Bickers’s funeral was a quiet affair. Ogden looked at Jenny Bickers, at his mother, at ice-block Fonda, and at young Emilio who stood several yards away, sweating in the winter air, leaning against the body of a small tractor a shovel handle resting against his chest. There were no other faces. Not even the town woman who showed up at all funerals to just cry. A couple of magpies perched on a fence. Fonda said some words, being ordained in some way, and then the tearless eyes went about their business. Emilio moved toward the grave as Ogden, Jenny, and Eva Walker moved away. Ogden opened the passenger door of Jenny’s car and let her and his mother in. He walked around and fell in behind the wheel, started the engine. “How are you doing?” he asked Jenny. “I’m okay.” “It was a nice service,” Eva Walker said. “It’s nice weather for a funeral.” She put a hand forward and touched Jenny’s shoulder. “I’m just saying the kind of stupid stuff one is supposed to say.”
