memorial day, 1968

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Memorial Day 1968An Excerpt from the novel

At Founders Lake

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Clipper Press
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The cemetery was alive with pennants. Blue and red bunting hungover the metal fence that fronted Central Avenue. Poles had been set up

on a line along the side of the cemetery, at the edge of the old stone wall.From the top of each pole hung pennants from the regiments that themen of this town had served in, across two centuries of war.

Small American flags, set in solid brass markers, stood in front of thegravestones of the veterans. They were scattered across every part of thecemetery, adorning small plain stones and grand family plots. TheDaughters of the Revolution put the flags out the week before theMemorial Day service, placing a flag in each marker to commemorate the

sacrifice and service the men had given their country.The flags, each the same, were the only time, in life and death, thatthese men would stand as equals. The cemetery itself was a testament to atown that had made some families prosperous and stable. Great pillarsand mausoleums stood like immovable rocks, anchoring their family

plots: Brightman, Churchill, Bailey, Cooper, Olsen, Ames. Their historywended through the cemetery lanes, where families crossed and split andcrossed again, over the course of three hundred years.

At the front of the cemetery, where the wide central lane sloped downthrough two rock walls and lead out onto Central Avenue, a wooden

bleacher, three levels high, had been erected for the ceremonies later thatafternoon. A tall, thin man walked slowly around the back of the

bleacher, his shoulders stooped and his head turned up to the sky.Occasionally he would reach up to lean his full weight against a bearing

pole and sway back and forth to test its strength against the load.A light wind picked up and the assorted pennants, buntings and flags

began to stir quietly. The day, even at this early part of morning, had lost

its spring wet, and was flattening and withering under the sun. Summerwas coming early.

The thin man finished his walk around the bleachers and lifted himselfup to the center. A podium stood on the lowest rung, slightly askew. Hestraightened it, then straightened himself. For a moment, he stood still,

his spine centered and strong, his hand brushing his sandy hair away fromhis wet brow, and looked out from the podium, across the street, to thetown green on the other side. The ground was beaten bare in patches,

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and wispy grass ran between the shrubs and small trees that dotted muchof the green.

Across from the green, separated from the cemetery by an old parking

area, were two churches, centers of the town: St. Lukes and St.Matthews. St. Lukes was the Methodist Church, the oldestcongregation in the village. The building was bright white, with a widestaircase leading to a plain, square faade broken by three double doors.The spire was the tallest structure in town, and the gold cross at the verytop could be seen from miles away. St. Matthews housed the Catholiccongregation. The squat brick building has been built four years before

by an architect from Boston who was inspired by the Norman chapels of

England. The domed roof appeared flat and heavy next to the airyMethodist spire. A man walked out of the Methodist Church, and set off toward the

bleachers in the cemetery.WinDo you have a moment, he called to the man as he lowered

himself from the bleachers down onto the sidewalk.Pastor Michaels, the thin man said.Youll have the green tidied up by later this morning, wont you?

the pastor asked. He clambered up the wall, pausing in mid-reach for amoment, as if uncertain that his strength could bear his own weight, andthen stood by the podium, pointing across to the green. I want it to lookas well as it can, of course, for this afternoon.

Just going down to the shed to get the mower, now.Good, good, said the Pastor. Its going to be a really fine day. Im

excited for it.The man nodded and walked back up the cemetery lane, to the faint

rise that created a false horizon and hid the equipment shed nestled in the

back of the cemetery. The bases of the cemetery stones were still darkfrom dew.

He paused at a large monument. Winston Churchill was carved prominently across the base, supporting an obelisk shaded by two gnarled, broad oaks. The man stepped forward on the grass to a plainheadstone set in the earth:

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Winston Churchill III

July 12, 1907 February 19, 1942.

His father.

Central Avenue continued up past the churches and the cemeteryalong a ridge that turned gently to the east into the center of town.Fletchers stood just at the curve of the ridge, a little up and back from theroad. The old restaurant was a meeting place of sorts for the town. Atfront was a long porch that looked down over the road. Beyond the

porch, through two glass-paneled, grey doors, was an eating room with a half dozen plank tables and long benches. Twelve mismatched chairshung on pegs on the back wall, by the door to the kitchen. These were forthe comfort of old-timers, men who the proprietress, Peg Lacey, judged

would be discomfited unnecessarily by the plain wood benches. Theregulars were always careful to stay in Pegs good graces, because thechair privileges could be suspended at any moment, for any length, byPegs curt nod.

Peg served breakfast, lunch and dinner, opening before dawn andturning down the lights and retiring to the second floor at 8:30 everyevening. She was a small, dark woman, with a reluctant smile and harriedlook. She had come down from Boston when her husband had inheritedthe restaurant from his father. They had worked the restaurant togetherfor two years, painting the building, putting in new gas stoves and a glasscabinet for cigars and candy, when Tom Fletcher had died. Peg had goneaway for a little while, and the building had stood silent, an empty markerat the entrance to town. Her return had been announced by a soft light in

the second floor windows and a wispy curl of smoke from the chimney ona Spring evening. The next day, Fletchers was open and Peg had a new

helper, a diffident man some years older than her who worked the stoveand rarely interacted with the people at the front of the shop.

This morning the doors were wide open and the soft breeze wasbrushing the cozy shop air. The tables were filled, and the busy clank ofkitchenware could be heard above an uncharacteristic bubbling of voices.Two benches had been pulled away from the tables and set out in two

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sides of a square; across from the benches, six chairs had been takendown from the pegs and arranged in a semi-circle.

The topic of discussion was the Memorial Day commemoration at the

cemetery later that morning.Paul Bannerman, the town doctor and mayor, sat in a tattered

captains chair in the center of the semi-circle. Beside him sat TomCanion, who ran the town lumberyard and hardware store, and NeilBrightman, a descendant of one of the original families to settle EastBridgewater. The three men sat and waited as a few stragglers came in offthe porch and forced themselves onto the wooden benches.

Bannerman pulled his chair forward and leaned into the circle. The

gathering quieted.The parade should reach the Cemetery at 11:30 and then well allow15 minutes for everyone to take their places. Father Wilson will say anopening prayer and then well the presentation of colors from the V.F.W.Billy, how many do you expect in uniform this year, Bannerman said.

Bill Foley was a big man, with sloped shoulders and thick wrists thatwere indistinguishable from his forearms. He smiled.

Alive or dead, doctor? Tommy Farnam has it in his will that heshould present the colors until his corpse has turned to dust.

Who going to dig him up and hold him, Billy? He stank when he wasalive. Hell be real ripe by now.

Foley looked back the speaker.He had a cold heart, Chickie. Hes probably still iced up, even after

three months.The man laughed. Bannerman cross his lips with his hand and teased

out a small smile. Foley was close to the truth: the body of TommyFarnam had been found frozen to the floor of his barn where hed fallen

from the hayloft, and it had taken five days of thawing to soften the bodyenough to be able to drain the fluids for embalming. Farnams wife had

been in a horrible state for the first couple of days, but then had found astrange solace in sitting with the frozen corpse of her husband, holding

his hand and chastising him for tumbling to his death in their barn.As Bannerman began to talk, Tom Canion lifted his voice.Doctor, a couple of other folks are speaking today, right? Canion

asked.

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Well do our traditional ceremony, Tom, just like we always do,Banner responded.

Pastor Michaels has asked to speak, Brightman said. And Id like a

short moment to make an announcement to everyone, he added.Chickie Doyle wheezed.Ill leave Tommy Farnam out of the crew, Doctor, Bill Foley said,

smiling. He turned his shoulder against Canions raised hand. Well bethere at 11:30 with the colors and full uniform. Give us a couple ofminutes so the ones that are marching, like me, can catch our breath, youknow.

Canion interrupted.

Weve got to let Pastor Michaels say a few words and I dont thinkthat people will mind hearing what Neil has to say.The statement sat in the air flatly. Canion had a way about him with

his words: his simple statements carried great weight and left no roomaround them for easy discourse. This was a knack that lead to abruptsilences. Men who worked at his lumberyard often found themselvesmoving stock about the yard in an uneasy quiet initiated by a straycomment from Canion as he passed them on his way to the office.

Dickie Doyle, who worked for Canion, appeared to be immune to hiseffects. He knocked his heels against the plank floor and looked down at

his boot.Its a Memorial Day ceremony, Mr. Canion, and its meant to honor

the men who served their country, sometimes giving their life, and thatmeans its not an announcement time at the town hall or something likethat. Leave it alone. This is something that this town gets right every

year. A few of the men chuckled. Dickie had come to East Bridgewater

from the south, a migrant of happenstance drawn by his affection for BillFoley and his love for Bill Foleys sister, who rarely had any kindcomments for the traditions of an old New England town. Like Foley,and many other men gather that morning at Fletchers, Doyle was a

veteran; he honored men who had fought, mourned men who had losttheir lives and respected the tradition of service that had defined so manyof the families in the town.

Its not your concern, really, is it, Doyle? We can let the elders of

this town decided what is the best part of our tradition and what can be

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changed, Canion growled. Sometimes plain sense can see the reasonfor a change.

We dont want to draw things out, Tom, said Dr. Bannerman.

The boys will want to get off to the Little League games. Everyone isready to knock off after the parade. The purpose is to honor all our

Veterans and Bills post has organized all those folks. Fr. Wilson was an Army Chaplain, so it makes sense for him to say the benediction. If wewant to shift things around, lets do a little planning ahead for next year.

Many of the Methodists arent comfortable with the Catholic priestsaying the prayer, Thomas.

Brightman turned to face the older man to his left. He leaned back in

his chair, one arm resting on the tattered upholstery. His face was broadat the forehead, hollow around the eyes and narrow at the chin; hesmoothed his bushy mustache with the meat of his palm and sat forward.

Michaels has been here for four years now and has done a fine job ofreviving the Methodist congregation. It would only be a sign of respect tothe Methodists, and to all of their ancestors who have served, to have their

pastor speak one or two words. Ill talk to the Pastor myself and ask himto be brief. Hes a good man, Tom. Theres no reason not to let him lend

his sentiments to the moment, is there?The morning sun had slipped over the crest of the pine forest that ran

out to the eastern edge of town, broken only by Founders Lake and theopen fields of the old Bailey property, that had sat empty for the pastdecade. The sun was sudden and strong. It hurried in under the roof ofFletchers porch and burst onto the floor. Bannermans face was cast insudden light. He appeared blank, thoughtful. After a moment, he lookedacross to the benches.

Im looking forward to see your squad in uniform, Bill. It always

makes me proud. You can start with the presentation of the colors afterFather Wilson and Pastor Michaels make their comments. Remember to

point away from the crowd. It doesnt make any sense to put a scare intothe women and young kids.

And Neil, if youve got something that you want to tell the town,maybe you can find some time at the start of the Little League opener.Theres probably more people there.

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Even as Bannerman lifted himself out of the chair, Pegs helper waspulling it back toward the wall and Peg had walked out from the corner ofthe room.

Bannerman opened the door and let in a broad wash of light. Thebrightness made the men fumble awkwardly as they stood. The benchesscraped loudly against the floor, and the men stood idly for a moment.Canion stood next to Brightman and smiled broadly.

I thought he might put up a bit more of a fight, the old man, he said.He wont be embarrassed in public light that. He likes to be in

control. You were smart to bring it up here, with everyone around,Brightman answered.

It was a good time. I dont see why not. He watched Pegs slimbody as she pushed at the heavy oak table. Shes getting older, that one.See how her hips are getting soft?

Brightman shook his head. A man called to Brightman and Canionand moved laboriously across the room.

Carter, whats up? said Canion. Brightman nodded and waitedsilently.

I heard something interesting over in Brockton yesterday, thoughtyou might be interested in it, Carter began. He looked between Canionand Brightman, silent for a moment. He was a heavy man, broad acrossthe shoulders and barrel-chested, who rest heavily on his broad feet. I

was going to visit the Ford dealer over there to see about some truck Iordered for the sandpit.

Hows that interest us, Scott? Canion asked.The trucks shouldnt. Ive got two on order to replace the oldest

ones in the yard. Tim Lawrence over at your bank gave me pretty goodterms, Neil. I appreciate it, you know.

Im glad that worked out for you, Scott, but you know its not mybank.

As good as your bank, thats what we know Neil. Carter said. Hestood quiet for a second.

You run a good pit, Scott, everyone knows that. Best aggregatearound, when we need it, Canion said. But, hows that interest us.

It wasnt the trucks, I thought youd find interesting, but what Iheard there. There was a statey picking up a car out of service and he was

talking to the guys there about a big project that was coming down from

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Springfield. Hed been out with a bunch of surveyors the week before, watching them while they were going over the big roads around here.Theyre going to build a big highway down from Boston to the shore, and

the plan has it coming down this way. Theyre saying four lanes, and itcould run right through the pines and into Washington Avenue. Its themost level land around, the statey was saying. You know the police arealways in the know about these things.

A highway? Canion said. Coming down South this way?The states been talking about the project for a long time,

Brightman said. I suppose theyve decided to fund it.Its going to need a lot of fill and gravel, thats for sure, Carter said.

Im feeling even better about paying for those two trucks.The men walked toward the door. Youll need to get onto thatsupplier list to sell them anything, Canion said to Carter.

You can help with that, cant you, Neil? Carter asked.

Timmy Churchill, Junior Foley and Peter Cooper sat at the back ofthe schoolyard, inspecting their uniforms carefully for any sign of stainsor scuffs. Coopers shoes were jet black; his mom had spit shined them inthe kitchen that morning and had made him carry them in the car untilshed dropped him off at the school to wait for the parade. The three boys

had all come early, just to sit and enjoy the morning. This was the firstMemorial Day Parade theyd ever marched in.

Timmy was feeling a little self-conscious. Debbie Kelleher, the newgirl in his grade, was off at the edge of the schoolyard, gathering with theCentral School Band. The CS Band was the second musical act, after theGlenwood Fire Department and before the Little League teams. Debbie

played flute and would be in one of the first rows, most likely out of

Timmys sight. He watched, hoping to catch sight of her now, but didnt want her to see that his uniform was duller than the others and frayedaround the seams. He snapped is glove against his knees. The glove was

worn out just the right way: dust rubbed into the thumb and fingers, the palm glistening from the linseed oil hed rubbed in night after nightthrough the winter.

Got your eye on Debbie, Timmy? asked Junior. Gotten to talkwith her yet?

We had a reading group together and I said hi, Timmy answered.

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was a few years ago, before she came to teach at the school, but Timmyimagined that knowing that you had lost your true love in war could help

you feel more happy than sad.

Junior made an air whistle and bumped knees with Timmy and Pete.Shes something hot, huh? he muttered.

The band broke into two clear groups: the Central School band liningup behind the swings, with Mrs. Davenport at the front; the High School

band marching along the side of the school to the front drive, where thestart of the parade would gather behind the convertibles that would carrythe important people in the town. Timmy could just catch a glimpse ofDebbie. She was a few rows back, and smaller than the others. In the

light he could tell that her blond hair had a hint of red, like the wildstrawberries that ripened too quickly in the early summer, and that wheneaten had a tangy and somehow satisfying taste.

The day was starting warm and some of the children were beginning wilt in their wool marching uniforms, despite their excitement. Gettingthem into formation was the easiest task of all, Lindsey Davenportreflected. The challenging part was keeping them focused enough to playtheir three pieces on cue, while walking, through the gathered crowds,and still in their formation. The one accomplishment she focused on was

having her band in one piece and at the reviewing stand on time. Herworst nightmare would be for the band and the Little League teams, who brought up the rear, all mixed together when they came to a halt at thecemetery. If that happened, shed probably just march back to the WaterDepartment trucks that marked the end of the parade, climb into the cabof one and watch from a safe, demeaning remove.

The excited chatter from her band lifted her spirits. The uniformsmight be too heavy, and the skills uneven, but the experience was

priceless for each of them. They had grown up watching this parade forall their lives, imaging the day that they would get to march: in the band,in their Little League uniform, in their Cub Scout or Brownie uniform.The moment was an immersion and introduction into the history of thetown. Lindsey had many parents tell her how important their first parade

was, and could feel the pride and intensity that they had for their childs

experience. She might not be able to share the feeling too much of her

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background and her experience warned her that the cost of the life thatthe tradition led too could be higher and more painful than any person,never mind child, should have to bear but she could respect the power

that tradition had, and would do her best to help it be an exciting andmemorable moment for the children.

Clarence Moody was waving to her from the corner of the school, andshe walked over to him across the playground. Clarence ran the highschool band with a nervous intensity. He was nominally in charge of theentire town music program, and Lindsey as part of that, but he wasabsorbed with his own private panics that he had very little time foradministering to the three town bands that spanned from the high school

to the elementary school. Lindsey respected and appreciated him. Hewas the driving force behind a music program that had every third graderlearning an instrument. And, he was so distracted by his own anxiety that

he had very little energy to wonder about a young widow who had arrivedalone in town from Hartford in response to an advertisement for a musicteacher.

Do you have everything in hand, Mrs. Davenport? he asked.I believe so, Mr. Moody. Three songs.two Sousa marches and the

Monkees tune, she smiled.The older man was roughly her height, but three times her volume,

with heavily rounded shoulders and a round, glistening forehead. Histhin hair was matted down on his sweaty head, stray licks stuck to histemple. Sweat was gathering in the folds of his jowls. Lindsey could feel

his discomfort and regretted that the day was beginning so warm. Hewore a corduroy sports coat and grey slacks.

Youll keep them together, I hope. At any rate, with that shirt, Idont think theyll be able to miss you.

Her blouse was deep purple, matching the colors of her bandsuniforms, and, in fact, the colors of all the towns official organizations.Purple and white. Shed thought better of wearing the white slacks,opting instead for a sensible tan skirt that fell below her knees, and a pairof brown walking shoes. The First Lady of the United States may be ableto get away with wearing slacks in public, she thought, but not a middleschool music teacher who also teaches sex education.

Hows everything with the high school band? Are you all set? she

asked.

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Aside from losing my best brass player to the Army? And having thetuba player dent his horn when he dropped it from his tractor? What onearth could he be doing with a tuba on a tractor, thats what I asked him.

And this heat? We cant finish the parade soon enough, Moodyresponded in his practiced grumble. They cant handle the piccoloseither, and Im letting them do the Hogans Heroes tune against my

better judgment, but they love it.Moody was interrupted by the short whoop of a siren. This was the

signal for the marchers to fall into formation. The parade was about tobegin.

The parade route was a semi-circle, from Central School, alongCentral Avenue to the fork at Main Street, down Main Street through thecenter of town, up Library Avenue and then back on Central Avenue, pastthe grand old houses in town, until the marchers reached CentralCemetery, past the reviewing stand and then into the old parking lot nextto St. Matthews. The veterans marching in the parade then proceeded

back to assemble before the reviewing stand for the presentation of colorsand the benediction.

The streets were lined with spectators. The townspeople came outearly and staked their claims on small patches of grass with blankets andaluminum folding chairs. As the morning progressed, families pouredinto town, parking at the high school and walking the quarter-mile intotown. Many families that had generations ago moved from the town, and

who came back to pay their respects to their ancestors and the sacrificesthey had made. All that day, one could find parents leading their childrenthrough the streets, pointing to the old houses and recalling old family

legends, or browsing through the cemetery, to lay small bunches offlowers on rarely-tended graves.

Tradition was at the core of the history of the town, and that traditionwas most often one of violence, service and sacrifice. Neil Brightman wasdirectly descended from Nathanial Brightman, who had fought againstPrince Philip in the Indian Wars (sic) in the 1600s, and had lost his lifeon the shores of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island. Dozens of otherfamilies has sent their young men off to war. The military tradition wasnt

one of heroism or leadership, although there were many stories of valor;

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it was a tradition of service that harkened back to the first settlers who hadslung a musket over their shoulder, left their farm, and walked off to settlea score.

The people who came to celebrate Memorial Day were drawn by the gravity of the towns service. By paying their respects, they wereacknowledging the generosity of the constant commitment of thesefamilies to protect the values that had formed the country in anyway thatthey were asked. In its ritual, the town repaid their respect. MemorialDay was simple in its remembrance, in the way that the values that had

been won, a way of life that was profound in its quiet liberation, werecelebrated. The marching bands: the town pride: the Little League

opening: the veterans: each were given a clear moment for display beforeeveryone.All morning, cars had been streaming along the road into town. The

police had set up a detour just below Central Avenue, and had to make asecond parking area down by Carters Stoneyard. A nervous shiverseemed to course through people as they gathered, part excitement at thecarnival feeling, part anticipation for the event to come.

Paul Bannerman sat in the back of the deep purple Impala convertiblethat marked the beginning of the parade. Lisa had stayed home thatmorning ton tend to their young white mare who was about to foal. Theonset of labor had been a relief to them both: Lisa did not enjoy the roleof the mayors wife in the parade and Bannerman felt guilty and anxious at

her quiet displeasure. Now he could wait patiently as the parade gathered, sit next to the Town Selectman and the Town Treasurer andgaze at the crowd as they watched the procession pass by.

The convertible, a gift from Neil Brightman to the high school, wasthe first of five cards in the parade, followed directly by the hook & ladder

from the fire department, festooned with bunting and the fire crewdecked out in full gear. The high school bank followed ClarenceMoody would be in Bannermans office the next morning with painful

blisters and an alarming shortness of breath and then the veterans, infull uniform and be-medaled, marching as best they cool. They werefollowed by the Boy Scout Troop, and the Girl Scouts, and themajorettes, followed by the second band, made up of the loudest brass

players from high school and middle school. The Knights of Columbus

mounted a historical float each year, and then were followed by the

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Central School Orchestra and the Little League teams, all ready foropening day.

Win Churchill slipped into the front seat and looked back at

Bannerman.Ready, Doctor?Where are the others, Win, Bannerman asked, looking around.Picking them up at the road. They were too lazy to walk down. Or

too busy, like they said, Churchill chuckled as he turned the key.Pretty packed up there, he said. Maybe the most people I

remember ever seeing.This day means something to them, particularly now, Bannerman

said. Its like one of the holy days at the church, I think. They knowwhat to expect, they see what to believe in and it helps them make senseof what they are seeing. It helps.

You mean the war, right Doctor? It helps them understand thewar.

I think, Bannerman said. He thought back to the conversation atFletchers. That is one reason we do this the same every year, Win.People can bring their own wants and needs and find the same words, thesame pattern, and make their own sense out of what is going on. Itsnever easy for people to see their children suffer, and thats all they canimagine, watching the news every night.

Churchill nosed the car up the drive to the street. Dick Cooper andLarry LeMeur stood on the sidewalk, both dressed in light color suits and

with straw boaters on their heads. Cooper raised his arm and held out athird boater, gesturing to Bannerman.

Not much has changed in this town for as long as I can remember,Doctor. Im glad you think thats a good thing.

I do, Win.As the two men clambered into the car, and all three of them sat on

the edge of the back seat, the official start of the parade, Bannermanmused over the absence of change. It wasnt wholly true, he thought.People had changed, circumstances had changed, fortune had shone

bright on some and had tested others. The Bannerman and Churchillfamily histories had once tracked closely and since diverged: one stable,established, the other struck by grief and misfortune. Yet, he and Win

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were each as much a part of the unchanging fabric of the town as theother.

As the convertible eased out onto the main road, Bannerman chanced

to look back over his shoulder, and in a glance the parade spread before him. Each person was captured in that moment before they burstforward, tense with formal energy. He saw the flat brick mass of theschool and the bright shine of the fire engine. He saw faces suspendedmid-way between a smile and a frown of concentration. He saw the

ballplayers lifting their gloves, captured in mid-cheer. He saw the veterans standing with quiet satisfaction, their uniforms tight aroundtheir shoulders, bellies and thighs. Bannerman looked at the pretty face

of Lindsey Davenport, the officious slant of Paul Kennedy, the proudsmile of Chief Allen. Behind them, he could see the flat schoolyard, a lineof blossoming dogwoods and the start of the pine forest, which ran eastthrough swamps and spongy earth of the lake. The car lurched then, amomentary swoon, and the bank struck up a fierce noise, the engine sirensounded and people began to clap. The marchers burst into motion, likea field of corn whipped around by a random wind, and then leanedforward as if one. The parade had begun.

Tom Canion sat alone in the third car, followed by the other officersof the Chamber of Commerce in a small group on foot. He sat in the backof the convertible driven by one of the men from the yard. Sitting up onthe top of bench hurt his back. He also felt that he carried moreauthority. The president was sitting in the back, with his arm slungacross the bench, that day in Dallas he was shot, Canion rememberedseeing on the TV.

Canion could see Bannermans thin back up ahead in the lead car.

The older man was narrow, a bit like a weathered old pole. Canioncouldnt see Bannermans wife. She didnt come to these events veryoften. His wife, Susan, was already waiting at the cemetery with hermother. The older woman couldnt tolerate the hot sun and the slow paceof the parade, but was adamant about being at the ceremony. She wasfiercely proud of Susans father, Thomas Singleton, who was killed inaction in the Philippines in World War II, and relished the respect and

honor accorded in his name to her during the day.

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As the car moved slowly down Central Avenue, Canion looked out atthe people gathered at the side of the road. At the beginning of the

parade, he saw three men from the yard and their families sitting on a

grassy mound a little back off the road. They waved to him cheerily. Oneof the men, Albert, stood with his arm around his wife. She was a slender

woman, with small breasts that were cupped by the yellow blouse shewore. Her hips were firm and flat. Her name was Anna, Canion thought,as he gazed at her standing with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun.Her sleeve had fallen back from her arm and the skin below her shoulder

was bare. Canion had run his hand along that skin one day, had felt hersoft heat briefly, as he had guided her to the back of the yard to find her

husband. She smiled out and waved to his passing car. Canion turned hishead to watch her, wanting to hold her gaze.Children rang along the side of the road, yelling out and waving.

Canion laughed as one small boy was pushed by another into the front ofhis car. The boys eyes were wide as baseballs and he shot back into thecrowd as quickly as he could.

The band behind him was playing loudly. He could hear the men behind him calling out to friends along side the road. There were morestrange faces than familiar ones along the side of the road. They were

passing through a section of small houses, and older couples sat on their porches out of the heat, but the sidewalks were filled with youngerfamilies, filled with energy and excited about the parade. Canionimagined that they came from some of the towns closer to Brockton. Aindustrial plant had opened there several years before, and created a few

hundred jobs, attracting people down from Boston and up from Fall Riverin search of opportunity. One of the old dairy farms near the plant hadsold off and a development of new homes had gone up. The city was

benefiting from the influx of jobs and families, and Canion had heardrumors that ground was going to be broken on another plant somewherenearby.

Canion caught sight of a striking young woman, sitting on a blanket atthe edge of the street, with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her legs

were bare, the expanse of her thighs warm in the heat. She looked off toher side and her long brown hair fell across her face, obscuring her chin.Canion wondered what the back of her neck would feel like under his

hand, and imagine standing behind her and weighing her breasts in his

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hand. He smiled to himself and waved slowly, hoping to catch herattention and force her glance to him.

The parade came to the intersection of Main Street and Library,

where the cars and engines and marchers would loop back to CentralAvenue and the cemetery. They were about a half through the parade.

Canion thought about the houses that had gone up over by Brockton.His yard had picked up very little of the work; the lumber and materials

had been supplied by an outfit over in Dedham. Canion had talked toBrightman about trying to attract some of the development to EastBridgewater and there had even been some discussion in the TownCouncil about how to get the builders to come look at the town. The

discussions hadnt gone anywhere though. Most of the land that wasavailable for development backed into the swamps, and good land wasntavailable: Tom Wilson owned the biggest farm in town, out to the west ofthe lake, and ran a profitable dairy business on it.

The conversations had been frustrating. The land all around the lake was broken into two parcels. The southwest side, a long ridge that fellsharply down to the shore and had dramatic lake views, was owned by the

widow Bailey, Bill Foleys sister. The property had once been a busyamusement park and summer colony. Now it stood in disuse. Canion

had heard rumors that the widow was letting out small parcels to summercampers who had come down from Boston. The west side was owned byTony Lepore, an Italian out of Boston who ran a restaurant and privatecasino out of a large white house that backed out onto the lake. Leporelived with his wife and two sons in a smaller house up the shore. Some ofLepores staff, all men who came from other places, lived in the other two

buildings on the property. Between the two large properties, and in atriangle that widened out from the lake, were smaller tracts that had been

in families for generations. Men like Bill Foley had been born and raisedin these old homes.

In the end the discussions had petered out: not only was no landavailable, but the drive from East Bridgewater around the lake to the new

plant took too long and no builders had any interest. Canion had noconfidence that they town would have done what was necessary to attractthe development, though. Bannerman talked a lot about protecting thefeeling of the town and working to keep the land in the families that had

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lived on it and worked it for generations. Many of the other councilmembers followed Bannermans lead.

Neil Brightman had been one advocate, but a quiet one. Brightman

controlled much of the property in town, and any expansion would benefit him. When Canion had expanded the yard, hed leased two lotsnext to his property from Brightman at double the income that the former

properties on the lots had generated. Brightman was careful about takingsides, though. He benefited too greatly from the long standingrelationships his bank had with the farmers and small businessmen in thetown. When Canion had pushed Brightman to be more aggressive in hissupport, the man had explained that he didnt want his best customers

taking their business elsewhere because they believed he had a greaterinterest in their failure than their success. At any rate, Brightman had said, no one would live in East

Bridgewater and work at the new plant. The drive was too long.The parade turned the corner back onto Central Avenue and passed

under Fletchers. Canion looked up at the men standing on the front porch. They looked down at the procession as if they were at the topreaches of a stadium, leaning on the porch rail. Chickie Doyle was

pointing down at the street, his mouth twisted into a smile and his eyes litup. The other men laughed. Canion could feel that he was the butt ofsome fun. Behind Doyle, he could see Peg standing with her armscrossed. He felt warmly to the sharp woman. For a time, before her

husband had died, Canion had talked her into a brief, passionless affair.He had enjoyed the feeling of the bones under the pressure of his handsand against his thighs when he pushed into her. She would respond, but

with almost no feeling of presence. Soon after, shed left. When hedfirst seen her back in town, he had gone to the house late that night and

knocked at the back door. The man had opened the door and told Canionthat he wasnt welcome. Peg had sat silent on a small bench by the door.

After stopping in front of the cemetery to let Dr. Bannerman off,Churchill pulled the car into the lot next to St. Matthews. He walked toside entrance of the cemetery, at the back of the lot, where he waited inthe shade to watch the marchers disband. He wanted to catch sight of

Timmy before he went up to watch the ceremony. Timmy had been

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uncommonly edgy that morning, excited for the opportunity to march inthe parade, and anxious about the opening of the Little League season.

Win thought about the rest of the day. Usually, he would have taken

Fawn, Timmy and the baby to his fathers grave immediately after theceremony, where they would have paid their respects and headed back

home. Today, though, they would have to go straight over to the ball fieldfor the opening ceremony. Timmy was in the first game. That meant

getting back to the cemetery later in the afternoon, when he might runinto his brothers and his mother paying their Memorial Day visit.

The marchers were straggling into the parking lot, their looseorganization loosing all structure as they set foot on the bumpy asphalt.

Win had been suggesting its repair for some time to Father Wilson, as had Pastor Michaels, who thought that the crumbling asphalt andaggregate, speckled with weeds and moss, gave a tired and rundownfeeling to the center of religious worship in town. Father Wilson didntseem to mind, and Win respected his quiet, consistent refusal to spendthe parishs money on a cosmetic repair. Well patch it when wheelsstart popping, Win, the priest had said. Until then, well use themoney on things that are more rightly to the benefit of the people here.

Win had never conveyed the sentiment of the refusal to Pastor Michaels, half for fear the young minister would sneak into the lot and puncturesome tires during Sundays service.

The high school band played a final fanfare and turned into the lot.Through the trees, Churchill could hear the gathering sound of the crowdas they assembled in front of the bleachers. The town had been filled with

people today, and Win thought that the Doctor was right about theparade being more important this year than some of the years before. Itfelt like the war had burst through onto the TV over the past year. The

Battle of Khe Sanh, the Tet Offensive, images of men that looked likethey lived up the road or the next town over, heads heavy under their

bowl-shaped helmets, running with rifles in their hands and theirshoulders slumped down over dirt roads flanked by big, wide-leafed trees.

Nothing looked familiar, except the image of the soldier.Churchill cringed when he watched the men and imagined the noises

that must be bombarding their senses. Sometime when he was little andhis father had a enough to drink to soften him, but not so much that he

was useless, Win had heard stories about the noise, the unnatural,

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unrelenting noise that had been combat, that had left his father unclearabout where he was, who he was and what he was supposed to do. The

picture was imprinted on his childish memory, and now, when he watched

the news reels, he lay over that early memory his understanding of thesound of wind, and helicopters and yelling, all colored by a fear of getting

hurt and a fear of loss.Win sensed that it was time to move up toward the bleachers and he

gave up his hunt for Timmy. Not only did he want to be present for thecommemoration, but he was responsible for the bleachers, and ultimatelythe job of sparing the town notables from the embarrassment of tumblingslow-motion in an unseemly pile on the still-moist spring ground in their

summer finest. He had no shortage of confidence in his work in buildingthe bleacher he was sensible and focused on the little parts of his job but at least he could attempt to ward off the usual jostling andovercrowding of the small wood steps. He walked through the back of thecemetery, along an old deer path, and positioned himself on a small riseunder an old elm, its leaves already spread full in the warm spring and

providing a cooling shade.From this spot, Win was able to see the bleachers, the podium, and

the people gathered on Central Avenue for the event. The unseasonablewarmth of the day had taken its toll on people: collars were open an extra button, hair plastered to foreheads, shirts catching on sweaty arms andshoulders. He could feel the quiet of the afternoon setting in, and he

began to look forward to sitting at Timmys game, and later walkingthrough the graveyard as the evening breeze cooled off the shine of theafternoon. Hed like a beer, and hoped his wife packed one or two in thecooler she was preparing when he left the house early that morning.

His spirits lifted as the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum cracked the

air. From the side of the bleachers marched a small company of militarymen, led by Bill Foley wearing his full-dress green army uniform. Themen stood tall and proud, and as they marched, the flags snapped to life ina quick breeze, and the mid-day sun seemed to alter their appearance,transforming them from late life into strong, young men, filled with prideand expectation. Foleys medals ran down his chest like a ribbon and on

his hip his cavalry saber jangled.The unit halted before the black granite memorial that flanked the

flagpole bearing the American flag. Foley called out in a deep, timeless

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voice, Company, halt! About face! Present arms. And the men cameto rest, their guns hold out from their chests, their faces straight andstern.

Father Wilson stepped forward to the podium and traced the sign ofthe cross in the air.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Sprit, amen.A stillness settled over the gathering. Children looked up with slack

faces, men and women bowed their chins to their chest. Churchillwatched the priest as he stood stolidly at the podium. A trickle of sweatran down his temple and his cheeks were flush with heat. His meaty

hands grasped the rough wood of the lectern.

Brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray. We are gathered togetherin the memory of the brave men who answered the call to serve theircountry. They went in trust of you, Lord Jesus Christ, to be vigilant anddutiful in serving your cause. They went to protect their families, theirfriends and the very country that they were young citizens of. For thosethat gave their lives in that cause, dear father, we ask your blessing. Forthose who were blessed to return to the bosom of their home and family,dear Father, we give you thanks.

The priest looked up at the people gathered before him.Today, Lord, we are gathered not only to remember those who have

served in the past, but to recognize the loyalty and sacrifice of our youngpeople who serve today. They are not here, Lord, but they are present inour thoughts and our memories. Please protect them, Father, and bringthem back to their homes in full mind, spirit and body to serve you, ourFather, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Churchill looked out at the people gathered in the street. Many werefamiliar, families from town, but many were not. Churchill was struck by

the number of men wearing some bit of military clothing: a fatigue shirt,or a standard-issue grey T, or a green cap, or army boots, or green jungle

pants, or dog tags. Somehow, the stray scraps of clothing seemedcareless, or aggressive in some way, not a form of recognition andacknowledgement.

The priest raised his hands up.Churchills gaze was fixed on one man who stood at the very edge of

the crowd, by the fence on top of the old stone wall. He was tall, with

sandy hair and a long, lined face dusted by the fair grizzle of his whiskers.

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He wore a faded green t-shirt over jeans and pinned at the center of hischest was a military medal. Yet what captured Churchills attention werethe young mans grey eyes they were locked fiercely on the priest,

tethered like a wire cable strung from a telephone pole.The priest lowered his hands, bowed his head and intoned, Amen.

At the moment, the squad of soldiers shifted and raised their guns asif to fire. They paused in mid-motion, and Churchill saw Pastor Michaels

gesturing to them as he clambered down from his position and scuttled tothe podium. Churchills heart sank. Pastor Michaels was a good man,filled with enthusiasm, but Churchill had too often seen how hisimpatience and shrill tone could confuse people and make them uneasy.

He watched as the two priests talked briefly and then Father Wilsonnodded and stepped away.Pastor Michaels stepped forward.Brethren, let us pray in the memory of the men and women who have

given some portion of their life in service to their country. The Lordrecognizes their sacrifice and loves them for it; they will be ever gloriousin the Lords name.

The slight breeze had dropped as the sun reached its mid-day height.Some of the children, chastened by the delay of the rifle salute, began toshift in their places; their parents shushed them and looked up to the

podium, where the Pastor gathered himself, standing straight, his armsclasped across his chest.

This is a new and changing moment for us in our life with the Lord,my brothers and sisters. Our country is waging a great battle, not only indistant countries, but here in our own homes. We have seen confusionand pain, the unhappy deaths of great men who preached the gospel of

human dignity and equality. Forces are at work that make us question

where we are going and who each of us will be.Churchill looked at the men gathered on the bleachers. Dr.

Bannerman had his chin down, his eyes shaded by his forehead, the wispyhair of his forelock resting on the crest of his head like a leaf blown to theground in a fall storm. Churchill thought he sensed a kind of resignationin the slump of his shoulders and the way his hands were claspedmotionless at his waist, not in prayer, but in waiting, almost. NeilBrightman stood next to Bannerman looking out fixedly over the crowd,

his lips turned in a slight smile, the corners of his eyes narrowed in an

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almost hungry way. One or two of the others appeared to be listening allof a sudden, as if they had heard something that surprised and interestedthem. Tom Canion, at the far end of the bleachers, was staring directly in

Churchills direction. He had the look of a bird dog trying to fix therange and distance of a scent. Past the podium, Foley had quietlysignaled to the men to lower their rifles. The group was out of sequencenow, some with their gun butts resting on the ground, others holdingtheir weapons out in half-presentation.

The apostle Paul once said to the Corinthians, when they wereconfused in the face of change and had lost faith in the laws they hadlearned, Paul said, For it is God who said, Let light shine out of

darkness. This is a time of darkness that surrounds us, brothers andsisters, and as Paul said, we must use earthen vessels to show how thepower of God can be manifested in our god-like flesh.

The Pastor unfolded his arms and held his hands high over his head,palms facing outward.

Look! Look all around you, brothers and sisters. The Lord isasking us to overcome the darkness and despair that is encroaching ourcommunity of souls. How do we do this, we ask? Look around you, theLord says, and let not the fear of change decay and destroy the beauty of

your souls. I tell you, we must accept this challenge that the Lord hasgiven us. We must accept this challenge to honor the memory of all those who have given us their life to create our life. We must accept thischallenge from our Lord in order to give purpose and meaning for thosemen and women both here in our own country and in places distant andstrange who are fighting for every kind of freedom. So look, brothers andsisters, and ask the Lord for guidance.

The people gathered before the podium were still now, Churchill saw.

The pastors voice had gained strength and was now bursting through theair.

My pastoral mission is to help us interpret the guidance from ourLord, my friends. Today, I want to share with you the vision of mychurch: Salvation through Brotherhood and Acceptance of Change.Through Our Lords grace, I am privileged to live among you and work to

bring this pastoral mission to life. Today, I can bring you more than myhopeI can show you that path with the same clearness that Moses was

able to take his people to the shore of the Red Sea.

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My promise to you, brothers and sisters, is to create a place where we can all gather in harmony and joy, to take part in the pleasure ofcommunity regardless of our creed. It is the same spirit that has driven

this community since its inception, the same spirit that has driven thedesign of each original settlement within hundreds of miles. The town

green. Our town green. Look behind you at it and remember. For we will, together, and with the support of St. Lukes and our generous benefactor, rejuvenate and rebuild our town green. Tomorrow we will begin construction on a new gazebo for concerts, a new playground forchildren, a new community center for dramatics and performances, a

garden for begetting life and pleasurea new and vital center of our

town. A place for us all to come together and embrace the change thatOur Lord has blessed our lives with.The pastors voice began to quake and he stopped for a moment.

Churchill could see smiles on the faces of the people below the podium;some were gesturing back to the green and whispering to theircompanions excitedly. He wondered now why Michaels had been soinsistent on grooming the beaten patch his announcement would have

had even more import with the green looking overgrown and ragged.Nothing, though, could have had as much impact as the look of many ofthe men on the bleachers, who were casting glances back and forth andtalking with the same immersed excitement as the townspeople.

Except for Brightman, Churchill noted, who stood with the samesteady, expectant stance as he had for the entire sermon.

Pastor Michaels leaned back from the podium and turned his face upto the sky.

Thank you, Lord, for your great gifts, and for your inspiration of ourgreat benefactor.

He looked down to the people on the street.Who, you ask? Only one of our finest citizens. Neil Brightman has

so generously offered to help fund the improvements on the green. As hesaid to me, Our town needs unification, Pastor, and this ground is the

place to do it.The pastor turned and gestured to Brightman to join him at the

podium. Brightman leaned forward, restrained slightly by the pressure ofBannermans hand on his wrist, and then stopped, one foot suspended in

mid-air below the bottom seat of the bleachers. Churchill thought he

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looked delicate, like one of the angels captured in flight on the old stone grave markers. The crowd, sensing the movement, but not clear of thesequence, began to clap and cheer, as much to bring the moment to a

close as to celebrate the gift of one of the towns richest and most tenuredfamilies. Michaels was pulled back by the applause and turned fullytoward the podium, grasping it with both of his hands.

May god bless you all. Our town, our people, our future.With the final word, Foley swung his rifle to his shoulder and fired a

single shot. The crack lingered in the air, calling out to its mates tofollow, and the squad shouldered their weapons and on the quick snap ofa snare drum, fired off a volley. Seconds passed and another volley

crackled, a violent, short rolling, like the rumbling of an claptrap truck ona rock road. One after the other, the volleys were fired. Smoke lingeredin the air. The children put their fingers in their ears. The men becamesilent and stern, their eyes following the line of the rifles up to the huge

American flag that hung slack from the pinnacle of the pole. The womenhalf-closed their eyes and lowered their heads. On the twelfth volley, themen lowered their rifles, clasped them in both hands with a loud smack,and brought them butt first to the grass at their feet.

The service was over. The soldiers became men again, walking gingerly in clothing too tight and warm for the early summer day.Churchill leaned back against the tree and looked at the crowd as it brokeapart. He would go out through the other side of the cemetery and cut

back behind the school to the ball field. If he was quick, he would getthere before most of the other people and save a good place for his wifeand daughter and he to sit and watch the game.

Something stopped him though. Tom Canion had walked a little wayalong the bleacher toward Churchill. He was looking along the line of the

street, toward the fence where the tall young man with the medal had been standing. Churchill looked again at where the young man stood.He was turned away now, and bending down slightly, his arm around theshoulder of a young woman. Churchill watched the couple. The young

woman was beautiful in some way he could not put words to. She wasshort, with a full, round body. Her breasts and hips burst against thefabric of her clothing, and she held one arm across her middle and theother at her waist, as if she were standing naked and meant to cover

herself up. She turned back to look at the cemetery, in response to

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something the young man said. Churchill saw her face full on. Her hair was rich and black, parted along both sides of her face, framing deep brown eyes that seemed fixed in a luminous stare. The cleft in her lips

was deep and pronounced.Canion had stopped and turned away. Churchill assumed he had

been watching the young woman, who had turned to walk down the street with her young man. He shook his head and set off through the graveyard. The games were set to start soon, he wanted to enjoy hisafternoon and then he would have to talk with Pastor Michaels to see what

his plan was and what kind of extra work the priest might have for WinChurchill. It could be a good summer, he thought.

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memorial day, 1968

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