first steps down a dangerous path and knew he couldn’t reveal—even to the preacher—the full depth of his plans.
So much depended on his tactics in the next forty-eight hours. This crazy scheme would never work if . . . Jackson stepped in front of the preacher, using his hardened glare to convey the truth beyond his words.
“This is difficult to explain . . . but over the next few days, you are going to be seeing another Jack Stone, one you’ve never seen before. The marine Jack Stone. I’m going to be doing and saying some things—I already have—that seem totally out of character for me. I have trust and faith in the Lord. I hope you’ll have a little trust and faith in me. Everything I’m going to be saying and doing—there is a reason for it.”
They resumed their walk, turning toward Patrick’s house and moving at a brisker pace as Jackson talked at a passionate level, less than manic but above conversational. He had to make the reverend understand.
“You know I believe everything happens for a reason. I might not understand it, and while I am very angry right now, I decided a long time ago I would never blame or question God for the method He chose to call my wife home, whether it was from a heart attack, an auto accident . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper, his head slumped, and he put his hand on Armstrong’s shoulder for support. “. . . or this. Good Lord. Maybe my stance, my faith, is being put to the test. I’ve always felt the best day of my life will be the day of my death.”
Jackson stopped again, and he buried his head in his hands.
“Maybe that will still be the case. But Angela’s death—saying goodbye to her? Today’s the worst day of my life.”
The preacher took Jackson by the arm.
“Let’s get you home.”
5
The Stones arrived at the funeral home at nine thirty a.m. to spend a few private moments with Angela’s family before the visitation began. The temperature was already hovering at ninety degrees, on the way to a record one hundred and seven, but that didn’t keep people away. The line snaked around the building through a queue of velvet ropes, winding down the driveway and halfway to the street. And more cars were arriving every minute. Four television trucks parked outside, with the Channel 11 van in the process of extending its antenna skyward to do a live remote.
Dan Clarkston got out of the passenger side as the funeral director ran up.
“I’m afraid you people need to leave. This is private property and a private ceremony,” a dignified, well-meaning Arthur Greaves said.
“I’m sorry, but this is a news story , and we’re not leaving,” Clarkston said. “We’ll move our van to the street and stay in the background until after the ceremony ends and everyone clears. Is that satisfactory?”
The funeral director nodded and started to speak, but Clarkston cut him off as I arrived.
“We won’t tape the funeral without permission, but I do plan to attend. Also, I want to talk for a moment with Mister Stone or a family representative.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’m from TenneScene Today .”
“If you’ll wait over there,” Greaves pointed, “I’ll find someone.”
Clarkston and I both turned and watched the parking lot scene. The line of sympathizers grew longer. Cameraman Pittard shot video and a couple of anti-violence protesters stood on public property by the entrance to the funeral home. “Don’t Dishonor Your Wife’s Memory” read one man’s sign.
“N ice article this morning,” Clarkston said, making small talk to break the silence. “That photo was unbelievable. So what do you make of this guy?”
I shrugged. “He’s in a lot of pain right now. But I think he’s sincere.”
“I think he’s a nut,” Clarkston said, turning to stare again at the growing crowd.
Like our confrontation with the funeral director, several others took place that hot, humid
So much depended on his tactics in the next forty-eight hours. This crazy scheme would never work if . . . Jackson stepped in front of the preacher, using his hardened glare to convey the truth beyond his words.
“This is difficult to explain . . . but over the next few days, you are going to be seeing another Jack Stone, one you’ve never seen before. The marine Jack Stone. I’m going to be doing and saying some things—I already have—that seem totally out of character for me. I have trust and faith in the Lord. I hope you’ll have a little trust and faith in me. Everything I’m going to be saying and doing—there is a reason for it.”
They resumed their walk, turning toward Patrick’s house and moving at a brisker pace as Jackson talked at a passionate level, less than manic but above conversational. He had to make the reverend understand.
“You know I believe everything happens for a reason. I might not understand it, and while I am very angry right now, I decided a long time ago I would never blame or question God for the method He chose to call my wife home, whether it was from a heart attack, an auto accident . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper, his head slumped, and he put his hand on Armstrong’s shoulder for support. “. . . or this. Good Lord. Maybe my stance, my faith, is being put to the test. I’ve always felt the best day of my life will be the day of my death.”
Jackson stopped again, and he buried his head in his hands.
“Maybe that will still be the case. But Angela’s death—saying goodbye to her? Today’s the worst day of my life.”
The preacher took Jackson by the arm.
“Let’s get you home.”
5
The Stones arrived at the funeral home at nine thirty a.m. to spend a few private moments with Angela’s family before the visitation began. The temperature was already hovering at ninety degrees, on the way to a record one hundred and seven, but that didn’t keep people away. The line snaked around the building through a queue of velvet ropes, winding down the driveway and halfway to the street. And more cars were arriving every minute. Four television trucks parked outside, with the Channel 11 van in the process of extending its antenna skyward to do a live remote.
Dan Clarkston got out of the passenger side as the funeral director ran up.
“I’m afraid you people need to leave. This is private property and a private ceremony,” a dignified, well-meaning Arthur Greaves said.
“I’m sorry, but this is a news story , and we’re not leaving,” Clarkston said. “We’ll move our van to the street and stay in the background until after the ceremony ends and everyone clears. Is that satisfactory?”
The funeral director nodded and started to speak, but Clarkston cut him off as I arrived.
“We won’t tape the funeral without permission, but I do plan to attend. Also, I want to talk for a moment with Mister Stone or a family representative.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’m from TenneScene Today .”
“If you’ll wait over there,” Greaves pointed, “I’ll find someone.”
Clarkston and I both turned and watched the parking lot scene. The line of sympathizers grew longer. Cameraman Pittard shot video and a couple of anti-violence protesters stood on public property by the entrance to the funeral home. “Don’t Dishonor Your Wife’s Memory” read one man’s sign.
“N ice article this morning,” Clarkston said, making small talk to break the silence. “That photo was unbelievable. So what do you make of this guy?”
I shrugged. “He’s in a lot of pain right now. But I think he’s sincere.”
“I think he’s a nut,” Clarkston said, turning to stare again at the growing crowd.
Like our confrontation with the funeral director, several others took place that hot, humid
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