Jamie Lewis, Miriam Masters, and Caitlin’s father were there representing the Natchez Examiner. I was surprised John Masters had taken time out of his day for something like that, but a private jet can get you anywhere in the country pretty fast. When I first spied him outside the church, the media baron saw the surprise in my face and said, “Walt Garrity died saving my step-grandbaby. Or near enough, anyway. I think they ought to put up a goddamn statue of him.”

The eulogy was given by Karl Eklund, the colonel who had commanded Walt and my father during the Korean War. Colonel Eklund told a few stories about Walt, some funny, others poignant. But he brought tears to the eyes of some very hard men when he said:

“Corporal Garrity lived by a hard code. He always did his duty—in all weathers, no matter the odds—and he did it to the end. Like the Good Book says: ‘Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Amen.”

When the seven rifles cracked over the Texas plain, cops and soldiers alike looked like stone figures carved in the act of saluting. But by the time the echoes faded, some were coughing into their fists or wiping their eyes on their sleeves. My mother moved in unconscious synchrony with them, softly dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Annie tugged at my hand, and I leaned down for her to whisper in my ear: “I want to do something for Mrs. Garrity.”

I thought about it. “There’s really nothing you can do for her. But you can do something for Walt. Don’t ever forget what he did for us. Thirty years from now, when you’re grown up with children of your own, and you look down at them and feel lucky . . . think about Walt for just a minute. That would make him the happiest, if he knew.”

Annie looked up at me with confusion. “He will know, Dad.”

I wish I believed that, I thought, looking over the heads before me at the faded funeral tent, and in its precious shade the coffin on its bier. The head of the Honor Guard handed Carmelita Garrity the folded American flag.

“What happens now?” Annie asked softly.

“Usually the people leave at this point.”

“Who finishes burying him?”

“The cemetery has men that do that. Gravediggers.”

“With shovels?”

“In the old days, yes. Now they use a backhoe for most of it.”

Annie looked concerned about this. Rising on tiptoe, she peered between the bodies of the slowly dispersing crowd.

“I don’t think they’re going to get to use their backhoe today,” she said.