When the seven soldiers ascended the hill, Steven’s posture changed. They were dressed in blue suits and carried rifles over their shoulders. They all had hair and expressions exactly like Steven’s. I wondered where they’d come from-they didn’t seem particularly Cobaltian. More likely, the funeral director had them bused in from some more official town nearby.
They reached us and fanned out in a line. The silence was absolute. Stella shook her head. Spent every penny, I bet she was thinking. My brother was rapt, watching as the head soldier or whatever barked out an order and a few of them gathered the flag off my grandmother’s coffin and started to fold it up. They folded and folded and folded until it was a compact triangle. Stella balled her fists and kept her eyes on the ground.
The soldiers handed the flag to my father. He took it, befuddled, and finally tucked it under his arm. Then the soldiers lined up again and started shooting. The noise of seven guns shooting all at once was ridiculously loud.
The funeral director hit a lever that lowered the coffin down into the ground, and everyone threw dirt on top of it. Stella tossed in a couple of lottery tickets. One of the biddies dropped a picture of Jesus. My brother threw a yellow ribbon. I threw nothing, and neither did my father. Samantha leaned down and dropped a picture of Frank Sinatra, one in which his eyes were tinted to look extra blue and his skin was all smooth and velvety. At that, Stella began to cry, big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Samantha put her hand on her back and walked Stella over to a tree. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured.
We paraded back down the hill to the car. There would be old biddies coming over to my grandmother’s house for an after-funeral party, if you could call it that, and there would be cabbage rolls and various other things cooked in a Crock Pot. Tomorrow morning we’d go back to Brooklyn and resume our normal lives of ignoring each other.
‘So this is Cobalt,’ my father said, sweeping his arm around. He sounded disappointed-maybe because we obviously didn’t love it. I walked a little closer to my father. He looked the same as he did before my mother vanished: his face was clean-shaven, his shoulders strong, his legs muscular from-years ago, now-cycling in Prospect Park. If he passed my mother on the street, she would still easily recognize him, but would he recognize her? What if she had really changed?
My father stopped in front of a tombstone. He made a small choking sound and stepped back. I looked down. The grave marker said Kay Mulvaney, 1953-1970.
‘That’s your friend’s girlfriend, isn’t it?’ I whispered.
He nodded. The wind pushed up against our backs. My father crouched down and put his ear to the grass and whispered something I couldn’t hear. In a few seconds, he stood back up and brushed the grass and dry dirt off his suit. ‘Come on,’ he said to me.
I couldn’t rightly determine his expression. He started walking toward the others, but I stayed where I was.
‘Dad?’ I called quietly, my heart pounding. He stopped. ‘Why did you say you were separated?’
He stood very still.
‘To that funeral director guy. He asked if you were married, and you said you were separated. Is that what’s going on?’
He lowered his arms to his side and walked back to me. I watched a hawk circle twice around the graves before he responded. ‘What was I supposed to tell him, Summer? The truth?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s like when someone says “How are you?” Do you say, “Well, my head hurts and I’m lonely and depressed and I’m worried about everything and the world is collapsing and full of evil?” Or do you say, “I’m fine?”’
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘You usually go for the longer version.’
He paused. ‘I suppose I do, yes.’
‘You could’ve just said pickle.’
‘What?’
I closed my eyes, aching again. The memory of the time I’d spent with Philip was slipping farther and farther away with every passing minute. ‘Nothing.’
The rain finally stopped. Our feet sank into the wet, loamy grass. We passed a whole section for the Elkerson family. I tilted my head to the sky, expecting to see the thick black smoke from the soldier’s rifles. Instead, I saw a rainbow.
‘I got a letter from her,’ my father said quietly. ‘Two weeks ago.’
I gaped at him.
‘It said…it said she was all right. She asked about you.’
‘Where does she live? What is she doing? Are you going to respond?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ He picked at a loose thread on his jacket. ‘She mentioned a divorce, though. Said she could make it very easy. It’s probably the best thing.’
‘Did she tell you where she lives? Did she give you a return address?’
He kicked at the grass. ‘Long Island. East Hampton. Do you know where that is?’
‘The beach, right?’
He nodded. ‘But it was only a post-office box. It doesn’t mean anything. She could have things forwarded from there.’
‘Did you tell Steven?’
‘No. But I’m going to. When all this is done.’
A hot, bitter taste rose to the back of my throat. ‘Dad, I’m sorry.’