A Letter About Woofie

He had not been expecting a letter.

At least, not this one. He had gotten plenty of letters lately: military dispatches, legal documents, condolence cards. He had long since stopped opening all of them.

They were in a pile on the kitchen table, next to the box from the funeral home. Next to the rose he had clutched throughout the service, the white petals now withered and brown. Next to the newspaper with her obituary printed on page nine.

He hadn't heard about her death in a letter. There had been two soldiers and a priest standing outside his door one rainy night, solemn and ever so proper as they offered condolences and praise for her sacrifice. They had handed him a letter then, an official missive from the United States Navy with the sanitized facts of what had happened.

Devin had crumpled that letter into his pocket without reading it. He hadn't cried, and that seemed to be distressing them in some way. One soldier, a medic, had hovered nearby, asking if he felt faint or short of breath. The priest had asked if there was anyone they could call to come and be with him. He had refused their offers of help, showing them to the door. They hesitated, unsure about leaving him, and he had murmured something about having friends who lived nearby. After several awkward moments, the Lieutenant slipped him a business card and the men left. He had stood in the doorway, watching them walk to their car, not noticing the cold rain that pelted his face.

He had stood there until long after the men left, until the rain stopped and the night hung heavy and dark around him. It was only when the crickets began to sing did he step back into the foyer and shut the door.

Since that day, there had been plenty to keep him busy. People to call, services to organize, press to avoid. His parents had flown in from Baltimore; her parents had driven the three hours from Houston. His brother had handled all of the news reporters and their pastor had sent his wife to help with the constant flow of flowers and cards. Devin had sat in their bedroom, in the dark, and traced the lines of her face in their wedding picture.

They had met the plane at the airport, a week after the news, and he had leaned against his father as the soldiers carried out the coffins, the highly polished wood glistening under a pristine American flag. He hadn't expected there to be so many. He had watched in silence as they loaded the box into the hearse, had followed in silence to the funeral home, and had sat in silence in the small chapel they had left him and the casket alone in.

Devin didn't remember how long he had sat there, but at some point he had stood, walked over to the box, and tried to lift the lid. It was immoveable.

He started to pull the flag off, but a tap on the door stopped him.

"Mr. MacMullen?"

He turned.

The funeral director, the same man who had taken care of his grandfather last year, stepped inside, "Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee? Tissues?"

"Can you open this?" He laid his hand on the coffin.

"Sir, did the Navy explain that your wife's remains are not... suitable for viewing?"

He nodded. "Can you open it?"

"Yes. But I don't recommend it, Mr. MacMullen."

"I didn't ask what you recommended, I asked you to open it."

"Of course, Sir."

The man had left and another had come and with some kind of funereal magic, had unlocked the casket. "You may open it if you wish, Sir."

When Devin was alone again, he reached toward the box. He knew what they had said... there had been a bomb. Everyone in the humvee had died. They had been forced to use dental records to identify the remains.

He opened the lid.

The smell had hit him first; the sickly sweet smell of decay, and his stomach had twisted, filling his throat with hot acid. He had to step back and wait for his head to stop spinning, had to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. He swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth, stepped forward, and despite the fear that rose from his gut and gripped him around the throat, he looked into the box.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity, he blinked. It was hard to focus, the room seemed to be whirling around him and Devin gripped the edge of the hard wooden casket to keep from falling.

What was inside the box could not be human.

It was covered in plastic, not opaque, but not completely transparent either. The form could be considered humanoid in shape, but seemed too small to be a full-grown adult woman. The plastic wrapper seemed to be full of something dark and mushy, and he wanted to believe with every fiber of his being that his wife was not inside that box.

He went to turn away and saw the glint of silver.
Devin reached in and pulled out a dog tag: standard military issue, but all too shiny, as if it had been recently cleaned. He flipped it over and read the imprint.

MacMillan,
Ariana D.
441-62-6660 USN
O POS
NORELPRF

He didn't remember closing his hand around the tag, tightening his grip until the metal cut into his fingers. He didn't remember the funeral director coming in and closing the lid, didn't remember his father and brother helping him out to the car and taking him home.

All he remembered was the searing pain that shot through him, burning its way through his heart and mind and into the depths of his soul.

The next morning Devin had woken in his bed, the metal tag still clutched in his hand. As he rinsed the dried blood from his fingers, he had slipped the military identifier over his head. His throat was sore, his eyes ached, but he had taken a shower, changed clothes, wrapped up the cuts on his fingers, and gone downstairs to make all the final arrangements.

Neither Devin nor the funeral director mentioned that night again. The casket had remained closed for the funeral, a recent picture of Ariana in her uniform placed on top, next to the spray of white roses.

He hadn't cried during the service, or afterward, when the solider had handed him the perfectly folded flag. He hadn't cried as family and friends had filled the house, bringing food and commiseration. He hadn't cried after everyone left and he was alone with a freezer full of casseroles and a table full of cards and letters.

Letters.

He looked down at the letter in his hand. It was wrinkled, and the postmark was almost a month old. He ran his thumb over the return address. He blinked. He must be reading it wrong. He must be suffering from exhaustion or some kind of post traumatic stress... he could not be standing in the hallway of the home he had shared with her, holding a letter addressed to him, in Ariana's flowing script.

It felt real. It felt like the most real thing he had touched since the day he had slipped the dog tag over his head. Turning it over, Devin slid his finger under the gummed edge to open it. Inside the envelope lay a folded sheet of paper and a photo.
The photograph was of Ariana and a ragged looking dog. They were sitting in the sand, she with a wide, toothy grin, her pale blue eyes squinted against the sun, the dog with a slightly tilted head, it's jaw slack, it's tongue hanging down. She had her arm wrapped around the animal, and it was leaning against her.

He pulled out the letter and unfolded it. It was dated three days before the roadside bomb had ended her life.

Dear Devin,

You must think it's crazy for me to send you a letter, when I just talked to you last night on the computer. But one of the guys in my unit had taken this picture a while back, and I wanted to send it to you. It will most likely be a while before you even get this, I'll probably talk to you and tell you all about this hound before you ever see the picture. His name is Woofie, and he's a pretty sweet dog.

I never know what to say in these letters. I miss you like crazy, and I can't wait to get home. But my tour is almost up, and soon I'll be back. I think you're right, we should work on making that baby, and then maybe, by the time I'm eligible to be called back up, this whole thing will be over and no one will have to come back.

Okay, I'd better go and get some sleep. We're supposed to be heading out again soon.

I love you!

Ari

He closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. He hadn't cried all this time, not when he had first gotten the news, not when he had put her in the ground, not as he had learned to live in the suddenly too big house they had bought together, not when he had sat one night and read the entire box of old greeting cards she had kept from when they were dating.

He hadn't cried at all in the past three weeks since his wife had been taken from him.

This letter was nothing to shed tears over. It was just a silly note about some mutt her unit had adopted. It didn't have any kind of important news, no mushy love poetry, no sweeping declarations. It was just a piece of mail that somehow had gotten lost in the system and was only just now being delivered to him.

It was just a note from his wife, speaking of homecoming, of children, of their future... simple words that now mocked a possibility that never will be.

The teardrop landed on the word "Woofie" and he started. Gasping, he wiped at it before the liquid could smudge the ink. As Devin folded the paper, he realized more droplets were landing on the photo, the envelope, and his hands. He slid the letter into his pocket and buried his face in his hands as his sobs echoed through the empty house.

He had not been expecting a letter.