She looked at him, waiting. He tried to think what he would have said before. How Duncan was impatient and saw through people and how he was lucky and felt it. How you trusted him because he saw through everyone’s bullshit, so well you couldn’t believe he had bullshit of his own. But if Hank said any of that now, he was a fool.

“He was my best friend,” he started. He looked at Demeter. She didn’t look stoned at all anymore, just sad. “He was my best friend, and he was a good man.” It sounded sentimental and stupid to him, but he went on.

“He left behind this family,” he said, “and I love them and wish he hadn’t died.” He kept talking even though his head felt like it was somewhere else, maybe on Demeter’s planet. “I feel responsible, you know. I guess you all know I was there when he—when it happened. I didn’t make him come back up with me, and I didn’t wait for him. I was so close, and I didn’t know.”

Annie’s voice came faintly from the tape, singing another song, one Hank didn’t know, though he guessed Demeter did. He couldn’t say anything more.

Kay stopped the tape player and put a hand on his arm. “Let’s all sing something,” she said. “Demeter’ll start.”

The cemetery was quiet except for the wind in the grass, and Demeter stood up where she was, apart from the grave, and started to sing “Home on the Range.” It sounded crazy at first, but something in her voice made it sound just right for a funeral. It wasn’t the low, ominous voice from the car, but it was clear and slow, and other people joined in. Demeter closed her eyes and sang in that voice that was bigger than she was, and Hank could hear Kay beside him singing, “Where the deer and the antelope play.” Even Annie sang, and it seemed good to have a song Annie could sing. Hank didn’t feel close to Demeter, exactly—he hadn’t felt that in a long time—but he felt something else he hadn’t felt in a long time: that Demeter was doing exactly the right thing. A hawk flew overhead, watching them, and all the voices came together, all the people in jeans and boots and windbreakers and dresses, people who loved Duncan and didn’t want him in the ground. There was a secretary who always called Duncan “honey,” an old uncle and the uncle’s daughter, and an ex-girlfriend who looked embarrassed and sad. They were singing, all together, “And the skies are not cloudy all day.”

When the song was over there was a silence and everyone looked at one another, then moved toward their cars and trucks, like they knew there wasn’t anything more to say.