They heard me tell Kyle to sober up, probably suggesting to them an explanation that was misleading. When I hung up, I couldn't hold it together any longer, and I let myself cry. Mom and Dad joined me. The captain and the lieutenant just waited for us. Finally we quieted.

They talked about the details of the case, that the body was not in the U.S. yet, that she died in an explosion during a grenade attack on her vehicle. They would need to talk to Kyle in a day or so about the funeral, insurance, housing, all the stuff of a Marine's death. I gave them my number, told them I could usually get Kyle if no one else could. The captain wrote some things in a little notebook.

I made coffee. Mom and Dad stayed on the couch. I brought each of them a cup, the one Marine also after I asked. I took the overstuffed chair. We sipped the coffee, all of us taking it black. No one wanted to leave the room to get cream or sugar.

We told stories. Dad remembered Jill avoiding a tag to score a run when she played hardball with Kyle. Mom remembered her crying after being stung by six bees when she was a kid, Kyle waiting patiently for his turn at comfort. I told them about how we'd play Capture the Flag with the Marines against the Army, and the two Marines smiled. Gentle stories brought little, wistful smiles to us.

The Marines eventually stood. "Ladies, sir, we will be leaving you for now. We'll be in contact soon. You may call me anytime," the captain said, handing a card to Dad and two to me. "Please have Mr. Franklin contact me soon. We'll let ourselves out. You have our sincere condolences." I stood and each shook my hand and Dad's. The lieutenant, who appeared out of his depth, nodded, and they left.

We sat and cried for a bit, hardly believing she was gone. Another half-hour passed.

The doorbell rang, perhaps not so unexpectedly. It was Kyle. I opened the door, he stepped in, and I clutched him. I felt his arms around me, one of the few times in our lives that we hugged tightly. Mom and Dad waited in the room while we whispered things.

"I can't believe this," Kyle said.

"I know. I know," I said. "It'll never be right again."

"The whole thing," he said, and I squeezed harder. I felt him against me, and for once he didn't pull back. I didn't smell alcohol. I did smell mouthwash. Good. I wanted to stay in that warm cocoon, but the world about us was real.

We walked into the room. Mom hugged Kyle for a long time then, also whispering things. Then Dad hugged him and shook his hand, much more briefly. "We should sit," Mom said. "The Marines left a while ago."

"I'll get some coffee," Kyle said. We found our seats. Kyle came back with his coffee black and sat by Mom on the couch.

Dad said, "We were telling stories about Jill."

It was quiet for a bit. Mom was whimpering gently, Dad also was shaking at times.

"Dad, remember the day she said she wanted to join the Marines?" I asked, and he smiled and nodded. I told the story with fondness.

She was a senior in high school and asked me to sit at the table with Dad and her, just to be there. Kyle was away at Miami, partway into his sophomore year. I was home from Dayton to observe some teachers. Jill was determined to make this argument to Dad now.

"Dad, I want you to listen," she said. She was nervous. I saw our dad glance at her left hand and realized he was wondering if she'd gotten engaged. I smiled. That wouldn't have surprised us, either.

"Okay, shoot," he said.

"I want to join the Marines," she said. She'd never said it out loud to Mom or Dad. Every kid in the neighborhood knew it for years.

"You want what?" Dad said. It wasn't really a question. It was a surprise that should not have been. Kyle and she never talked about their dreams or plans with adults. She was frank with her own generation, though. She and I had talked about how dorky the Women Marine dress skirts were. She kept bringing the Marines up in high school.

"I want to join ROTC," she said. "I think I can get a scholarship. My scores were high, you know. You were in the Marines, so was Grandpa. Why can't a woman want to be in the Marines?" Woman was a strange word for a high school senior to use referring to herself.

Dad exhaled. I realized he leapt to the conclusion she meant to forego college and enlist. He was obviously relieved at the words "scholarship" and "ROTC." He took his time responding. It was his usual way.

"What about Kyle? You must be serious. What does he think?"

"We are serious. We've talked about getting married, and we'll get engaged when I'm in college," she said.

"No, I mean," he said, "how will your being in the service affect him?" Dad didn't know what Kyle's hopes were. Kyle was studying English composition and American history, but he NEVER talked to anyone but Jill and occasionally me about a career. He wanted to work in publishing, perhaps as a writer. Kyle was getting notice from his teachers at Miami, winning and placing in two writing contests as a sophomore. He just never brought up to our parents that he'd won something. He never bragged or pointed out an award; he left that to Jill and me.

"He's willing to go where I'm stationed, he says. He thinks we may have to be separated some, but that goes for any military family. He's... a good guy," she said. "He expects to be able to work from home. In publishing. That's what he hopes, anyway."

I thought she sounded positive and capable. Prepared. She told me she scripted out the whole thing ahead of time. That would be like Jill.

Dad looked a little strange. "You love Kyle, don't you?" he asked. It was a strange thing to ask her because of course she did, everyone knew Kyle and Jill belonged together, everyone assumed they'd marry. "You'll be around so many men, all the time. Will Kyle be jealous?"

"Yes, I love Kyle. But I want to do this, too. No one will ever come between us. Kyle is part of me. You know us! How could anyone? If Kyle's unhappy, then we'll decide what to do together," she said, "even if it means I leave the Marines. He thinks being a civilian will make our relationship easier. He's flexible."

Two kids with limited knowledge of the world wanted to jump into it.

I almost laughed. Jill was so fastidious and committed to everything she did, I couldn't imagine her NOT finding success. Kyle? He loved Jill. He'd find a way. He thought her Marine fixation was a hoot and an adventure.

Dad looked at her. "He has to be first, though, you know. I mean, you and he must work as a team, deciding together what's best for your marriage. Children. A family. Family is first, and it will just be him for you at first. A lone Marine husband?" Jill was nodding. It was a long speech for Dad.

"I know I have to be as reasonable about the family as he's being about the Marines," she said. "We've been talking about that. We think we can work it all out. You know how positive Kyle is," she said. Dad knew he was, too.

He looked at me. "Has she been thinking about this for a long time?" he asked. He put his hand on Jill's hand, and she knew he'd support her.

I nodded and smiled. "Remember us playing soldier? She always made us call it playing Marines? Yeah. She's wanted to do it for a long time. Forever, really."

Dad nodded and looked her in the eye. "Your mom thought you'd want to do something like this. I'll tell her when she gets home from choir tonight."

Jill's eyes were shining. "Dad, I'm so grateful." She leaned over the table and hugged him.

Now sitting at the table that awful morning, Dad nodded at my reminiscence. We were quiet. A minute later, Kyle remembered things they'd done together: climbing Mt. Fuji when he visited her in Okinawa and they flew to Tokyo for a few days; living with a cockroach infestation at Camp Lejeune, afraid to turn on the lights because of all the bugs that would skitter into the baseboards; swimming in a creek in North Carolina's Uwharrie National Forest; Kyle's promotion to chief editor in his company. There was always another story.