Chapter 24: Thursday

On Thursday it didn't rain.

Keir drove us to Concord in the black sedan, with a bag of lavender peonies on my lap and the sun going down behind the oak.

Finn rode in the back seat with his knees up, because he had refused to take the Jeep.

"I'm not missing this," he said. "I've waited nine years to find out where he goes. I'm coming to the grave."

"You're coming quietly," Keir said.

"I can be quiet."

"You've never been quiet."

"I can be quiet for forty-five seconds," Finn said. "Watch me."

He managed twenty.

The cemetery gates stood open.

We parked under the oak, and I got out first.

My father's stone looked the way it always did.

A glass jar sat in front of it, empty.

I knelt and filled it from the bottle in my bag, and arranged the peonies one at a time.

Keir stood behind me and didn't say anything.

Finn took off his cap and stood very straight, and I loved him for it.

A car pulled in behind ours.

It stopped at a distance.

My mother got out in a plain gray coat, with no pearls, and a single peony in her hand wrapped in brown paper.

She didn't come closer.

She stood at the edge of the path by the iron fence, holding it against her chest.

I looked at her for a long moment.

Then I nodded once.

She stayed where she was, and she stayed quiet.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

The wind moved in the oak.

"I know it's been a while since I came on a Thursday." My voice shook. "I'm sorry I took so long to ask who was here with you."

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