“I mean, it’s not like you and I are . . .”

Coot stopped with the shovel and looked at her.

“Coot,” she said with sympathy in her voice. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I ain’t your girl or nothing.”

The quiet passed between them. Coot wanted to crawl into the tiny hole behind the foul-smelling outhouse and live the rest of his days there until he died from the stink.

“’Course I know that,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Just as long as you understand.”

She turned to walk inside.

She took the box with her.

Forty-Three
Lost and Found

Paul stood over a mound of dirt holding his hat. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would’ve made the girls cry even harder. He wanted them to feel strength, not tears.

Pete was staring at the grave marker. Two sticks of pine, tied together to form a cross. Vern rested his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “We all with you, boy. We all with you.”

But Pete said nothing. He only stared.

He had become a man in only a few days. It happened to every boy sooner or later. Sooner for some. But never had Paul seen a child do it with such bravery. Pete had defended his family, pistol in his hand. Some men wouldn’t be that courageous. Pete had wounded a man, threatened a slew of others, then shot at their car when it sped away. He was a man now.

Vern lowered his head. “We all with you, boy. Say what you got to say.”

Pete didn’t say a word. So Paul tried to speak for him, but he couldn’t find any words either. The tears were building up behind his eyelids, waiting to be freed. He decided to keep his mouth closed so that he didn’t fall apart completely. He closed his eyes as tight as he could. Ruth was sobbing. So was Reese. The girls had placed spring bouquets on the mound of soil. Pink, yellow, and white wildflowers, lying in the dirt. The girls had faces that seemed every bit as pure and lovely as the flowers were, too innocent to be burdened with death.

Paul shook his head. “I’m just so mad . . .” But his words got broken in two. His voice was lost. His tears came by the gallon. And soon everyone was coming apart.

Except Pete.

Pete stepped forward. He removed his hat and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. He stared at the wooden cross poking up from the ground. Paul had watched the boy spend two hours carving his mother’s name into the crossbeam of the grave marker.

Pete cleared his throat. His demonstration of courage was enough to make Paul’s chest sore.

“Can I see another’s woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another’s grief,