Field of Tears (2011) ID c237 by Declan J. Connaughton
NOTE

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Rita stiffened as the nurse at the reception desk looked up at her.

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It was just after mid day, and, for a moment, she was positive the nurse would come out and tell her, with officious satisfaction, that Rita's day out with her grandfather was cancelled.

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“He's ready for you, in the day room”, was all she said.

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The nurse made as if to escort Rita, but she knew the way by now.

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“It's fine, you don't have to accompany me”.

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Walking away from the nurse's station, she felt a cold hard stare marking her progress, like a laser level with its precise red dot. Rita was disturbed by the way she let the nurse intimidate her. Something in her manner had always bothered her, and now it seemed to have evolved into something almost approaching a phobia.

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God! She wished her grandfather didn't have to stay in this place, but at ninety eight it was impossible to keep him at home anymore; such had been the case since he started losing his balance three years ago, and her own parents being the age they were. Still, he didn't mind the nursing home and his care had been top notch. Rita couldn't fault anyone on that score. He had integrated well, but the camaraderie didn't last very long as residents just kept passing away. That was the thing that most bothered Rita and got her down frequently – the sure and certain knowledge that it was going to happen someday, which brought the loss of her parents ever closer, and ultimately herself. In her grandfather's case, any day or any hour, which made their time together precious.
He'd been an integral part of her life for over thirty years and it was impossible not to imagine him being there, always with a smile and advice, if needed.
He was seated in his wheelchair directly in front of the large window, which looked unhindered out onto the grounds. Normally there were one or two other residents, sitting and reading newspapers, or maybe just napping; but today the day room was empty and he didn't notice Rita as she entered.
Drawing near, she noticed he had his good suit on. A blanket was draped across his legs and his gentle old hands rested across it, at peace.
“Hello, granda, here I am at last”.
There was no recognition for a moment, and Rita felt her heart skip a beat. Then the eyes cleared and his face broke into a broad smile.

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“Rita”, he said, shifting his body around. She bent over and embraced him, feeling his touch on her back.
“Dressed up a little formal for a drive, aren't we?” she said, straightening up.
“I haven't worn this suit in God knows how long. Thought I would today – just for you”. He brushed at one lapel and then the other.

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“It looks really smart”, Rita replied, clasping the handles behind the chair firmly, and then exiting with him back down the corridor.

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The nurse put down her chart attempting something like a smile.
“Well. All ready for the off?”

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“As arranged”, Rita responded, as though daring the nurse to try and call the whole thing off just before they finally got out through the main doors.

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“Well, not too late”, was all she said as Rita and her grandfather made their escape out through the door, down the ramp, into the parking lot, and freedom.

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Rita had broken into a cold sweat and welcomed the cool fresh air, which breathed calmly down upon them. She manoeuvred the chair up beside the car, fishing her keys from her jeans pocket and opening the passenger door, then removed the blanket from his knees, placing it in the back.

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“Can you stand?”
“The day I can't do that, well that's the day they put me under”, he said hoisting his frame slowly upwards.
The remark was meant as a joke, but she didn't find it funny.
Her grandfather reached up and put his left hand on the top of the open door for support, placing his right hand on her shoulder. Rita let him stretch for a moment, before turning him around so that he could sit sideways into the car, so she could ease his legs into a comfortable position before closing the door. After putting the wheelchair in the boot, Rita was beside him, with the key in the ignition.
“Well, where to?”
He seemed to consider for a moment.
“I was stationed here, you know?”

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Rita nodded. “Dad said something about that”.
“During the Civil War, and for a while afterwards”.
“It's not something you've really talked about, granda”.
The old man smiled sadly and something in his eyes seemed to reach out and touch her deeply. It was sorrow, she thought, but more than just sadness; there was a hidden anguish, and Rita waited for him to continue.
Instead he said, “Turn left when we get out the gate and just drive straight on”.

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The car glided past a petrol station and on, through the village, which was surprisingly quiet for this time of day. Rita ventured another glance at her grandfather, but his attention was focused on the small village street, with its neatly set shop fronts on either side and its quota of humanity going about their daily business – all caught up with their own personal concerns – or maybe some with none at all.

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Then they were out into rolling fields and hills. She had come this way only once before, and, as the miles flew past, thanked God that unspoilt beauty such as this still existed. There were a few houses, dotted randomly, but all trace of modernity disappeared from the landscape as the car wound its journey on.
“I love to see land untouched like this”.
Her grandfather didn't reply but kept his intense gaze fixed to the passenger window, as though searching for some lost memory or other.
“Near here”, he muttered, barely audible.
“Do you want me to slow down?” Rita asked, taking her foot off the accelerator anyway. “Here.....yes, this is it”. His body had become rigid and tense, and Rita felt a wave of concern as she pulled the car into the side of the road, raising the hand brake and turning off the engine. Both of them sat in silence for a while.
To their left was an immense field, which stretched on forever, like a vast green ocean. “Do you want to get out?” she asked.
“Just for a while”, he replied, with, she thought, a slight tremor in his voice.

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Rita unbuckled both their seat belts and came around to his side, opening the door and helping him ease his legs out again, so that he was facing the immense waving sea, which seemed to cascade in the breeze.

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“I'll get the chair”, she said, “Won't be a minute”. She left his side to go to the boot, leaving him to his thoughts.
The day grew suddenly colder.
The old man's dim and ancient eyes watched as the sun was slowly swallowed up by menacing clouds, casting a mournful shadow across the land. He felt time retreating away from him and then......Rita wasn't there anymore.

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De Burca, for that was his name, was a young man of eighteen again, standing with his heart pounding, in the middle of this same field, dressed in a soldier's uniform.
There was thunder above, and the day had gone from grey to angry black; a portent of what he, and his colleagues were about.

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The long dead figure of O'Leary came striding towards him with his trademark deliberation. O'Leary who never smiled, and would die three months later with a bullet through his forehead.
“Well, this is as good a place as any, is cuimhin liom, De Burca”, he said loudly.
De Burca nodded gravely, not sure how to respond.
O'Leary unsnapped his gun belt.
“They're bringing him up the road now”. In the distance De Burca could make out several figures approaching. He felt sick to his stomach. O‘Leary appraised him closely. “I know how you feel”, he said, “but this is war”.
Four men came marching towards them; three also in uniform, the fourth in civilian attire. “Do it quickly and let's be out of here”, O'Leary commanded, handing him the gun by the butt.
De Burca blinked at the sight of it, its very reality stopping time dead in its tracks, before he finally grasped the cold, merciless gun from O'Leary's hand. The three soldiers pushed their captive roughly up to where both men stood.
“Do you want a blindfold?” O'Leary asked with unconcealed contempt.

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“No”, the stranger replied hoarsely.
O'Leary nodded. “As you wish”.
The soldiers let him go and with a motion of the head from O'Leary, all the assembly moved aside, leaving De Burca alone to carry out his task.

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His mouth was dry and De Burca turned towards his comrades to see if anyone had a bottle on them, but they had moved off a considerable distance, as if getting far enough away would cleanse them of any blame or guilt.

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“I never betrayed anyone”, the civilian said quietly.
“What did you say?” De Burca replied turning his attention back to him.
“I said I never betrayed anyone”.
The gun tightened in his hand. “That's not for me to say”.
“You could let me go; it wouldn't be anyone's fault. If I just took off, I mean”.

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De Burca felt sweat begin to run down his back and every sinew of his body clench like a vice. His breathing was becoming laboured and constricted, and he thought he might pass out. He hoped he would, that such an event would rid him of hateful duty. 70

O'Leary and the others were smoking now, and he could smell the sweet aroma of tobacco in the air. He wanted to be with them, away from this patch of ground. One of them laughed and he turned his head, like any youth wanting to share in the joke; war and death and the bitterness of the last two years were forgotten; they were the concern of leaders in Dublin, and most of it he didn't really understand anyway – then the civilian was up and running and De Burca wheeled around and fired off a shot.

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As the deafening report rang out, the man went down on his face heavily. De Burca didn't realise he was still holding the weapon outstretched until O'Leary took it firmly from him.

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“Is he dead?”
O'Leary strode over to the body and knelt over it for a moment.
“Clear shot. Through the neck”.
O'Leary stood up. “Sin é. You've done your duty this day, De Burca”.

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Without another word he marched stiffly back to the men and they picked up their rifles, extinguishing their cigarettes. They waited for De Burca to join them, but what he had done had set him apart and he turned his back on them, and walked over to the corpse which had been a living, breathing man only a few moments ago.
Kneeling over the body he grasped one of the man's hands, which still was warm, but growing colder. He began to recite the Our Father.

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“What are you doing there, De Burca?” O'Leary shouted out, but he ignored it and

finished what he was doing. After a time he stood up and noticed how the thunder was closer now and, turning around, could see his compatriots had walked almost a mile down the road. The first smatterings of rain began to fall, and as they got harder they began to wash and dilute the blood stained scene.

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Then the tears came – down his face and down through the years, from young man to old man..............

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Rita was still grappling with the chair at the back of the car.
Her grandfather wiped his face with the cuff of his jacket, letting his tears soak into the fabric. It was a moment before he could speak again.
“I think we'll leave it, Rita. Looks like rain”.
She ceased her struggle.
“Are you sure?”
“I am”, he said.
NOTE

Courtesy of Declan J. Connaughton

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