“Can we see him?” Jimmy said.
Henry shook his head.
“Are they going to see him?”
“I don’t know.”
The old woman was crying, wringing her hands. “We’ve always loved you, Bobby.”
The old man said, confused, “Shut up.” Then, finally, as if with relief, he too was crying. He began to pat the old woman’s arm.
Suddenly Jimmy laughed. “They’re funny,” he said.
Henry turned to look at him, frowning anxiously, and said quickly, “No they’re not, Jimmy. When you grow up—”
The grave-digger with the red hair said, with a look of disgust, “Just pitiful, sonny.” He hardly glanced up as he said it.
“That’s not true,” Henry said. He chewed his lip and stopped himself from saying more.
The grave-digger smiled to himself, wry, but Henry pretended not to see.
They went back to the tombstone near the front fender of the old peoples’ car, where Henry had left the rifle and the canvas bag that held the rabbit. It was after noon and Callie would be worried. I lost track of the time, he thought. I’m sorry.
“Please, why can’t I see?” Jimmy said.
“No,” Henry said. “I already told you once.”
“You never let me see anything.” A whine this time.
The old people were crossing the grass again, leaning on each other, as always, seeming to make no progress.
“You don’t like me,” Jimmy said. He started to cry.
Henry clenched his jaws; but looking at the boy’s face, seeing beyond any possible doubt that however trivial the cause, however ridiculous the words, the child’s grief was perfectly real, the injustice terrible and never-to-be-forgotten, he bent down to him and said, “Now listen, Jimmy. I love you and you know it. Now quit that crying.”
“Well I don’t love you,” Jimmy said, not looking at him, seeing what would happen.
Henry smiled sadly, reaching out to touch Jimmy’s shoulder. “Poor dreamer,” he said.
He was tired and it was a long way back. He thought how good it would be to lie down, only for a little while, and rest.