Jul/Aug 2006 - Korean War Veterans Association

60
THE
LOVER
BY HARLEY L. WEDEL
We were both young when we met, and passion ran high,
at least on my part. After all, she was my first true love;
consequently, she would always be the best so far as I
was concerned.
Idid feel my memory of her had been
badly betrayed as I read about the
attempted suicide. Still, I had not followed
her career closely since we parted, so
truly I had no real claim on her. Nor, of
course, did I have a responsibility for anything
happening to her, since we separated
to travel down life’s differing pathways.
We were both young when we met, and
passion ran high, at least on my part. After
all, she was my first true love; consequently,
she would always be the best so far as I
was concerned. After all, how could any
other lover begin to match the first, the one
who taught you so much about things
unknown until the day you met?
Yet, because of our relationship in the
past, the siren song of old was ringing in my
ears. I knew it was only the irresistible
memory of her drawing me back. Simply
put, I had to see her again, and I was thinking
foolishly that perhaps a way could be
found to help ease the pain she must be suffering.
I found where she was staying, but an
inner voice told me not to just walk up and
say, “Hi, Sweetheart, remember me?” This
was because I had been neither the first nor
last of the many lovers in her life. Such an
off-hand greeting after so many years would
surely be a bad way to handle a re-introduction.
Also, she didn’t need any more shame
or pain than she was experiencing already.
Perhaps not before, but certainly after
her dive into the river, guardians surrounded
my lover at all times, so I decided to find
a viewing place where neither she nor they
would be aware I was spying on them.
It took a while to locate, but finally I
found a secluded spot from where she could
be observed in her misery. A wild thought
crossed my mind, and I wondered if it
would be
possible to act as a Knight in Shining
Armor, galloping in on a white charger to
aid her, my damsel in distress.
It took only a glance to realize I could no
longer recognize this lady who had meant
so much to me in earlier times. The intervening
years had drastically changed her,
and certainly not for the better.
A short distance away another fellow
was doing what I had arrived for. He, too,
was watching the warders’ work with my
dearest love. About my age, or perhaps a bit
older, he was just sitting there staring at my
once-was-lover with a tear running down
his cheek.
He acknowledged my presence with a
gruff, “Are you one of ‘em too?” To which
I could only reply, “What-’n-hell do you
mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing, I guess,” he said. “It’s just
that a couple other fellows came by here in
the past day or so. They all wanted to see
her, but nobody cared to get too close. It
seems they are driven to pay last respects
even though she ain’t gone yet.” He went
on, “Each one of them admitted to, and even
bragged about, having had an affair with
her, and I suppose there’s even more mourning
lovers out there who can’t bear to come
see her.”
“I had no idea,” I said, “although it
sounds about right. When I knew her well
she was always vibrant and full of life. In
those days she seemed able to handle anything
coming her way, but that was when I
was so full of her it was impossible to even
think there might be others who also loved
her as I did.”
“Too true,” he responded, and then he
paused as if to reflect on how to express his
feelings in words. Finally, he stated, “She
had lots of lovers, many at the same time,
but never was she cheating on any of ‘em or
bein’ fickle. Each one was as important to
her as another, and never did she fail to give
each one of them a full measure of herself.”
We fell into a silent vigil then, simply
gazing at our former mistress. It sure
seemed odd, two men just sitting there
together talking about a mutual love and
neither feeling the least bit jealous of the
other.
We spent some time gazing at the spectacle
before us. Then, when conversation
resumed, we compared notes about how our
paramour had come to town. We knew she
had been busy over the years, with both
good and bad experiences. Yet, through it
all she had proven to be a great trooper, her
performances always meeting or exceeding
expectations.
On the verge of some real tears, we
decided her try at suicide would have ended
better had it been successful, simply
because the torture she was going through
in front of us was absolutely terrible. Given
present conditions, we concluded her spirit
(probably her soul as well) had been lost
during the painful episode on the river’s
bottom before being rescued
For this we were grateful, and it did ease
some of our concerns, yet we were left wondering
just what she was experiencing. Was
she feeling anything at all?
Shadows lengthened, and just before the
lights were turned on, we watched years
melt away as she seemingly regained the
shape and beauty of her former self.
Dusk deepened; soon, the yard-lights did
come on. This caused reality to return and
hit us right between the eyes. Realizing
there was nothing we could do for her, we
stood as if to go. Yet, both of us remained
rooted to the spot for a short while longer.
Taking a last longing look at our former
beauty, we snuffled, dried our eyes, and
then left for the nearest watering hole to literally
cry in our beer. We knew, for all practical
purposes, she’d been dead since the
suicide attempt. Starting our own personal
wake, we began regaling each other by
swapping stories and anecdotes about her
for an hour or more. Some were of times we
shared, others were about separate experiences.
During one of the quiet spells, my newfound
friend suddenly got rather upset and
cursed the people we saw around her saying,
“Those bastards are nothing but a
bunch of vultures. How can they even sleep
nights after what they do every day?”
Agreeing with him, I replied, “People in
their line of work have no feelings. When
those jackals get through the only thing left
July - August A
2006
The Graybeards