Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Hang Tag

My cell phone rang at 10:00 AM. “Hello,” I muttered into the phone as I steered toward the curb. I parked just as Mrs. Andrews sobbed into my ear.

“Stella, I need you, please come to the house.”

“Five minutes tops,” I answered and heard the dial tone in my ear. My heart began pounding, fear gripped me. It had to be something about Jane. It had to be. I pulled into her driveway, jumped from the car and sprinted to the front porch. “Oh, Stella!” She met me at the door sobbing.

“It’s Jane isn’t it?” I asked.

She only nodded and pulled me into an embrace. “They just left. She died yesterday in Iraq.”

I felt my legs buckle and the world go black. I awoke as Mrs. Andrews sponged my face with a cold cloth. “How?” I asked.

“A sniper, she wasn’t the only one, but she’s the only one we know,” She sobbed. “They say she didn’t know what hit her.”

“Oh, God!” I sobbed. “ Didn’t want her to join the reserves, but she wanted to go to college.”

“I know, I know, I remember you begging her not to do it,” Mrs. Andrews rocked me as if I were a baby. “Will you help me with the arrangements and stay here with me until it’s over?”

“Yes, yes, of course I will. I’ll do anything you need done.” I propped myself up on one elbow and studied her face.

“You know that I knew don’t you?” She whispered.

“Oh, God,” the sob caught in my throat.

“She was your life and you were hers,” She cried softly, “and it was okay, it was right for the two of you.”

I closed my eyes and wished that Jane could have heard that, and then I realized that she just had.

The next few days were a blur of visits to the florist and visits to the funeral home. Of shaking hands with friends and family and Mrs. Andrews putting my plans before hers.

Then final day came. “Who is driving you to the cemetery?” The funeral director asked.

“Stella,” she answered without the blink of an eye. “Stella and I will ride together alone.”

The funeral was brief and to the point. They took my keys and when we walked outside my car was in front. A hang tag was on the gearshift, the tag read "Please Turn On Bright Lights. Your headlights identify you as part of the funeral procession and aid in your safety. Turn off your lights at the cemetery. Thank You." I followed the hearse with the flag draped coffin at 25 miles an hour across the familiar road from Madisonville to Tellico. The spring sun shined down on blooming trees and the cool April breeze made the branches appeared to be waving good-bye.

The sound of the guns at the graveside made me flinch and Mrs. Andrews held my hand and leaned against me. She accepted the flag and handed it to me. “You deserve this, not me,” She whispered.

Back at the house we served coffee and cake to the relatives and collapsed together on the sofa when the last of them finally left.

“I’d like to have you stay on here, Stella, can you do that?” She asked.

“I’ve just got an empty apartment waiting for me, so yes, I’d like that,” I sighed.

“Give up the apartment, move in here for awhile, I’d like that,” She looked at me pleadingly.

So, I gave up the apartment and moved in with her. It was about a month later that I came in from work and she was waiting for me holding an envelope.

I looked as puzzled as I felt evidently because she suggested that I sit down and let her explain something. “Jane loved you,” she smiled weakly. “She would want you to have this.” With that she handed me the envelope.

I felt the weight of it and realized with a shock that it was money.

“No!” I protested.

“There’s thirty thousand dollars there,” She patted my hand. “Take it, leave here and make a life for yourself somewhere out there. You’re young; don’t let yourself die with her. Come back and visit from time to time and write often, but go, please go.”

“Honey, don’t you want me to stay here with you?” I stammered.

“Please do what Jane would want you to do, go back to school, study, make something of yourself, live for her.” She pleaded.

So I went to the University of Tennessee and studied Creative Writing and this is my first effort for Jane.

Know that some parents understand. I certainly hope that yours do. Give them a chance give each other a chance. Live true to yourselves but live!

If you have enjoyed Lou Alexander's "Hang Tag", then please be certain to e-mail her at  tarotsmm[at]aol.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Lou Alexander's Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.