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more comfortable and to make sure everybody sees their logo. That’s it. Rain’s no big deal.
    â€œFall’s usually dry,” Marvin mumbles, as much to himself as me.
    See? Talking about the weather. He’s easy. We move on to the next grave.
    I start digging. After the graves get filled and covered, I won’t have to hurry putting the turf back in place, then moving the extra dirt to the back of the fifty acres Harper tends. The ten acres farthest to the west hasn’t been divided into plots and sold because the land is still too rough. We’re using the fill dirt and Harper’s ancient red Ford tractor with its barely functioning spreader to smooth out the ground. Eventually, Harper will be able to lay turf and make a profit off those acres, too.
    â€œHarper should get a backhoe,” Marvin says as he digs up a shovelful from the bare patch third from the road while I stop long enough to move Fred’s cage to a shady spot on the branch of a maple tree.
    â€œEven if he could afford a piece of machinery like that, he’d blow it off.” I give Fred’s beak a quick stroke through the cage bars, then head toward Marvin and grab my shovel again. “He says it’s disrespectful, and his father and grandfather who started this place would haunt him.”
    â€œMaybe his family wouldn’t haunt him if he drank less skanky beer.”
    â€œNone of my business.” I start digging near Marvin, but I have to nudge Gertrude with the shovel so she’ll move enough to let me drop my first load on the tarp. Harper leaves us alone to do our work. He knows his drinking is a problem, so it’s up to him to fix it, or not. He pays me to do the crap he blows off and he never shorts me a dime.
    Fred amuses herself by singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” off-key, mostly in Mom’s voice.
    â€œWell, when it’s my turn to get planted,” Marvin says without even looking in Fred’s direction, “I’m putting in my will that I want a lot more than eighteen inches of dirt over me if I don’t get cremated.” Then, “Hope you gotta piss, because Branson’s here.”
    I dig out another chunk before I glance at the road. Branson’s black Jeep is slowing to a stop at the top of the small hill on the way to the entrance, and a few seconds later, he gets out. He’s got silver hair cut close to his dark skin, he’s wearing jeans and a University of Indiana sweatshirt, and he’s carrying a shoulder bag in one hand and a white sample bag in the other. Branson’s dedicated. Ex-military, now a retired cop who does juvenile probation. He makes random checks on me to do drug tests, but never at school. He’s good about keeping the humiliation to a minimum.
    â€œI’ll go start on the third grave if the turf’s cut,” Marvin says.
    I point to a spot in front of where we’re standing, three rows up, first from the road, with the turf cut and stacked and the tarp spread to receive the dirt. Marvin takes his shovel and heads off with Gertrude walking every step beside him.
    Branson reaches the second grave and hands me a sample cup while Fred greets him with a burp, a fart, and the sound of a telephone ringing.
    â€œWhat’s up, Fred,” Branson says as I get clear of the grave, drop my shovel, turn my back, and oblige him with the sample he’s wanting. “And hello to you, too, Del.”
    â€œHello,” I say back, but not until I’ve got my pants zipped and the plastic lid twisted tight. It’s hard to be conversational while pissing in a cup. I just hope I didn’t get any dirt in the sample.
    â€œMarvin looks busy. Do you pay him to help out?”
    I hand Branson the sample cup and go for my shovel. “I keep him in burritos so he can stink up the place.”
    â€œIs that the stench? I was afraid it was—you know. The dead guys.”
    â€œOr girls,” I