She went over and sat beside her father and the pastor began the service.
He spoke of Grant's service to the country, and his heroism. How he'd struggled after he returned to find his place in society and how the community had failed him, noting that Grant waited for months to get an appointment for mental health care.
I knew then that the accident wasn't an accident after all. In the end, he had taken his life when he couldn't find the help he needed. It was a familiar story to those of us who came back from the war.
When the sermon was finished, we each threw a shovel-full of dirt over his coffin. Afterward, we went to the McNeil home on the outskirts of Millbrook. There, in the old rancher Mr. McNeil had built himself, we had coffee and a light lunch of sandwiches and small cakes. I spoke with Mr. And Mrs. McNeil, reminiscing about my time with Grant in Afghanistan.
While we were speaking, a commotion erupted in the other room, and I heard a woman's shrill voice, clearly distraught. I went to the kitchen and it was Penny. She was standing at the sink, facing a man I didn't recognize.
"He killed himself okay?" she said to the man, her eyes tearful. "He was a fucking hero. The army made him do bad things over there and he couldn't live with it. He hated the war. He hated it. It killed him."
"Penelope," her mother said in a hushed voice. "Get control over yourself. For God's sake..."
"Well, it did!" Penny said, her eyes wide, her face flushed.
I went over to her. "Hey," I said and put my hands on her shoulders. "Are you okay? Maybe we should get you out of here."
"Oh, it's you," she said when she recognized me. "Mr. Richie Rich himself. The one who got away. Sure, you can help me. You could have married me instead of leading me on."
I frowned, for while we had fucked a dozen or so times when I was in Montgomery on leave with Grant, she never gave me any sense that she thought it was anything more than fun.
I pulled her to the rear of the house, finding a long hallway and taking her to the back, away from the other guests. She was clearly drunk or high, and while I understood that people dealt with grief differently, I had a feeling this was something common for her.
"Let's get you somewhere quiet," I said and took her into the back room. I glanced around and realized it had been Grant's bedroom when he was a boy. On the walls were diplomas and ribbons from track and field meets and baseball games. On the shelf were trophies from when Grant was involved in high school sports. The walls were filled with pictures of him from his days in the military. On a shelf were pictures of him with his wife and two boys.
I felt a choke in my throat when I saw a photograph of him with his boys...
Penelope sat on the bed and cried, wiping her eyes and shaking her head. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I sat beside her and took her hand in mine, wanting to comfort her. When I did, the sleeve of her dress pulled up and I saw track marks on the soft skin on the inside of her forearm.
She was an addict.
What had happened to her in the time between our last meeting and now?
It had been three years since I slept with her, but she looked so much older when I saw her up close. Her skin was sallow, and her teeth looked stained and one was chipped.
Mrs. McNeil came inside and saw us sitting side by side on the bed.
"Trust you to always make a mess of everything," Mrs. McNeil said, her hands on her hips. "Why did you have to talk about it like that? People don't want to know."
"They should know," Penelope said. "They need to know 'cause it's just going to keep happening."
Penelope turned to me and slipped her arms around me, weeping into my shoulder.
Mrs. McNeil shook her head. "She should leave. She's in no shape to be here. Can you take her home?"
I nodded. "Sure. No problem."
I stood and pulled Penelope up, leading her to the back door. Before I did, I stopped and extended my hand to Mrs. McNeil.
"I'm so sorry about Grant," I said.
"We all are," she replied and clasped my hand.
Penny and I left the house and I got her seated in the SUV, entering her address on the other side of town in the car’s navigation system. When we arrived at her place, I was shocked to see was a run-down heap that looked like an old rooming house.
"This is it?" I asked, horrified that she was living there.