He stares into the headlights, his hand draped over the wheel. Beside him, Ora sits upright, alert. “Up here,” she says, after some minutes on the state road.
Dale peers out into the night; up ahead, he can see a car along the side of the road. He slows down while they’re still a distance away, almost stops; as they watch, the car pulls abruptly into the road and speeds away. The taillights disappear beyond a billow of drifting dust.
“Well, go on,” Ora says, gesturing ahead, where Dale can now see a mule and wagon along the road. A man is standing there, too, his arms at his sides.
“Ora,” Dale says. “I don’t know what this is about, but—”
“Dale,” Ora interrupts. She glares at him. “You don’t want to help, don’t help. But don’t you get in my way.” She climbs out of the truck before he can respond, and he watches her run down the road. Her feet are bare, and her heels flash white in the headlights. He doesn’t know what to think except his wife has gone crazy, and it makes the burden of his knowledge all the worse. If she’s crazy now, he thinks.
Slowly, he pulls up behind the wagon and climbs out of the truck. He stops several feet away from where Ora and the man stand talking, crosses his arms. “This the man that needs our help?” he asks, looking at his wife.
“This is the man,” Ora says.
“And what’s the help?”
Ora nods at the mule and wagon. “Mule won’t budge.”
Dale looks at the mule and wagon, both equally rickety and run-down. “And how are we supposed to help with that?”
“Don’t need help with the mule, sir,” the man says. Dale looks at him. He is an older man, the bones of his face prominent beneath the wrinkled tapestry of his skin, and he’s dressed in slacks and a button-down, which is opened at the collar and damp with sweat. His eyes look tired. The man points to the wagon bed. “Need help getting that where it needs to go.”
Dale’s eyes travel to where the man is pointing; next to a shovel and pick, a granite slab lies on the wooden planks. A tombstone.
“My boy’s getting buried in the morning. I got to have his grave ready.”
“Your boy,” Dale repeats, his eyes on the tombstone.
“Killed in the war, Dale.” This is Ora. “Serving his country same as anyone. Ain’t that right.” It is more of a statement than a question, a request for affirmation.
“Yes’m,” the old man mutters.
It occurs to Dale that perhaps he’s dreaming, that none of this is really happening.
“Where does it need to go?” He hears Ora say this; he has not lifted his eyes from the stone.
“Black cemetery, St. Martinville. Ain’t far.”
“No, it’s not,” Ora says. “We can help with that. Right? Dale?”
Dale stares at the stone. He hasn’t thought about a tombstone, yet, or even considered where Tobe will be buried. He hasn’t given thought to Tobe’s body, and how they’ll get it home. He doesn’t even know what sort of a body is left, how bludgeoned, how maimed. He realizes that he hasn’t thought about much of anything beyond telling Ora; all of a sudden he sees clearly how very much there still is to go through.
“Right, Dale?” Ora asks again.
Dale clears his throat. “Yuh,” he says. “I suppose.”