It was Edna who had initiated the companionable grave tending. Deborah would have been content to leave the job to Ezra, but she could not very well refuse to accompany her old neighbor when she was asked. And she had soon come to enjoy and look forward to the occasions. It was, for one thing, a time the two women, different as they were from each other but sharing so many problems and experiences, could talk without thinking how they sounded to family and friends.

Their plots in the cemetery, like their plantations, were separated by smaller plots, but they were yet close enough for the women to talk without raising their voices unduly; and sometimes, when conversation became intimate, they worked together first in one plot and then in the other.

Arnold Kendrick’s gravestone told his name and the dates of his birth and death, nothing more. That of Benjamin Davis added to the dates enclosing his span of life an inscription: Over in the summer land.

Edna stood back from her husband’s grave, staring at it intently but without apparent sorrow, before breaking her own gaze and pointing with the toe of one shoe. “This is where I will be,” she said with satisfaction.

Deborah nodded. Edna sketched the future map routinely each time they worked there together. Moving a few steps along she said, “Over here Rooster and Trudy and their children. Leaving a lot of space for them; don’t know how many will come, do I? Now here is where I have in mind for Bonard. On the side. With us but giving him a little privacy. And there’s room for his wife too.”

“I don’t think you need plan on that,” Deborah said.

“Do you reckon they’ll never come together again?”

“I fear not,” Deborah said, and after a pause added, “Alas.”

“A shame and a pity,” Edna agreed.

“The waste,” Deborah said. “It’s waste I mind.”

“You did your best, and I did too; but the Lord had his own plan that wouldn’t be denied.”

“I suppose so,” Deborah said, as if she were not sure she agreed and harbored resentment at any alteration of her plans, even if instigated by the Lord.

“I do hate things left unfinished.”

“I do too. But what we mind and what we want—” Deborah shrugged. “Well.” She walked back to her own plot, took the rake she had left propped on Arnold’s tombstone and picked the dead leaves from its prongs.

Edna whipped her heavy shawl in the air and pulled it over her shoulders and back, tying the ends in a loose knot as she joined her friend. “I think we’ve done enough for this time, don’t you?”

Deborah nodded.

“It looks really nice. Where are you having them put you?”