“Why now?”
“Because now you don’t need it.”
Mason laughed through tears.
Walter continued.
“And because Evelyn already did.”
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“Before she died.”
Mason covered face.
Walter waited.
No comfort performance.
Just sat.
After a while Mason said:
“Thank you.”
Walter nodded.
“Petunias need planting.”
Mason looked.
“Now?”
“You brought them.”
“I thought gift.”
“Gift becomes work.”
Mason laughed.
They planted together.
An eighty-something? Walter 93, Mason mid-40s. Walter supervised from chair, criticized spacing.
Mason said:
“You haven’t changed.”
“Evidence says otherwise.”
“Not enough.”
“Fair.”
Walter died six months later.
No drama.
Early morning.
Alicia was downstairs making coffee.
She went up because he had not complained about coffee smell.
That was unusual.
Found him in bed.
One hand resting on blanket.
Photograph of Evelyn on nightstand.
His breathing gone.
Alicia sat beside.
For several minutes, she did not call anyone.
She held his hand.
Not general.
Not daughter even.
Just child.
Then she called siblings.
The Army offered full ceremonial funeral at Arlington.
Walter had left instructions.
No Arlington.
He wanted buried beside Evelyn in Georgia.
Army argued gently through liaison.
Family held line.
He got military honors at local cemetery.
Bugler.
Flag.
Rifle volley.
The old Black cardigan was folded on chair at home.
No display.
No museum.
At funeral, hundreds came anyway.
Army leaders.
Police officers.
Tradesmen.
Neighbors.
Students.
Mason stood near back with Sarah.
Dana in dress uniform.
Mrs. Kelley had died three years earlier; her daughter came.
Samuel Price gone.
Most Vietnam friends gone.
New generations filled.
Alicia spoke.
She had four stars in retirement photograph but wore plain black dress.
“My father disliked being called hero.”
“He disliked microphones.”
“He disliked most adjectives.”
Laughter.
“He believed nouns and verbs were safer.”
More laughter.
“He was a soldier.”
“He taught.”
“He made mistakes.”
“He corrected some.”
“He failed to correct others in time.”
“He loved my mother.”
“He annoyed all children.”
“He planted things badly.”
“He could not make pancakes.”
Walter’s family laughed.
Alicia continued.
“People outside our family remember a black SUV.”
“We remember petunias.”
She looked toward coffin.
“The public story says powerful daughter arrived and changed everything.”
“My father spent rest of life trying to explain that nothing important about his rights changed when I arrived.”
Silence.
“He was already homeowner.”
“Already citizen.”
“Already old man whose shoulder hurt.”
“Already somebody’s husband.”
“Already deserving dignity.”