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church's white steeple that rang to assemble the community for the War of 1812, the Civil War, World War I, and World War II, now rang sixty-four times--once for each child lost.  The clanging echoed through the valley as people walked toward its source in silence.
           At the request of aggrieved parents, local police, firefighters, friends, and neighbors blocked off all roads into the village to keep out reporters or politicians who wished to attend.
           State Police came to reopen the town for government officials.  On the outskirts, reporters from the major networks, with umbrellas and yellow rain slickers reminded the State Troopers of their First Amendment right to cover the event.  But Colebrook citizens had drawn guns to ensure their privacy in mourning.  Though the Federal government had outlawed private ownership of handguns and high-powered rifles years earlier, New Hampshire's people still lived by the Second Amendment--as envisioned by the founding fathers.  State Troopers and reporters alike noticed the thickets on the surrounding hills: Grim-faced Colebrook men dressed in camouflage came into focus through the drizzle; they were scoping reporters and police with high-powered rifles.  But to enforce Federal Law would have been a second bloodletting.  The local residents didn't flinch.
           Meanwhile inside the church, Mrs. Larson sat near the back with her three remaining children.  Throughout the service, she repeatedly looked down the pew at a lone man seated near the aisle in a dark, Armani suit.  Mrs. Larson was active in the PTA, a member of the Board of Trustees in the Congregational Church, and she supervised the Daisy Girl Scouts for her youngest.  During the school year she worked part-time in Colebrook at the diner on Main Street. As a result, she knew everyone in town.  This man did not belong here.
           Near the end of the minister's eulogy, the stranger in the aisle seat got up and left the church.  Mrs. Larson ordered her kids to stay put; but she raised her sizable frame and followed the man in the Armani suit outside.
     
           "I can't believe it!  I just can't believe it!" Bradley Conrad sputtered.  "Damn it!  I am Barry's father.  You had no right telling your Colebrook cronies to keep me out.  No right!"
           Helen sat in the car with her ex-husband and blandly watched the road ahead.  She accepted a lift home from the funeral with him, presuming she'd have to put up with his criticism.  She was too numb to care.  "This is some kind of cruel joke," Helen reflected aloud.  "You're finally anxious to visit our son after the boy's death."
           "What?" asked Bradley.  "Stop ignoring me.  You could at least be civil.  I'm his father."
            "You were his father; you stopped being his father the day you walked out and shacked up with that bimbo of yours--ah, what's-her-face."
           Bradley pulled over at a convenience store.  "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast.  You want anything?"
           She said nothing.
           He shook his head and climbed out of the car.  Bradley knew there was no talking to her when she got like this.  He left Helen to wallow in her bitterness as the car idled with the windshield wiper whisking.
           Bradley Conrad worked as a Federal Agricultural Extension Agent for the Northeast Concern.  He advised farmers and farm co-ops about crop trends and sale prices and gave talks on herbicides, pesticides, and soil composition.  He still looked good: tall, dark hair and solidly built; the pudgy waist that accompanied most middle-aged men had passed over him.  He was active in sports even while married: summer softball, skiing, touch football on Sunday mornings while Helen and Barry went to church.
           Helen resented Bradley leaving her.  She had been the darling of most men in Colebrook at one time.  But she thickened up after