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By Root 625 0

Quinn expected more, but understood it was a cold, rainy morning, and it being Thanksgiving Day and all. Most were men, old veterans who’d been buddies with his uncle since Korea, long before he’d become sheriff back in ’73. They held their baseball hats, decorated for whatever military branch they’d entered, over their tired hearts as the body of Hampton Beckett was lowered into the ground to the sounds of a twenty-one-gun salute, some of the old men looking like they sure enjoyed getting out the rifles and firing off a few rounds. Every damn snap made Quinn recoil a bit, and he hated himself for that, watching the flag being folded and handed to a frizzled waitress from the Fillin’ Station diner, a woman that Hamp had been seeing since his wife had died five years ago. There were nice words and handshakes, and then it started to rain harder and everyone ducked under their umbrellas and ran for their cars, snaking out of the county cemetery and starting the real bit of the ceremony at the VFW club.

As Quinn reached for the truck’s door, Luke Stevens waded through a ditch to shake his hand. He hadn’t spoken to Luke since they graduated from high school, but he looked pretty much the same, with shaggy brown hair, a handsome face and confident grin. His gold glasses were spotted with rain and his suit drenched. He just gave a brief smile to Quinn, shook his hand, and then wrapped him in an awkward hug. Luke still feeling bad about taking Anna Lee away, even though Quinn was the one who’d left. Luke being the one who’d gone to medical school at Tulane and come back to Jericho to live and die.

Quinn started to speak, but Luke had turned back to his car, where Quinn caught only the back of Anna Lee’s black dress as she climbed inside and shut the door. Hell, he didn’t know what to say anyway.

The VFW building wasn’t much but cinder block and tin, murals of Europe, Vietnam, and Iraq painted on the walls. A sign outside advertised BINGO SATURDAYS, and a CATFISH FRY from two Sundays back. Quinn removed his damp dress coat and loosed his wet tie and sat at a table with three old men. One of them looked around the empty room, more for show than from worry, and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey; another headed to the kitchen to fetch some coffee mugs.

“You been to see your mother yet?” asked old Mr. Jim, a Third Army man who from his barbershop pulpit told stories of meeting Patton, even keeping the prayer card he’d been issued since before they rolled into Belgium. His nose resembled a rutabaga, his eyes narrow and a washed-out blue.

“No, sir.”

“She’ll want to see you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t be angry.”

“He was her brother,” Quinn said. “Doesn’t seem too much to show up at his funeral.”

“They hadn’t spoken for some time,” Mr. Jim said. “Bad words said.”

“Those two argued over the color of the sky,” Quinn said. “Hamp didn’t talk to her for nearly a month after she called John Wayne a pussy.”

Old Judge Blanton, small and white-haired in a black suit, cracked open the seal on the bourbon and uncorked the bottle. Luther Varner, a Marine in Vietnam, owner of Varner’s Quick Mart, returned with four mismatched cups. Varner lit a long, cheap cigarette. Quinn wished he’d brought in cigars.

He felt odd sitting with them, the men always just a “Sir” and a polite handshake. Quinn was never part of the boys sitting around drinking coffee in the morning at Varner’s. But here he was after doing what was expected of him in the Army, and the old boys seemed to say, “Sit down, and sit a spell. You’re one of us now.”

“You didn’t wear your uniform,” Judge Blanton said.

“I’ve worn it enough.”

“You gettin’ redeployed?” Mr. Jim asked.

“We just got back,” Quinn said. “Third Batt did six months in Afghanistan.”

“You see much action?”

“We always do.”

“Y’all boys get called in when the shit hits the fan,” Varner said. “In case of trouble, break the glass and call in the Rangers.”

“I just don’t know why he did it,” Mr. Jim said, making a clicking sound with his cheek. He was staring into a blank spot in the corner of the VFW, not listening