Leni didn’t want to think about a loss like that, the bone-breaking magnitude of it, but at a time like this there was no looking away, and when she did look it in the face, without blinking or turning away, she knew this: if she were Matthew, she would need a friend right now. Who knew how the friend could help, whether offering silent companionship or a clatter of words was better? That, the how, she would have to figure out on her own. But the what—friendship—that she knew for sure.

She knew when the Walkers entered the tavern by the silence that fell. People turned to face the door.

Mr. Walker entered first; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, he had to duck to pass through the low door. Long blond hair fell across his face; he shoved it back. Looking up, he saw everyone staring at him, and he stopped, straightened. His gaze moved slowly around the room, from face to face; his smile faded. Grief aged him. The beautiful blond girl came up behind him, her face wet with tears. She had her arm around Matthew, was holding him like a Secret Service agent moving an unpopular Nixon through an angry mob. Matthew’s shoulders were rounded, his body hunched forward, his face downcast. Cal hovered behind them, his eyes glassy.

Mr. Walker saw Mama, moved toward her first.

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” Mama said, her face tilted up to him. Crying.

Mr. Walker looked down at her. “I should have been with them.”

“Oh, Tom…” She touched his arm.

“Thanks,” he said in a hoarse, lowered voice. He swallowed hard, seemed to stop himself from saying more. He looked at the friends gathered close. “I know church funerals aren’t our favorite, but it’s so damn cold out, and Geneva did love the idea of church.”

There was a murmur of agreement, a sense of restless motion contained, of relief mingled with grief.

“To Gen,” Large Marge said, lifting her shot glass.

“To Gen!”

As the adults clinked their glasses and downed their drinks and turned their attention to the bar for another round, Leni watched the Walker family move through the crowd, stopping to talk to everyone.

“Pretty high-falutin’ funeral,” Mad Earl said loudly. Drunkenly.

Leni glanced sideways to see if Tom Walker had heard, but Mr. Walker was talking to Large Marge and Natalie.

“What do you expect?” Dad said, downing another whiskey. His eyes had the glazed look of drunkenness. “I’m surprised the governor didn’t fly down to tell us how to feel. I hear he and Tom are fishing buddies. He loves to remind us peons of that.”

Mama moved closer. “Ernt. It’s the day of his wife’s funeral. Can’t we—”

“Don’t you say a word,” Dad hissed. “I saw the way you were hanging all over him—”