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Our Henry. There you are, friend.
I slapped my hands against my mouth as my knees began to buckle. Then Bram’s arm came around my belly, holding me tight against his chest as we watched them carry Henry toward the waiting hearse.
Monroe was completely motionless as Marines stopped in front of him, then he raised his arm and saluted the coffin.
From what seemed like far away, I heard Katie give a small sob.
Then they slid Henry into the back of the hearse.
We followed the hearse back to the funeral home, but I don’t remember much of the ride. Bram held me, I know that much. I wasn’t sure if it was more for my benefit or his. Alex sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his seat belt pulling tight against his chest as he covered his face in his hands. And for the first time since I’d met Liz, I watched her slide across the bench seat in Dan’s truck and ride home nestled against his side, her head on his shoulder.
* * *
“What’s that?” I asked the next day, coming to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the church where Henry’s funeral was held. Once we got him home, arrangements were in full swing. We weren’t sure how long Shane would be able to stay, and Ellie and Liz didn’t want there to be any chance that he or Alex would have to leave before we buried Hen. They deserved to say good-bye with the rest of us.
Arielle was asleep in my arms, a dark gray blanket wrapped around her purple dress. I hadn’t been able to dress my baby girl in black. I just couldn’t do it.
“It’s the Patriot Guard,” Trevor said thickly, stopping beside Bram and me.
“Whoa,” I breathed as I looked down the row of motorcycles lined up around the block. “Did someone—”
“No, they just showed up,” Trev cut me off, running a hand down the tie hanging from his throat.
“Henry would dig that,” I said, looking over the men who were standing next to their bikes. “Oh, shit,” I breathed, leaning into Bram’s hand at my back as the hearse pulled up.
The motorcyclists, almost as if it had been choreographed, reached up and pulled bandanas, military baseball caps, and beanies from their heads, holding them to their chests.
“We’re up,” Alex announced, walking toward us in his Class A uniform, his back ramrod straight. He and Shane were both in full military dress, and I’d never seen either of them look more handsome.
“You good?” Bram asked as he walked me over to where Liz and Katie were holding the kids’ hands.
“Yeah, go get him,” I ordered, glancing at the hearse.
Our family followed the boys as they carried Henry’s casket into the packed church, then we slid into the front two pews silently. Even the kids were quiet as the pastor began to speak.
There were photos near the front of the church, lined up to the sides of the casket.
Henry at eighteen in his Dress Blues. I remembered him telling me that it wasn’t even a full uniform they’d made him put on for the photo, just a jacket and cover.
Henry at around seven or eight, sitting on Trevor’s shoulders, his face smeared in what looked like blackberries.
Henry at four, his arms wrapped around Ellie’s neck as he cheesed for the camera. Her mouth was open wide like she was laughing.
Henry in full camouflage, a helmet on his head and his face dirty, his blue eyes vivid as he smiled widely for the camera.
Henry and Mike, sitting in the rockers on Mike and Ellie’s back porch—obviously unaware that anyone was taking their photo.
Henry, with me hanging off his back, the rest of the kids crowded around during a camping trip right before Alex had left for the Army.
The last one was my favorite. It was taken the last time he was home, and Katie and Shane’s kids were hanging on him like monkeys. Iris and Gunner were on his shoulders like he was showing off for the camera, Gavin and Keller were sitting on his feet, and Sage was standing with her arms wrapped around his waist, her smile wide as she looked up at him.
It was Hen’s life in a series of pictures, and I hated that we couldn’t put up any extra. He was more than that. He liked vodka, especially the flavored kind, though he’d sworn me to secrecy on that. He didn’t wear underwear, but bought new socks once a month because he said he liked them soft. He carried around one picture—of Ellie—that he’d stolen when he was twelve from one of Ellie and Mike’s old photo albums.
He hated Mexican food, but loved Thai. He said drinking milk was like drinking someone else’s phlegm and refused to have anything to do with it. He liked the color blue and wore it because it looked good on him. He put more product in his hair than I did. He had a tattoo over his ribs that he refused to discuss with anyone, and one on his shoulder that he called a boot camp scar.
