Last Thursday, I spent several hours at the mall. I do not normally spend several hours at the mall, especially on Thursdays. I never have the money to buy things, and changing rooms are too depressing. But I needed something presentable to wear, and I still had a Simon Mall gift card from Christmas, so I frantically rushed from store to store like a crazy woman on a reality tv show. I bought a blue/teal dress shirt with a tiny belt around the waist, and black dress pants. Because I know you wanted to know.

I stopped at home to get dressed, do my hair. This doesn’t happen often, as I’m usually in casual attire for work, unless I have to show up at a court date or meet with “professional” social work types.

Feeling somewhat presentable now, I drove up north, to Allisonville and 96th street. Next to the Starbucks which was my first Indiana job (also, the Starbucks where Ben and I once worked together…long before we were “we”), there is a funeral home and cemetery. I turned left into the cemetery.

I was running late. I was not intentionally late, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t mind missing the first hour, which was “private”, for family only. I’m still the new kid in the family, and I still feel like I’m getting my sea legs as a Flack. I should have been on time to support my husband, but then, in my imagination, that hour was more awkward than I think it probably really would have been. In any case, the viewing was no longer closed. I parked far away from the chapel, behind dozens and dozens of police and sheriff cars. I walked through the cold in a steady stream of all sorts - men in Nascar shirts and jeans, Marines in uniform, police in uniform, and people dressed as if they are attending a wake. Which they were.

Ben met me outside the front door, in his new suit and new haircut. I didn’t notice the haircut (though I did know he was getting one that day), which is good, because I was wholly against his getting a haircut. I liked it long. but it was only a bit shorter in the back, so it made all parties (meaning Ben and myself) happy. I notice this approximately two hours later.

After a hug and a kiss, we walk in the door. There is a long line, the first I’ve ever seen a line at a wake. Most are in uniform. I hang up my jacket, and head toward the family area, which is poorly partitioned from the general area. This means random people kept eating our food all night. This also means we had fodder to talk about:

“Who the hell is that kid eating all the pepper jack cheese?! Does anyone know that kid?”
“She came with Aunt Nadine. She’s her great-grand niece. Or something. I don’t really know.”
“…Oh.”
“She better slow down on the cheese.”

I mingle, hug, talk, hug some more, while I wait for the line to slim down. The line wraps around the front of the chapel, where the shell of Ben’s grandfather lay in a steel colored casket lined with baby blue. It then moves towards a large TV, showing a local news segment that Channel 13 did a few years ago on Grandpa, and then towards a long table full of his life: photos, newspaper clippings, medals, writings, paintings.

I just missed the presentation from the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Grandpa was, so I’m told, the most decorated officer in IPD history: 1 bravery award, 4 Red Cross Hall of Fame awards, 38 commendations, the only IPD officer to ever recieve two valor awards, and Policeman of the Year in 1969. This, in addition to a Purple Heart in Okinawa in World War II, and other awards and medals that he lost count of himself.

As I walk past the line, I see Sally, an officer who served under Grandpa, and who I met last month through work. “He was the greatest man I ever worked under,” she’d said at the time, when I mentioned I married Lt. Flack’s grandson. “He would die for you. Everyone knew that.” As she left the office, she asked me to say hello to him for her, if he remembered her.

I had called her earlier on Thursday - though I was certain she’d heard about the funeral, I wanted to call her anyway. She wasn’t in, so I left the message with the office receptionist. “Oh, yes, she knows. My husband worked under him as well, they’ll both be there this evening. I’ll let her know you called.”

There in the line, I note how different Sally looks out of uniform. I hadn’t yet had a chance to let her know that I did mention her to Grandpa on Christmas Day. “Sally! Well YES, of course I remember her!” He went on to tell stories of her husband (also an officer) got shot in the line of duty, and how she “took down the perp” after a colleage got shot another time. He says she was one of the best officers he knew.

“…And she takes out that .357….and….POP-POP-POP!….and down he went….” Grandpa makes the hand motions for all this, miming drawing the gun, closing one eye and taking the shot, all from the living room arm chair.

He went on to tell the story no less than three times. I never minded. All my grandparents are gone, and I’m a sucker for a good story. I never cared how many times I had to hear the same story from Grandpa, I was glad they were being remembered.

I tell Sally all this, that he remembered her as fondly as she remembered him. She smiles, thanks me for telling him. We talk about work, as she asked for an update from the last time I saw her. I let her know what the status is. “Good job,” she says. I didn’t know what to say, which is rare for me. I was a little surprised at how that encouragement made me feel, coming from an officer I respect. I eventually say something along the lines of “oh, well…I mean…” blah blah. We wrap up the conversation as I’m being summoned by other family. “Whenever you need anything, you just let me know, I’m happy to help.” She says, truthfully.

As Ben always says, it’s good to be a Flack in Indianapolis.

(To be continued….)