Frank Does Not Fall by Cherie Lynae Suski
Frank pours himself a cup of coffee and shuffles towards his back door. His widower's knees ache with the changing seasons, the chill of fall creeping into his bones and freezing his joints. Palming his cigarettes, he steels himself for the weather, opening the back door. A gust of wind cuts into the room; he grimaces.
The back patio is a thick blanket of moss and pine needles. Frank limps to the dry corner and sets down his mug, moaning as he lowers himself into his plastic lawn chair. He smacks his cigarettes against the palm of his hand, and rests one on his lip.
Frank pushes his calloused thumb against his Bic. Nothing—no flame—just the chinking sound of the flint wheel. He tries again. And again. Still nothing.
“Dammit.” His jaw tightens as he tosses his lighter onto the lawn.
"Do you need a light, Frank?" a low voice comes from beside him.
Frank blinks up at a familiar soldier with eyes that match his uniform. The same army uniform Frank wore in Vietnam forty-some years before. The soldier’s sandy hair shone a shade darker than the two cream-colored wings filling the space behind him.
"Are you an Angel?"
The man in the uniform kneels, and leaning forward, whispers a word. The cigarette teetering on Frank's lip comes to life with flame.
"I am, Frank."
Frank takes a drag, shakes his head, and blows the smoke in the opposite direction.
"Why are you here?" Frank taps the cig on the coffee can next to him.
The Angel presses his lips into a frown. "Your son asked me to come see you."
The words hang in the air as Frank straightens his shoulders. "If he wants to apologize, he could always come do it himself." He puts out his cigarette, thinking a whiskey would better suit this situation.
"He did not ask me to apologize to you.” The Angel’s wings shift as he approaches the back door.
Frank grunts as he stands. "Hey. No one said you could go in there."
"Frank, there is someone at the front door," the Angel says, empathy clear in his eyes.
The doorbell rings. “What is this?” Frank steps over the threshold.
"John didn't want you to answer that door by yourself."
Frank hobbles forward, pausing when his arthritic hand closes on the front doorknob.
“Francis O’Connor?” Three men in Army Service Uniforms stand on his stoop.
“Yeah?” Frank’s voice is rough to his ears.
“May we come in? We have some news for you.”
“No.”
“We’d like—”
“I said no.”
The introductions, the request to enter, the lines on the young men’s faces, tells him what he needs to know.
"I have been asked to inform you that your son, John Francis O'Connor, has been reported dead in Parwan, Afghanistan at 0700 on August 26."
Frank’s mouth dries. Your son. Reported dead. He somehow understands the four most important words.
"He and his company were caught in hostile fire. . ."
The officer pushes on and on with his words. Frank tries to grasp them, batting at the boy’s memorized dialogue as if it were a mass of flies. He can not comprehend more than those four words: Your son. Reported dead.
"On behalf of the Army, I extend my deepest sympathy to you and your family." The barrage stops.
Frank's eyes dart between the men, gathering more information from what they wear and how they stand. The two men behind the officer are ranked private, a chaplain and a medic. The Army. Army like Frank. Army like John.
He meets the eyes of the young officer. "I'm sorry." He clears his throat. "Will you say that again?"
Frank feels the Angel’s hands on his back as the soldier repeats his speech.
"Can I see him?" Frank’s whisper burns.
"Of course you can, sir, he is on his way home."
"Is there anything we can do for you? Anyone we should call to be with you, sir?" asks the chaplain. “We can always come back to talk about survivor benefits.”
Frank nods and then shakes his head, whatever gesture will make these children leave. My boy is dead. Gone forever. Flashes of bullet wounds and the sound of men screaming fog his mind.
"This is for you, sir." The officer holds out a sealed letter. "This will have our number, when you are ready to make arrangements."
Frank takes the letter, and reads John’s name twice. John Francis O'Connor. John Francis O'Connor. "Thank you." His voice is steady and slow, his eyes meeting the officers. "Your job must be very difficult."
“Yes, sir.” Coming to attention, the officer salutes. "Thank you, sir, for you and your son's service."
Frank holds his breath. This is it, the last of his dignity. In his mind, he begs the men to leave him alone. He watches them walk back to their car. Their retreat is curt, measured, practiced.
Frank waves. He shuts the door. Heaves rack his chest, his hands find his sternum. His knees, with all of their pain, give way.
Frank does not fall.
The winged man carries Frank to the recliner, resting him there. Frank’s back arches as he tries to bear the weight settling in his heart. He fights to catch his breath and his eyes close.
Time passes.
“Tell me about John.”
A dam breaks. Frank speaks until the short Tacoma day ends with a setting sun. The color orange fills the room, burning through the lace curtains his wife left behind.
His joints aching from hours of sitting, Frank moves to the edge of his seat and straightens his legs. His knees pop as he looks up at his Angel. "What is your name, young man?"
The Angel smiles. "Samael.”
"Thank you, Samael."
"John made one request."
Frank raises his brows. "Oh, yeah?"
"I don't think you're going to like it."
"Well, guy, you're going to have to let me decide."
"Your cigarettes.”
Frank pulls the pack from his pocket and drops it into Samael's hand. The old man stares into a future without John, while whispering into the past. “Son, please forgive me.”
The Angel gives Frank a curt nod before disappearing into the twilight.
