I gaze down the lane at the knots of people, mostly adults moving among uniformed boys. “I don’t know. What?”
Nadine leans up between our seats. “It’s nearly all male. I’ll bet those men are Scouts, too. Men Buck mentored when they were boys.”
“Must be,” I say, feeling my throat tighten.
Mom squeezes my hand. “Good works never die. There’s your proof. You think those men give a damn about some paper mill?”
“Come on,” says Nadine, touching my shoulder. “Let’s go pay our respects to Buck.”
We walk down the asphalt lane and join the mourners. Through the bodies, I see Quinn Ferris moving from person to person, thanking each for coming. To my surprise, she’s smiling a lot of the time. When Quinn gets to me, I worry that she’ll ask me to say something over Buck’s grave, but she doesn’t. When I ask who is going to speak, she says no one. There will be no prayer, eulogy, or benediction, no Christian minister of any kind. But cryptically she adds that there will be a farewell ceremony of sorts.
“By the way,” she says. “I got a call from Arthur Pine this morning.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he had a check for me. An insurance policy I knew nothing about.”
“Huh. That’s weird.”
“I thought so, too. Because it was a big one.” She gives me a knowing look, then stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. “Thank you.”
After Quinn moves on, we choose a vantage point on some elevated ground across the lane, where we can see the faces of the mourners nearest the grave. Through the crowd I pick out an old-school campaign hat resting on Buck’s coffin lid. A fitting tribute to his lifelong avocation. A loud hum rises from the crowd, as people who haven’t seen each other for years greet friends and reminisce. But as a bank of clouds obscures the sun, they slowly fall silent. Soon not a sound can be heard from the mourners. Each is reliving moments he shared with Buck Ferris. It’s strange to hear no words spoken over the grave, no hymn or even pop tune sung with heartbreaking sincerity. As I wonder how this unusual gathering will end, a strange sound rolls over the ground, reverberating off the gravestones.
“What’s that?” Mom asks, looking around in confusion.
“A drum, I think.”
Half a minute later, a column of Indians wearing ceremonial shirts adorned with colorful ribbons marches over the hill behind the gravesite, a solemn file of men and women. It’s been three decades since I attended one of the powwows Buck managed at the Indian Village, but I still recognize members of at least half a dozen tribes. Some wear their black hair long, others short. And while many have the pure blood of the first Americans to walk this ground beside the river, others have intermarried with whites and look like working-class people from any Southern town.
“I bet this is the first time this cemetery’s seen a sendoff like this one,” I say softly.
“It’s not bagpipes playing ‘Amazing Grace,’” Mom observes. “But it sure inspires respect and reflection.”
As we watch in fascination, the Indians form a circle near the grave, the hide drum at the center, and eight of them begin striking it together. Then their voices rise in song.
Mom looks back at Nadine and me. “When Duncan and I first married, he came to the Episcopal church with me. We went to the adult Sunday school. The topic of discussion that day was whether or not Buddhists and Hindus could get into heaven. Can you imagine? That was the last time Duncan darkened the door of that church. I stopped going myself. Being with your father made me see the silliness of all that. The arrogance of it. Oh, Duncan would have loved this.”
I remember Dad sitting with me in the car yesterday, beside Adam’s statue, asking me to cast his ashes into the river. “I think you’re right.”
After the drum falls silent and the singing fades, a group of men lowers Buck’s simple wooden coffin into the grave, and the Indians begin covering it with earth. As the shovels work steadily, I notice Jet making her way through the crowd. She’s wearing a black dress and onyx earrings, and her height and dark skin make her easy to follow. I hadn’t realized she was here. Once I’m sure she’s moving toward me, I excuse myself and signal her to meet me at a tree that will give us some cover