Chapter 19: Gabe's POV

Gabe's POV

I drove it on Sunday, at ten in the morning, with snow coming down in slow fat flakes.

Vicky sat beside me with her boots up on the dash.

I put both hands on the wheel.

They were steady.

I kept looking at them to be sure.

"You can pull over," she said.

"I don't want to pull over."

"You're allowed."

"I know."

The lake lay gray on the right, with ice shelves along the shore.

The road came up in the windshield, white and empty and ordinary.

The plow had been through, and a few trucks had gone before me.

I passed the barn and the stop sign without slowing.

At the rock cut I did not speed up and I did not slow down.

The guardrail went by.

I gripped the wheel, and the engine did not change its note.

On the far side my shoulders finally dropped and she put her hand on my knee.

"There," she said.

"There."

"Was that so bad?"

"It was terrible."

"You did it."

"I did it."

I laughed, and the laugh turned into something else, and I had to wipe my face with my sleeve.

She did not look away or say anything.

She left her hand where it was.

The graveyard was on a hill above the town, with a stone wall and a gate that stuck.

My truck climbed the lane slowly.

Stan's pickup was already parked at the top, with a thermos on the dash.

He came every Sunday.

I had never once gone with him.

Vicky looked at me.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes," I said, and my voice broke on it, and she took my hand.

We walked up between the stones.

Stan stood at the end of the third row with his hat in his hands.

The stone was gray granite, and the snow had caught in the letters.

CAROL ANNE PAWLAK.

Under it were two dates and a line I had never dared to read.

Beloved wife and mother.

Stan did not turn around.

"I wondered when," he said.

I stopped a few feet away.

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