Ben Kennedy did not know what he thought about cremation. He didn’t mind the concept, exactly, but it seemed a bit too tidy. He had moved enough final things in his life to know the weight of the dead, and it was somehow that weight that reassured him in its endings. The small urn full of ashes that stood on the table beside the hole—a posthole, really, Ben thought, nothing more—contained the mortal remains of his son, Thomas, and that seemed impossible. Cows, dogs, cats, they required spadework, sometimes the backhoe, and he had never considered it before, but the process of burying the creature had been its good-bye. He did not know if he could find the same finality in a jar of ashes, regardless of what the undertaker, Todd Lyle, told him about such things. But, he decided, now was not the time to raise such an issue. Walking beside his grandson in the good October light, Ben made a conscious decision to let things go. Whatever had happened to his boy was finished now. That was as clear as a bell.
Ben saw the parish priest, Father Kamili, standing and talking to some of the mourners. Hard to miss him, Ben realized, the priest being an African. From what he understood, half the Catholic churches in the country now had priests from away because the local boys didn’t buy into it any longer. That was all right by him. A priest always seemed a postage stamp to Ben, not the whole letter, and when he came up he shook the man’s hand and introduced him to his grandson.
“I see the resemblance,” Father Kamili said, shaking Gordon’s hand. “Naturally.”
“And I’m John Harigan,” a man standing beside the priest said, extending his hand. “I doubt you remember me, but I played football with Tommy at Millinocket. Some of the boys are showing up.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Ben said, trying to place him.
It didn’t seem possible that a man Tom’s age was bald and spread out into his suit jacket the way this man seemed to be. But then, Ben figured, his own son was dead, turned to ash, and whoever would have guessed that could have come to pass?
Then cars began arriving in numbers. Something about the position of the sun caught the chrome and anything shiny on the vehicles and flashed it back at them, the refracted light running like cats across the dull grass. Ben stood back behind the table with his son’s ashes, doing his best to recognize the waves of mourners walking slowly up the hill. It was the casket that was missing, he realized, his eyes giving nothing away. The casket gave things a substantial feeling. Burying a can of ash didn’t seem worth gathering people for. A casket, on the other hand, spoke to the weight of the event.
“Hello, yes, hello,” Ben said. “Thanks for coming.”
Old faces. New faces. A group of seven American Legion boys, old buzzards, really, walked up the hill and got ready to do something or other. Ben found it difficult to concentrate. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. He felt annoyed and cranky; what were they all doing here? Thomas was gone, his son was gone, and that wasn’t something all the dark clothing in the world could alter.
In the midst of his confusion, he felt his grandson put his hand on his elbow and guide him to his seat. He was glad for that. He wanted a rest. His legs felt weak and his breathing moved solidly in his chest. Like ice melting. Like tea spreading in a cup of hot water.
“Mom’s here,” Gordon whispered when Ben sat down, his grandson’s breathing tickling him slightly. “They just pulled up.”
* * *
So this was it, Margaret thought, trying to weigh the sight of so many old friends and neighbors scattered across the hillside. She looked out the window, her forehead nearly against the glass, and tried to sort out her feelings. The October sunlight felt in contradiction to their business. It called for the harvest, for the taking up, not the putting under. But maybe, too, it was weather for a final tally. At least, she thought, they did not have rain. Rain might have been too much. Thomas did not deserve rain.
“I guess they want us in here,” her dad said, pointing to the open spaces marked by orange cones for the family. He pulled the car in and shut it off. How strange it felt to be in the backseat by herself; it was a return to childhood, her parents driving while she occupied herself with the passing scenery. But today was different, of course, and she waited while Mr. Lyle, the undertaker, stepped forward and opened her door.
“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Mr. Lyle said. “People are gathered.”
“I see,” Margaret said, stepping out.
“It’s a beautiful day.”
“Yes, it is.”
“There’s been a small change to the program events,” Mr. Lyle said, his voice going low, as if revealing something he was unsure about. “If it’s all right with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve sent an honor guard,” Mr. Lyle said. “These are really quite remarkable young men. I didn’t agree to any change until I had an opportunity to speak with you. It just occurred . . . the honor guard, I mean. They just arrived.”
“Do you mean the American Legion men?” Margaret asked, confused.
“No, this is an honor guard. I gather it’s an elite guard. There’s a form you can fill out to have an honor guard for veterans . . . for their funerals, but this wasn’t my doing. I didn’t think you’d want that particular service.”
“How did they get here? How did they know . . .”
“The squad leader . . . I’m sorry, I don’t honestly know the vernacular here. I am not a military man myself. The squad leader said it was arranged in Washington. Because of the medal, I suppose. It’s a little unclear to me, too.”
“Yes, all right,” Margaret said, not entirely sure she was called on to make a decision. It was possible that all Congressional Medal winners received an honor guard. And what was it Mr. Lyle said? They could fill out a form and be provided with an honor guard? She felt annoyed with Todd Lyle; he pretended formality and politeness, but his eye remained on the bottom line and she found that a particularly disagreeable trait in an undertaker.
How peculiar it all was. She watched heads turn to see her as she began up the hillside. As if I were a bride, she thought, amazed. She walked alone, her parents tagging behind her. Then she saw Blake. Sweet Blake, who came close and kissed her cheek.
“If you need anything,” Blake whispered, “anything at all.”
“I’m all right, Blake. I’m numb, actually.”
Then the ring of people grew around her and she greeted as many familiar faces as she could. Old friends. Friends of Thomas’s, friends of hers. Acquaintances, a few farmers, a milk buyer probably there for Ben. As she made her way closer to the small awning, she realized she should have given the interment more thought. She had left it in Mr. Lyle’s hands, and, as she had already noted, he did things on a short purse. There was nothing wrong with the arrangement, but neither did it speak to Thomas’s warmth and character. It was a Chevrolet funeral, and Margaret felt a short stab to the heart when she realized her husband deserved more.
The priest, Father Kamili, led them in an Our Father when Margaret finally sat beside Ben. She felt Gordon’s hand resting on her shoulder; his other hand rested on his grandfather’s. She reached back and covered his hand with hers.
Then ritual. One of the sacraments, she remembered. Strangely, she recalled the responses, the meter of the ceremony, with little effort. Father Kamili handled the service well. His voice had a pleasing lilt; a Caribbean tumble that made his sentences end in unpredictable ways. Ben had been correct to want a priest, she understood now. Belief or no belief, eternal life or no eternal life, the ceremony gave structure to a moment without structure.
When Father Kamili finished, the honor guard appeared on the crest of the hill.
She felt Gordon’s fingers dig slightly into her shoulder. The soldiers—there was no denying it—looked resplendent. They carried rifles and marched in perfect step, not rushed, not hasty in any detail. She felt people turn
and draw in their collective breath. Margaret glanced at the American Legion fellows, the elderly men in ill-fitting uniforms, and she saw them settle back in their chairs, as if they understood they would not be needed. The guard came solemnly down the hill, their buckles shining, their steps precise. They looked beautiful and young, masculine in the finest way, and she realized they did not move their eyes to accommodate their feet, did not look down. One of them, the soldier farthest on the left, commanded them, saying words in a short, military grunt that made little sense to her. When they arrived at the awning, the commanding officer produced a flag—where had it been? she had not seen it—and the men began to fold it. She had seen such things on television, everyone had, but she had never seen it in person. She squeezed Gordon’s hand and reached over and took Ben’s arm. She felt him trembling.
Yes, she thought, this is what Thomas deserved. This is a small part of what he deserved.
Behind her, she heard Gordon begin to sob. She stood quickly and collected him in her arms. She held him fiercely. His sobs would not cease.
“Your daddy was such a good man,” she whispered passionately in his ear. “You should be very, very proud of him. You’re his son and you have his goodness and I am proud of you.”
He nodded against her. From behind him, she watched Blake step closer and take Gordon’s free arm.
Then it was time to receive the flag. She sat slowly and waited.
“On behalf of the president of the United States and the people of a grateful nation,” the commanding guard said in a clear, well-modulated voice, “may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation?”
“Thank you,” Margaret whispered.
The flag felt heavy and dense, a perfect triangle, the stars facing upward. Margaret took it and held it on her lap. The commanding soldier stepped back and saluted her while the rest of his squad marched slowly up the hill. When they gained a hundred feet from the awning they came to attention, then pointed their rifles at the distant clouds and fired a volley. The sound shocked Margaret. Then a second volley, and a third, and Margaret, loosely conscious of their numbers, realized it was a twenty-one-gun salute. Seven times three. The smoke from the small explosions turned white in the October afternoon. She clung to Gordon’s hand and squeezed mercilessly when a lone trumpeter blew taps from the peak of the hill. In those sweet, sad notes, she did her best to say good-bye to Thomas. Dear man, she thought. Rest.
* * *
“A twenty-one-gun salute is the highest honor a soldier can receive,” her dad said on the ride home. “That’s what one of the Legionnaires said . . . the skinny one, Fred, I think. He said that if a Medal of Honor winner wanted to attend the State of the Union address, they would make room for him no matter what. He could get in ahead of all the big-shot politicians.”
“Make sure we remember to tell Gordon,” Margaret said.
“How did they know about this anyway?” her mom asked, twisting in the car seat to ask the question. “I mean, we’re in Maine.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Margaret said. “Mr. Lyle said they came from Washington. It might have something to do with Tom’s medal. Maybe all medal winners are given a guard.”
“Well, it was very moving,” her mom said. “I’ll remember it as long as I live.”
“Those rifles were loud, weren’t they?” her dad said.
Margaret nodded. A headache had begun along her scalp line and she put her forehead against the car window, hoping the coolness would ease the pain. She felt relieved to have the interment behind her. Ben and Gordon had placed the urn in the ground; she had thrown a handful of dirt on top of it. It was done. It made no sense any longer to wish anything had been done differently, or with more élan, because it was final in a way she had not been able to imagine. She was a widow—she could not think the word without thinking of spiders—and Thomas was a soldier fallen in war.
It took no time to arrive home and she saw a few people had already found drinks and stood on the porch, enjoying the last of the afternoon. Her dad dropped them off at the door and a man, a friend of Thomas’s, a football player on their high school team, came quickly down the stairs and helped them out. Her dad pulled the car around back to make room for other vehicles. Her mother took her arm and led her up the stairs. Margaret smelled wood smoke coming from the chimney. Gordon, she was certain, had done that for her.
“Here we are,” her mother said when she gained the landing.
In many ways, Margaret realized, it felt exactly like a party. It had been years since they had had people in, but she recalled the feeling. Her mother went in to use the ladies’ room and Margaret found herself alone on the porch, not exactly sure what to do next. She shook hands with two or three people who came forward and introduced themselves. Blake took the flag from her and it was not until she did so that Margaret remembered it was in her hands. She whispered to Blake that she would like a scotch, please, with plenty of ice. And two aspirins. Blake nodded and went off to fetch the drink.
“Tommy was quite a football player,” someone said in her hearing. “Tough as anything. Strong, too. I remember . . .”
Slowly, Margaret made her way into the house. She smelled the fireplace immediately. Her instinct told her to go into the kitchen, to find Dorothy and check that everything was in hand, but then she realized it was not her role this day. What did it matter, anyway? The reception was not meant to impress; it was a social duty, not an unfair one, she decided, and she resolved to let others worry about its outcome. She wanted to sit beside the fire, to have the aspirin and cold scotch go to work on her headache. In an hour, maybe two, it would all be over in any case, and then the house would empty and become quiet and the rhythm of farm life would close around them.
She said hello to two more people, smiled, accepted a kiss. And when she looked for Blake and the drink, standing on her tiptoes to see, her eyes fell on a face so familiar it felt like a blow to her senses.
Charlie King stood beside the fireplace, his eyes meeting hers as they always had.
* * *
In that moment, she understood. She understood where the honor guard had come from, how they had been sent, by special request, from a diplomat she once knew. For a moment everything except their glance disappeared, and she took a step toward Charlie, her eyes on his, and she could not be sure if he came to say hello or good-bye, to pay his respects and leave or to join her life forever. Gordon stood beside him, their backs to the fire, and she could see they had talked; they had a familiar way about them, two guys, two basketball players, hanging out by the fireplace. People stepped aside as she moved toward him, toward Charlie King, toward the man who had once escorted her to a ball. And it was October, and the sun would fall into the hills quickly, and the phoebe had left weeks ago, and the great oak covering the house stood bare in the autumn coolness. The fireplace burned brightly, and she imagined its smoke going up into the heavens, a white plume slowly catching the wind and traveling to the sea. Winter would come on a quiet evening, she knew. Soon, soon it would arrive. It would come by following the rivers from the mountains into the valleys, the snow falling like ashes of things partially remembered and consumed, and all the world would retreat inside, paused and waiting for spring, for warmth, and for the heavy heads of common lilacs.
Acknowledgments
Thanks first to Tupper Hillard, my old buddy and fellow quarterback, who read this manuscript to check the military details. He’s a graduate of West Point and a man who threw a tight spiral in his day. Thanks for your many years of friendship and your readiness to do a former teammate a favor.
Much gratitude to my editor, Denise Roy, and to all the folks at Plume. Thanks for your help in making this a better book than it started out being. I’m pleased by the work we’ve done here and I hope you are, too. Can’t wait to se
e what’s next.
As always, thanks to everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, but especially to Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe. You don’t know half of what you do for people. You don’t know half of what you’ve done for me.
I also wanted to say a special thanks to Peggy Gordijn at the Rotrosen Agency, who keeps sending my novels around the world and selling them to foreign markets now and then. It’s such a kick to see something you’ve written appear in a foreign language, and before our paths crossed it rarely happened. So thank you. And to Mike McCormack, many thanks for all you do behind the scenes.
I also wanted to thank Plymouth State University in New Hampshire, my teaching home for more than two decades. It’s a place I love. The administration granted me a sabbatical this past year, freeing me for a time to concentrate on this novel. Plymouth State University is one of the good places in the world, and I am a lucky man to work with such fine colleagues.
And finally to Wendy and Justin and our sweet dog, Laika. Always hurry home.
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