opponents were issued lead swords."

"Nothing's changed," Charlie said. "Commodus?"

"Second century, A.D. We're not a police state, yet. Things get really
crazy under one man rule. Have you not read Gibbon?"

"The Decline and Fall--never got around to it."

"Good for perspective," Margery said.

"That green!" Charlie waved at the trees along I-95. "We only get it
for a week when the leaves are coming out."

"Yes." Margery settled into her seat. Perspective was a good thing,
Charlie thought. Even keel and all that. But there was something to be
said for losing it. If he could have his choice of cuties, he'd just as
soon have one of those dark eyed Mediterranean fireballs--breasts,
slashing smile--someone who spoke with her whole body.

They arrived at the cemetery in good time. Margery declined his offer
to carry the special rocks, wanting to bring them herself. They were
intended to protect the base of a rugosa she'd planted the previous
year. As usual, Charlie accompanied her and then returned to the car.
She would take as long as she needed to arrange the rocks and to say
or hear or feel whatever she could.

Charlie had no children; it was hard to imagine what she felt. Her son
had skidded on a slick road and been wiped out by a logging truck, a
stupid accident, pure bad luck. Her father had died later the same
year. Margery had been on hold since, he supposed, although he hadn't
known her when she was younger. The lines in her face seemed to have
been set early. We were all full of hope once, he thought.

He leaned against the car and watched a man approach. The man was
carrying a shovel. He had a white handlebar moustache and a vaguely
confederate look. "Hey," Charlie said.

"Yup," the man said. He stopped and leaned on his shovel.

"Nice day," Charlie said, after a moment.

"Yessir. Black flies ain't woke up yet."

"Don't disturb them."

"No. Jesus, no. I guess we got a couple of days yet." He tested the
ground with the shovel and looked into the cemetery. "Margery Sewell,"
he said.

"You know Margery?"

"Since she was about so high." He gestured toward his knees. "Used to
go smelting with her father, Jack."

"I'm Charlie, friend of Margery's."

"Tucker," the man said. "Tucker Smollett."

"That's an old name."

"Smolletts go way back around here. Smolletts and Sewells, both." They
stared into the graveyard. "You from around here, then?" He knew that
Charlie was from away; he was bei