PART 2 OF 4 — THE PROMISE THAT THIRTY MEN REMEMBERED
The document was a cemetery authorization form.
Gloria had signed it as the person responsible for making the funeral arrangements.
My father’s name appeared underneath, but something about the paperwork bothered me.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Your father signed it months ago.”
“Why would he sign something choosing a cemetery he never wanted?”
Gloria sighed.
“Because he understood that eventually somebody had to be practical.”
I looked at the funeral director.
“Has anybody verified that this was actually his decision?”
The director carefully examined the paperwork.
“I can tell you that the authorization was submitted yesterday. I cannot tell you what your father intended without seeing the underlying documentation.”
Gloria snatched the paper back.
“This is becoming ridiculous.”
I left the funeral home without another word.
Outside, I sat in my pickup for several minutes, staring through the windshield.
Then I called Roy Feltz.
He answered after the second ring.
“Kurt? How’s the old man doing?”
There was a long silence.
“Oh,” he finally said. “I’m sorry, son. I heard.”
I explained the situation.
I told him about the $2,400 transportation cost, the cemetery deposit, and Gloria’s determination to bury Dad somewhere else.
Roy didn’t interrupt.
When I finished, he asked one question.
“Did your father ever change his mind?”
“Not once.”
“Then don’t worry about the trucks.”
I frowned.
“What trucks?”
Roy chuckled.
“Let me make a few calls.”
That evening, I drove to the coffee shop.
The familiar round table was empty except for Roy, who was sitting with his hands wrapped around a mug.
Three other veterans arrived shortly afterward.
They were older now. Some walked with canes, others moved slowly, and one had hearing aids that whistled whenever he turned his head.
But they all remembered my father.
“I told Elmer I’d take him myself,” Roy said. “I meant it.”
Another man, named Frank, nodded.
“So did I.”
Within twenty minutes, Roy had called several people.
By the following morning, word had spread through the local veterans’ community.
Men who had served with Dad were calling from neighboring towns. Some had served overseas with him, while others had simply known him through the American Legion.
They all wanted to help.
Meanwhile, Gloria was becoming increasingly angry.
She called me twice that afternoon.
The first time, she demanded that I stop involving strangers in a private family matter.
The second time, she said she would cancel the entire funeral if I continued interfering.
I told her I wasn’t trying to embarrass her.
“I just want Dad buried where he asked to be.”
She hung up.
That evening, I found an envelope in Dad’s desk.
It was addressed to me in his handwriting.
Inside was a short letter.
Kurt,
If you’re reading this, I suppose I’ve finally run out of mornings.
There’s something I want you to understand. Fort McPherson isn’t important because of the ground. It’s important because that’s where I can rest among men who understood things I never knew how to explain.
Don’t let anybody turn my funeral into an argument about money.
Your mother always understood that a promise mattered.
I read that final sentence several times.
My mother had died when I was twenty-six.
Gloria had entered our lives years later.
At the bottom of the letter, Dad had written something else.
Ask Roy about the photograph in the old wooden box.
I found the box beneath his closet.
Inside were photographs, medals, letters, and a picture of twenty young soldiers standing together.
On the back, Dad had written their names.
One was Roy.
Another was Frank.
But the last name made my stomach tighten.
It belonged to Gloria’s first husband.
I had never known he served with my father.
And suddenly, I understood why Gloria might have wanted to keep that photograph hidden.
