Geoffrey Wright

trio for two

quiet spring breeze caressed the shoulders of the pair, as they stood there in the May sunshine. In the distance, clumps of willows painted the blue of the horizon with their grey-green mist of early foliage, and the eager bleats of sheep, out for their first pasture, drifted into their hearing from some far-away meadow. But the two were indifferent to these pleasing sounds and sights, so engrossed were they in a scene which lay directly before them. John, his tall, lean figure covered by a light top-coat, stood tightlipped and erect, while Gloria leaned against him, clutching his arm-a slender, bareheaded girl, with tear-stained face, and long dark curls which moved restlessly in the wind. Both were looking downward at a rectangular patch of earth, beneath which lay the remains of Greg-Gloria's brother and John's dearest friend. Within their vision stretched the confines of the small country cemetery with its silent tombstones-some small and others towering, some new and shiny, others blotched by lichens and eaten by the snows, winds and rains of many seasons.

The burial had been the day before, and the two had left before the diggers began filling the grave. Then, John's mind had been stupefied, his emotions numbed; but now his thoughts churned with the tormenting recollections of their bereavement. The hit-run driver ... Greg's lithe, young body lying broken and twisted on the highway... the ambulance . . . the hospital . . . the hours of anguished suspense . . . the heartbreaking climax for those who had waited and prayed. Now the two stood here again, before a grave filled with moist, loose soil, beside which a few squares of sod were stacked, to be replaced after the earth had settled.

Gloria's mind was dwelling on the same fresh sorrows. Unlike John, she had not been with Greg at that tragic moment. She was attending one of her high school classes, and had not been able to reach the hospital for more than an hour. She had found Greg lying there in the emergency ward, conscious but dulled by opiates. Splintered ribs had mangled his lungs, and as she had sat on the cot beside him, he was convulsed again and again by strangling coughs, which showered the bed and her clothing with spatters of blood. John was alternately in and out of the ward now standing at the bedside in grim anxiety, now out in the hallway twisting his hands and pacing to and fro. Gloria's mother and father were sitting on a bench in one corner of the room, leaning against one another, and watching in helpless sorrow. More than four hours had thus passed. Greg's breathing had grown weaker, the coughing had subsided, and the doctor was shaking his head. At a moment when John was out, and while Gloria was wiping the blood from Greg's paling lips, Greg opened his eyes and looked at her with an expression of intense calm. "Where's John . . .?", he whispered, with a glance about him.

"He's in the hallway, dear. Let me call him . . .

"No... wait . . . wait." He moistened his lips. "Gloria --I want you to promise something..."

"Yes, Greg, anything . . ."

"John..."-a sudden, dark tenderness shone in Greg's eyes-"Gloria, I want . . . you . . . to be.. to.. John. ." He stopped. His mind seemed to be drifting far away.

"Yes, Greg, tell me..." Breathlessly, she gripped his shoulder, prompting him to finish. At last Greg's eyes focussed on her's again, while he marshalled his remaining energies. He opened his mouth to speak, and Gloria bent her face close to his, to catch the words. Finally they came, halting, breathed more than spoken.

"... as . . I . . have. . been." He lay back, exhausted. Gloria held her breath, thinking

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