The Man Who Kept Corey’s Grave

The funeral

We buried him on the hill behind the Methodist church. The Army sent an honor guard of two soldiers in dress uniform, so young I wanted to feed them. They folded the flag without a word. The sergeant who carried it knelt in front of my chair, held it against his chest, and said the sentence I have never been able to forget.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

A bugler played Taps from the top of the hill. I had always thought that tune was sad. It is not sad. It is a goodnight.

The night in the Buick

By October, two full years after the first signs, I could not stand it.

On the second Tuesday of the month, I packed a thermos, two pimento cheese sandwiches, a wool blanket, and a flashlight I did not intend to use. I drove the Buick up to the far gate, the one Hobart had mentioned, and parked it behind the cedar tree where the lane bends.

Nothing happened Tuesday.

I sat from dusk until nearly ten o’clock before I admitted I was a foolish old woman and went home.

Nothing happened Wednesday either, though I stayed until the frost came on the windshield.

On Thursday, the flag was straight.

I stood and looked at the fresh clippings still lying on the gravel lane. He had come between the time I left on Wednesday night and the time I returned. He knew somehow when I was there.

The next Wednesday, I did not go at dusk. I went before dawn.