Epilogue
On a sticky, humid, Washington afternoon, a dark green taxicab pulled off Lincoln Road N.E. into the nicely kept Glenwood Cemetery and made its way through the calm sea of permanent guests bedded down in eternal sleep. The expansive park of the now long forgotten held an eerie calmness that was curiously inviting for a place most wanted to avoid.
The cab made a left and slowly climbed the semi-steep pavement, stopping at its passenger’s request. The cab driver hopped out and pulled his fare’s “spare set of wheels” from the trunk. With the precision of a gymnast, Popeye lifted himself out of the cab and lowered his legless torso down into his wheelchair. “I’ll only be a minute,” he told the driver, rolling past several impressive, custom-made vaults. He stopped at a gothic tomb with the name C.R. Peace engraved across the top.
Popeye lowered his head, too dizzy and tired to pray, moaning in memory of battles lost and friends long passed away. Charlie kept several tombs around the city and asked Popeye to make sure the casket with the Kennedy assassination evidence got moved if something happened to him. He also instructed him to give Robert Veil this information, but Popeye had waited.
Now, with Edward Rothschild dead, the homeless amputee didn’t see the point. Why put the country through more agony when it wouldn’t help her heal? Popeye wiped his eyes, pulled a half full bottle of Southern Comfort from under his blanket and took a long full swig.
Ten minutes later, bottle empty and back under the blanket, Popeye made his way home. The doctors at Crossroads gave him six months at the most. Fine with him. He’d done his country one final service and, near death, that’s all a patriot could ask.
