Evergreen
Washington D.C., 2014
In a side gallery of the Smithsonian's Air and Space museum, tucked among the rockets and plane engines, was the Captain America exhibit.
The exhibit was crowded. People meandered from one display to the next and kids ran around virtually unsupervised. Rose's pulse quickened each time some kid's fingers came too close to the artifacts. Though the old uniforms and war equipment weren't exactly fine art, the carelessness with which the public regarded the items nearly sent her into a coma.
Her thumb rubbed over the wing of a wooden dove that swung from her keychain. She moved away from the Howling Commandos' uniform display as a few kids ran up, pointing to Captain America's suit and chattering excitedly.
“The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice,” a recorded voice announced over the exhibit speakers.
Still, despite some wayward kids, there was a collective feeling of awe churning through the exhibit, and it was nice to see history being appreciated in some respect. Though, Rose supposed the Captain's history wasn't as distant to him as it was to the rest of the world. He hadn't been out of the ice all that long, but long enough to save the world once again.
Rose passed another bigger than life portrait of the Captain, set against an American flag. The exhibit was chock-full of those portraits. Rose understood the sentiment of it—patriotism and all that—but couldn't rouse that feeling in herself. Not while staring into the eyes of a man who’d lost everything.
“Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division.”
Past the Commandos' uniform display was a large glass slab, etched with a portrait and an inscription.
A Fallen Comrade.
Rose stopped at the threshold of the glass and looked into the face of a soldier long-dead. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.
“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”
He looked far too young, far too solemn. His epitaph was far too brief.
Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.
Reunited, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America’s newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.
Bucky Barnes
1917–1944
Rose had been to her fair share of museums—it came with the territory of living in D.C. and working in the art world—but she’d never seen such a display.
The glass was perfectly transparent, except where Sergeant Barnes’ portrait was etched. Somehow, seeing the brilliantly colored portraits of Captain America through his best friend’s open vitrine felt like an insult greater than words could describe.
Rose squeezed the wooden dove in her hand. The points of its wings dug into her palm. She squeezed until the pain turned dull and her mind cleared. “They got the dates wrong,” she mumbled to no one in particular.
“They got a lot wrong,” said a man standing to her left.
Rose looked over at him. He was dressed casually, but there was no mistaking who he was, not in a room dedicated to him.
The bitter downturn of Captain Rogers’ mouth tugged at Rose’s heart. If she burned with rage at seeing Sergeant Barnes’ display, she couldn’t imagine how his best friend must feel.
She turned back to face the display. James Buchanan Barnes stared down at her from the glass. The recorded voice on the speakers was silent between loops. Captain Rogers was silent too, hands stuffed in his pockets and baseball cap pulled low.
Rose unclenched her hand and looked at the wooden dove in her palm. One of the wings was dull from where her fingers had rubbed off the polish over the years. She passed a thumb over the wood one more time and unclipped the little charm from her key chain.
Rose scanned the epitaph once more, wondering which parts were incorrect, but not wanting to ask. Then she turned away from Sergeant Barnes’ grim expression and held her hand out to Captain Rogers.
His eyes flickered down to her palm. The wrinkle between his brows deepened.
He, like his friend, looked far too young and far too solemn.
Calloused fingers dragged against Rose’s hand as he took up the dove she held out to him. Two pinpricks from the tips of its wings were still imprinted on her palm.
Captain Rogers turned the wooden dove over between his fingers. He paused at the patch of dulled polish on one of the wings. He blinked, the crease between his brows relaxed a fraction, and looked at Rose.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she whispered.
The words felt lame. But Rose knew all too well that there weren’t enough words in any language to convey the depth of grief that such a loss brings onto a person. All she could offer him was the mercy of understanding.
Captain Rogers’ hand wrapped tight around the dove. Florescent display lights reflected in the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“Thank you.”
His words were sincere and his gaze intense. Rose ducked her head and walked away, utterly convinced that James Buchanan Barnes deserved a better ending than he got.
On the train home, Rose cried.