Drowned Silence

All the Living and the Dead (A Contemporary Rewrite of James Joyce's The Dead)

"Ladies and Gentlemen," George had said before the table full of turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and the overanxious fork-and-knife-filled hands of ravenous relatives, "in this world of the new millennium, this era of the Internet, cell phones, and ever-increasing technology, I think that a yearly gathering such as this can remind us that—for any flaws it may have had—the generation which is currently riding into the sunset nonetheless should be commended for its sense of generosity, connectedness, and justice for mankind, which the so-called 'advanced' super-educated generation of today is completely lacking."

George had paused at that moment, just as he had during his rehearsals of the speech, confident that it was best to let all of the information sink into the heads of the people gathered before him—most of them were quite old, after all. After the appropriate amount of silence, he waved one arm towards the two sallow-haired ladies at his right side. "For would a member of this current generation be as hospitable as our dear aunts Jessica and Katherine—or, perhaps I should rather call them—our very own musical graces?"

The people around the table put down their utensils to offer a polite round of applause for their hostesses. Aunt Katherine smoothed her ruffled blouse and smiled adeptly at each relative in turn. Aunt Jessica turned to her neighbor and asked if he could repeat what her dear nephew has said; her grateful surprise at hearing the compliment repeated almost made the request appear genuine.

George had grasped his champagne glass even more tightly then, raising it high in the air as he approached his finale. "Indeed, who can forget the supermen of our aunts' time? Eisenhower, F.D.R., McArthur, Patton, and the veterans of World War II—the people who laid their very lives on the line to save our country—no, to save the entire world—from the tyranny of fascism."

George had raised his champagne in one final polished motion, a move that he had perfected in previous years at the same occasion, and waited patiently as the rest of the company fumbled to raise their own glasses. "Such were heroes that our nation will never see again. Such was a time of strength, a time of sincerity, that we shall never see again. So on this day of Thanksgiving, let us toast not only to our two gracious hostesses, but to those who are no longer with us: gone, but far from forgotten."

Even now as he stood in the foyer of his great-aunts' house waiting for his wife Gwenyth, George recalled how elatedly the family had shared the holiday meal with one another after being roused by his words and receiving the slices of turkey that he cut as head of the table. He laid his wife's coat over one arm and checked his watch; it was getting late, and he was anxious to return to the hotel. He looked over at his wife, hoping that she would notice him near the door and follow his lead to exit since they had already said their goodbyes. But Gwen had insisted on staying to hear Aunt Jessica play the piano while Aunt Katherine sung a song "from the days before many of you were even a flicker in God's eye," as they introduced it every year when they gathered in the front room after dinner. It was some song about supporting "our boys in the war," which, since his aunts were so enthusiastic about it, had served as George's inspiration for this year's speech.

George stared at his wife's profile as she watched the performance, her delicate petite frame more appealing than ever beneath her velvet red dress, and he wished that she would turn and see him. With their kids back home with Gwen's mother, the annual trip to his aunts' house for Thanksgiving was one of the rare occasions he could spend some time alone with his wife. It was a time they could pretend that they were living in those days in which they were first dating, when every moment was rapture, every new day a delight. George couldn't take his eyes off of his wife, who hadn't stirred since his aunt had begun singing. He recalled his words to Gwen when he had bent on one knee, all those years ago: You are, have been, and always will be the only one for me. He knew that his words reflected both of their hearts, even now. The kids, the bills, their separate careers—none of that could ever deplete those feelings completely.

When his aunts finally finished their performance, Gwen walked down the hallway towards George at the door. She kept her head down, not looking at George even as he helped her into her coat. He put one arm around her and led her to their rental car, holding the car door for her, just as he had in the days when he had put all of his effort into winning her heart. He could see her smile slightly in response, but she kept her gaze locked downwards. George drove off slowly through the light flurry of snow, imagining the moment that they would cross the threshold into their honeymoon suite, and he would slam the door behind him with one leg as he grasped her tightly with both arms. He glanced at his wife, knowing that she had to be thinking the same as she stared out the passenger window into the gentle shower of snowflakes. He thought it best to fill the silence on the too long ride leading to that moment. "So," he proposed, "you must really find my aunts the musical geniuses they claim themselves to be if you can devote yourself to listening to that same song every year." He smiled; he knew that his wife was far too polite a guest to leave as early as he himself had wanted.

Gwen didn't answer for some time. After a few more waves of snowflakes fluttered to the ground, she said, "The song they sing reminds me of... Mark."

George gave his wife a quick glance. "Who?"

"Mark. A boy from my childhood. He served in the Gulf War right out of high school. He... He didn't make it back. He was only eighteen."

"You've never mentioned him to me before."

"I suppose not." Gwen propped one fist beneath her chin and continued to stare outside the window.

"Were you... in love with him?"

"We were a couple at the time. The thing is... I think he died for me." Gwen burst suddenly into tears. George could see out of the corner of his eye that she had cradled her head in both her arms. It was a while before Gwen managed to utter, "He joined the forces to save up money to come back and... then we could get married."

No words could escape past George's clenched tongue. The rest of the trip to the hotel continued in silence, interrupted by a sniffle now and then as Gwen tried to soothe herself. The gently falling snow outside the windshield enticed George with its sorrowful dance, distracting his thoughts from his wife's revelation. It had been an especially snowy season as of late—no doubt the snow could caress the ground of the world over. It would cover the grave of those dead but not gone from the mind of the living. Just in the same way that it still covered the footsteps of all those forgotten who were still living.