As I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, "Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her." "I understand," I replied, then added, "No, I'll go back for her." It's so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.

Elizabeth replied, "That would be nice. Thank you. We'll see you back at the church." Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. "Where is Edward?" I inquired of Susan.

"He is riding with his grandparents."

"All right." I fell in behind someone's car and exited the cemetery. Burial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you're a member of St Mark's, you usually gather after the funeral at the church's fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It's not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.

As I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel's decision not to go along with the planned programme, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.

Susan said to me, "That was very thoughtful of you."

I replied, "I am an uncommonly thoughtful man."

Susan didn't second that, but asked me, "Would you weep over my grave?" I knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, "It would really depend on the circumstances." "Meaning what?"

"Well, what if we were divorced?"

There was a second of silence, then she said, "You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years." "Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?" I added, "Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever." "You Italian, or what?" She laughed.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing… anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives – Mater and Pater to be specific – to take a hike."

"Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other's funeral." "I will be at yours. You have my word on that."

I didn't like this subject, so I changed it. "Do you think Ethel will be all right alone in the gatehouse?"

"I'll check on her more often. Perhaps we'll have her to dinner a few times a week."

"Good idea." Actually, it wasn't, as I don't care for Ethel's company, though I care for her as a person, even if she is a socialist. She might be better off living with her Republican daughter, but I didn't think that was a possibility. I noticed, too, that William Stanhope had been eyeing her as though he were sizing her up for a casket. I had no doubt that he would pull me off to the side sometime in the next few days and ask me to suggest to Ethel that she leave the gatehouse. William, of course, was desirous of selling the quaint house to yuppies, or successful artists, or anyone with a romantic bent and about a quarter million dollars. Or of course, if anything came of Bellarosa's interest in the entire estate, then, as I'd said to George, William would like all the serfs gone (unless he could sell them as well).

Naturally, I would assure my father-in-law that I would do my best to get old Ethel out, but actually I'd do the opposite as I'd done with George just a few days ago. William Stanhope is a monumental prick, and so outrageously insensitive and self-centred that he actually believes he can ask me for my help in enriching him, and I'm supposed to do his bidding (for free) because I'm married to his daughter. What a swine.

"Mother and Father looked good," Susan said. "Very tan and fit."

"It's good to see them again."

"They're staying for three or four more days."

"Can't they stay longer?"

She gave me a sidelong glance, and I realized I was pushing my credibility. I hadn't told William or his wife to go to hell yet, as I'd promised myself I would, and I'm glad I hadn't because that could only confuse the issue between Susan and me.

I pulled up to the church, and Susan opened her door. "That was very touching. I mean what Ethel did, staying behind to be with her husband. They were together a half century, John. They don't make marriages like that anymore." "No. Do you know why men die before their wives?"

"No, why?"

"Because they want to."

"I'll see you later." Susan got out of the car and headed toward the fellowship room, and I headed back to the cemetery.

Funerals are, of course, a time to reflect on your life. I mean, if you need any evidence that you're not immortal, that hole in the ground is it. So you naturally start to wonder if you're getting it right, then you wonder why it matters if you do. I mean, if Hunnings and his cohorts have removed the fear of a fiery hell and the promise of a four-star heaven, who gives a damn what you do on earth? Well, I do, because I still believe in right and wrong, and without embarrassment I'll tell you I believe in a comfortable heaven. I know that George is there even if Hunnings forgot to mention it. But afterlife considerations aside, one does wonder if one could be getting a little more fun out of life. I mean, I still enjoy life, but I recall very well a time when things were better at home. So, I must answer the age-old question:

Do I move or make home improvements?

I pulled into the gate of the cemetery and drove along the tree-shaded lane to the Stanhope section. It was interesting that the Stanhopes, who needed so much land in life, were all comfortably situated on an acre now, with room for more. I stopped a short distance from the new grave and noticed that the gravediggers were nearly finished covering it. I noticed, too, that Ethel was nowhere to be seen.

I got out of the car and started for the grave to inquire of the gravediggers where she might be. But then I turned toward the south end of the Stanhope section, the older section where weathered marble headstones rose amid thick plantings.

Ethel Allard stood with her back to me at a grave whose headstone bore the name AUGUSTUS STANHOPE.

I watched for a second or two, but felt as if I'd intruded on a private moment. Though in truth, I hadn't stumbled upon this scene by accident; I somehow knew that Ethel would be there. I suppose I could have backed off behind the hedges and called out for her, like the old John Sutter would have done, but instead I said, "Ethel, it's time to go."

She glanced over her shoulder at me without surprise or embarrassment and nodded. But she remained at the grave for some time longer, then took a white rose that she had been holding and tossed it on Augustus Stanhope's grave. Ethel turned and came toward me, and I could see there were tears in her eyes. We walked side by side toward my car and she said to me, "I loved him very much."

Who? "Of course you did."

"And he loved me dearly."

"I'm sure he did." Who?

She began sobbing and I put my arm around her. She actually leaned her head on my shoulder as I led her to the car. She said, "But it could never be. Not in those days."

Ah. My God, what funny people we are. I said, "But it's good that you had something. That's better than nothing."

"I still miss him."

"That's very nice. Very lovely." And it was, odd as the circumstances were, considering why we were there. And the moral was this: Go for it; it's later than you think.