Op-Center

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

For several minutes, Gregory Donald stood in the doorway of the small base chapel, unable to move. He looked at the plain pine coffin, unable to see inside, unwilling to do so until he was ready.

He had just gotten off the phone with her father, who admitted that he had become concerned when Soonji hadn't called him. He knew she'd been going to the celebration, and whenever there had been a problem, anyplace she went, she'd always phoned to say she was all right. She hadn't done that today. And when there was no answer at home and no record of her at any hospital, he'd feared the worst.

Kim Yong Nam took it the way he took everything that upset him: by withdrawing. Immediately after hearing about Soonji's death and Donald's plans for a funeral in America, he had hung up without uttering a word of thanks, sorrow, or condolence. Donald had never held Kim's manner against him, and he hadn't expected a word or two— welcome though they would have been. Everyone had their own way of dealing with grief, and Kim's was to shut it in, others out.

Breathing deeply, he forced himself to think back to the way he had last seen her— not as his wife, not as Soonji, but as a torn figure cradled lifelessly in his arms. He prepared himself, told himself that the mortician's art was one of suggestion, transforming the dead into the vision of peace and red-cheeked health— but not ever re-creating life as we remembered it. Yet it would be more, he knew, than death as he remembered it. More than that broken and bloodied flesh he held- His breathing was tremulous, his step unsteady as he entered the room. There were large candles burning on either side of the coffin, toward the head, and he walked around to the foot without looking in. From the corner of his eye he could see the dress they had sent a soldier to collect, the plain, white silk gown she wore when they were married. He could see the red and white of the bouquet they had placed in her hands, on her waist. Donald had asked for that: though Soonji didn't believe that red and white roses brought you to the side of God, her mother, who believed in Chondokyo, had been buried that way. She might not find God, in whose existence she had more faith than he, but perhaps Soonji would find her mother.

Facing the coffin, he raised his eyes slowly.

And smiled. They had taken care of his girl. In life she had worn only the slightest touch of rouge, and she had on only a hint of it now. Her lashes were lightly brushed with mascara, and her skin wasn't caked with powder or paint but fair-looking, as it had been in life. Someone must have brought her perfume from their apartment, for he became aware of it now that he stood so close. Donald resisted the urge to touch her, for to the senses of sight and smell she was asleep… and at peace.

He wept openly as he moved to the left side of the coffin, not to gaze more closely at her but to kiss his finger and touch it to her gold wedding band, a ring inscribed with their names and the date they were married.

After allowing himself to touch the ruff of her sleeve, and remembering how soft and young and vital she had been the day they were wed, Donald walked from the chapel stronger than when he had entered, with reason in control of the anger he had shown General Norbom.

But he still intended to go north, with or without his friend's help.