The Bench

I’d lived in the French Quarter for about two years now and love the towering century-old homes in the Garden District, narrow avenues and veranda’s, draped in tall walls of purple, white and green bougainvillea, with fan palms where birds rest in the shade beneath their umbrella fronds.

A place where cobblestone alley’s, street side café’s and quaint bistros with tables set along the avenues welcomed, and the aroma of low country fare stimulated and enticed patrons who stood in long lines waiting to sample the gumbo’s and muffulettas, beignets and chargrilled oysters. Young boys sat on street corners, drum sticks in hand banging big white buckets and dancing for change as tourist strolled by. The air was hot, and the humidity caused one’s clothes to cling and collars to be unbuttoned.

The evening had started to gather as I walked down past the old Saint Louis cemetery where dozens of tourists were being ushered out of the boneyard which sat across the street from where I stood, as it was closing time. They were looking for cabs, carriages and tour guides to take them to their hotels or lead them home. It was mayhem of a sort, appearing like fire ants whose nest had been stepped on running this way and that as though blind when I noticed a bench just ahead and decided to sit for a minute watching the confusion before making my way past the chaos.

The early night air and light breeze had cooled leaving a pleasant evening, so I took a seat next to an elderly gentleman who was just staring at the hundreds of century-old mausoleums and gravestones in the near distance. He looked to be in his eighties and on his way to dinner; white hair, blue blazer, pocket handkerchief, khaki pants and cream-colored bucks with a light blue button down. He held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a silver crowned cane in the other. I greeted him the way all good southerners do, and he looked my way smiled and nodded. Sitting, I leaned over towards him and said, “big night”? He looked at me inquisitively and confused, then glanced down at the flowers in his hand and said: “Oh, no, no, no, I’m just here to see an old friend”. Turning back towards the graveyard. Well, as usual, my curiosity slapped me on the back, and a small voice in my head said, ask him more. So, I leaned forward again on the bench and said, “beautiful night isn’t it”?

Now you must remember that all these people who had departed the cemetery were still milling around, shouting at one another, jumping into taxi’s and attempting to decide which direction took them back to where they were staying. “What,” he said, as though he had a hearing problem? “Nice evening” I repeated. He nodded and looked back over towards the cemetery. Then at that moment he leaned back, crossed his legs and turned towards me staring straight in my eyes, saying in a loud voice, “do you ever wonder”? I paused a second, “wonder” I asked? “Yes,” he said, “wonder what may have happened, what may have happened, if”. A chill ran up my spine and I asked him, how so?

He sighed and took a deep breath, leaned forward and said: “well, time takes a toll on one’s memories, and I’ve seen a great deal of time”. Not knowing what he was speaking about I asked, “are you referring to your old friend?” “Yes, he said,” with a look of puzzlement and sadness in his eyes “she was a very dear friend, really much more than a friend and I should have asked her”. “Asked her,” I said?

Then looking up from where I was sitting, I see a young man from the crowd standing right in front of us. He was tall, dressed in an Army uniform emblazoned with medals with a nametag that read A. Middleton, holding hands with a beautifully stunning young girl in a white sundress and big smile.

By this time the crowds were starting to thin and the tree-lined streets draped with Spanish Moss had a yellowish orange and red glow as the sunset now ending, reflected and glistened on the pavement from a rain shower that had blown through earlier in the day. Horse-drawn carriages were sitting in front of The Commanders Palace, one of New Orleans most famous dining rooms, waiting where they had dropped off guests assuming others would board, seeking a ride through the city after an early dinner and before driving home. In the evening you could hear a trumpet playing in a speakeasy nearby and the ratta-tat-tat of bucket drums through the allies.

“Excuse me”, would you have change for the bus”? The soldier said, “Just a minute”, I said standing. Then turning in his direction, I placed a hand in my pocket saying, “let me check, I might”. “It would be great if you did, I’m taking a bus back to the base and have nothing but a twenty”. Then fumbling with the wad of money in my pocket, I pulled just what he needed out and handed it to him as he gave me the twenty. “A lot of ribbons,” I said referring to his medals, “yea, I did two tours in the field”. About that time, I looked back to the bench noticing that the old man had gone leaving his flowers with a letter on the bench. Immediately, I turned back towards the Sargent asking if he had seen where the old man had gone. He looked at me puzzled, and asked, what old man? I motioned towards the bench, pointing at the empty seat and said, the one who was sitting beside me, looking back in the direction of the soldier, who was no longer there.

At that moment I sat stunned on the bench leaning forward, placing the palms of my hands in my eyes and over my forehead. “No old man, young soldier vanished, flowers, and a letter,” I said aloud.

By now it was dark, the street light overhead was flickering, the breeze had increased and the leaves in the great white oaks began to rustle. I was confused about the situation and picked up the envelope which the wind had blown against my leg.

It was water stained and creased as though it had been folded, and aged. I picked it up and noticed it had no address and was sealed. A light tug on its fold caused it to crackle and I pulled its contents out hoping to find an address.  An old brown photo fell from the folded letter onto the bench beside me. I unfolded the letter which appeared to have been written many years ago as the ink had faded and imprinted atop each sentence making it difficult to read in the low light from above. The date posted on the top of the letter read May 19^th, 1969 Dong Ap Bia Viet Nam;

I folded the letter picked up the snapshot to see what this young man looked like and felt the hair stand up on my neck, as on the back of the photo had been written in pencil Maggie and A. Middleton, April 1969 New Orleans Louisiana.

Now they say New Orleans is the most haunted city in this country and that may be true but what I had just experienced wasn’t a haunting by any means of the imagination. If anything, it was the reunion of two past souls who were now on a bus ride into eternity.

*On May 19^th, 1969 seventy-two American soldiers from the 101^st Airborne died in Dong Ap Bia Viet Nam at a place known as Hamburger Hill.