“Oh, yeah?” Hank says dryly. “What do you care?”
“I don’t think anyone should be alone in circumstances such as these.” Alan nods to the coffin. “Even him.”
Alan stands and buttons the Judge’s overcoat, which billows out on his thin frame. His posture is terrible; he smells like hay. His throat closes up when he looks at his son, the way another man’s might when looking at stars. “Get some sleep,” he advises.
It’s advice well taken, and Hank does manage a few hours of restless sleep. In the morning, he changes his clothes in the men’s room. He wears a black suit he took from Hollis’s closet, good wool, quite well made, but much too small for Hank’s build. He is fully prepared to be the only mourner, considering how people in the village felt about Hollis, but as it turns out, he isn’t alone at the funeral. Several women attend the service. Each comes in by herself, and unless Hank is mistaken, several are crying. There are no flowers decorating the chapel; nothing like that. The coffin is now closed, as Hollis would have wished.
When the service is over, Hank stands on the steps of the funeral parlor. From here, he can see most of Main Street: There is the bakery, which is right now baking cinnamon bread. There is the library with its tall, arched windows, and the Lyon Cafe, which is always dark and shuttered at this time of day. Hank loosens his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his white shirt, but he keeps on the jacket borrowed from Hollis, even though it doesn’t quite fit. He heads down Main Street, then gets into his car, which is already packed with his belongings. He’s going to stay with the Justices until the end of the school term. After graduation, of course, he’s free to go where he chooses. He will not remain at Guardian Farm. He decided that right away, and it made no difference when the Judge told him he was Hollis’s only heir.
Hank’s friends would think him insane to give it all away, but that’s what he’s done. He’s donated all the land to the town; a trust has already been drawn up. The income from Hollis’s properties in Florida will pay for all the upkeep on the Farm, the gardeners and the caretakers, even the kibble for the red dogs. The trust will underwrite the Library Association and the Snow Shovelers’ and Firemen’s Funds and provide hay and oats for Tarot for as long as he lives, just as it will pay for Alan Murray’s tab at the liquor store on Route 22. After all, who is Hank to sit in judgment of his father? Who is he to measure another man’s sorrow? Hank is indebted to Hollis, and he always will be, but he knows what happens to a man who won’t give up those things it’s impossible to hold on to. He knows what can happen to any man who won’t let go of his pain.
Although Christmas vacation is over and Hank’s friends have all gone back to school, Hank won’t return to classes until tomorrow. Instead, he now drives over to Fox Hill. He flips on the radio and keeps the window open, in spite of the cold, just as Hollis used to. He parks near the quince bushes, then gets out and climbs as far as he can go. From here a man can imagine he’s looking out at the whole, wide world. He’s the king of everything, of sky and cloud. This is where Hollis will be laid to rest, and the gravediggers, who are traveling over the dirt road right now, will have to be paid extra to deal with the brambles and the ice. Hank had to do battle with the town clerk to get permission to bury Hollis here, and thankfully, the Judge came to his aid and eased his petition through the corridors of Town Hall.
In truth, what harm can one grave do up here? Why, it’s almost heaven, it’s so clear and clean. Years from now, children in town will talk about the New Year’s Day when there was black snow. They’ll say the devil reached out and took what belonged to him; they’ll avoid that intersection where the grass still refuses to grow. But Hank knows better, and on the first day of every year he will always make certain to say a prayer for those to whom he wishes peace, both the living and the dead.
Here on Earth Page 29
