Bad Sun Rising

     In a white lab coat, M.C. walked out with a slight look of curiosity that she was unable to hide. Her hands rested in her pockets and she looked completely relaxed as she saunteered through the center's lobby. He recognized her from the faded photographs. Her dark veridiscent eyes traced Tal as he walked toward her. Remembering the reason why he was here, he desperately tried to cling to a sense of somberness. Excitement also ran through him, either because his mission was finally at its close or something about M.C. herself made this less of a loss for him.

 

     “Miss M.C. Evrard?” Tal said, standing to greet her. “I have a message on behalf of Sergeant Allen Wright.”

 

     M.C. made a face and her eyes looked off disapprovingly, causing a look of surprise from Tal. Out of the list of possible reactions this was not one he imagined. "Is he still a sergeant? I told him to ditch that title already. Have you ever read a story with a soldier? They're always soldiers. What a cliche."  Retuning her gaze to Tal, M.C.'s  face brightened as she realized, “Tal Katona? I recognize you from Allen’s pictures.”

 

     At that moment, the lab coat seemed to big for her, as if she was play acting, stepping in shoes that were too big for her. The part of the wise scientist didn't suit her; scientists were too clinical. Lucid eyes studied him, pinning him to the white tiles and stainles steel, sterile decor. Tal's green army shirt didn't offer him any camoflauge now. He had the suspicion that she suddenly knew why he was here but was going to make him say the words out loud. 

 

     “I have a message from him,” Tal said instead, dutifully handing the letter over. Then resting his other hand on his bag, he finished less ceremoniously, “And a gift.”

 

     Her eyebrows moved so slightly, but M.C.'s eyes expressed a shield of humor. “Afghanistan ran out of postage stamps?” For a minute, they stood in a stalemate, the letter held in the air between them until M.C. reached out to relieve Tal of the duty. The envelope was worn and gritty and it felt wrong in her hands, so M.C. slipped it into her coat pocket.  

 

     “Not quite,” Tal replied. Reaching into his bag and pulled out the washed out, flowered shoebox that was worn away with years of desert-mountain sand. Just as dutifully, he handed it over.  “He also wanted to return this.”

 

     Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the show box, “He wanted you to have this.”

 

     Swallowing instinctually, she accepted the box with both her hands. More dully this time, she said, “And I guess there is no UPS, either.”

 

     She brushed her hand over the top of the box, while Tal said very gently, “There’s one more thing.”

 

     “If it’s a flag, I don’t want it.” When she glanced up at Tal again, M.C’s voice stopped cold. In his hands, he held the final gift, and the end of his mission. The carefully folded, boldly colored, red, white, and blue American flag.

 

     “Shouldn’t that go to his parents?” M.C. wanted to know.

 

     Softly, he answered, “They thought it should go to you.”

     

     “Why? They hate me. Do they blame me?” she asked with her voice covered in acid. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

        

     “No. The funeral is tomorrow and they want you to come back with this,” Tal gently explained, still holding the flag between them. 

      

     Her eyes were glued to the flag, the vibrant, clean-pressed red as all she could see. "I don't go to funerals anymore. I've been to enough."

 

     "You were his best friend," Tal replied. 

 

     "Were. And then he died," M.C. answered bluntly, turning on her heels. Hearing it from her was so definite, Tal felt something about the impossibility of Allen's death shatter. 

 

     She didn't get one foot away before Tal's voice stopped her. "He said you were stronger than this. He might be gone, but he still needs you. He needs you to be there in the aftermath."

 

     Sharply, she turned back around. The letter peeked out of her pocket and the box was pinned between her waist and the crook of her elbow. If her hands remained in her pocket, she couldn't be forced to take anything else. "I've been cleaning up after Allen Wright's aftermath for years. He's gone now and pretending there is still something we can do for him won't make us feel better.  Let the dust settle, soldier."

 

     Tal closed the short distance between them, the flag brushing against the open lab coat. He didn't let her gaze slip from his as he kept the flag between them. "This isn't just for Allen. You can hide from death all you want, it still comes. You aren't the kind of person who turns away."

 

     She wanted to tell this man he didn't know who she was, but she found herself grasping the flag. Taking the flag in her hands, she held all that remained Allen Wright anymore. Red for courage, blue for justice, and white for honesty; nothing could embody Allen better. Suddenly the world turned dark and rushed at her, so she quickly sat down on the white bench a few feet away before she fell. Allen Wright was dead.