Preston Richards put his head down on his hands again.
"I'm so glad Gustav Adolf decided he needed to stay in Copenhagen. Having the emperor here, too—sorry, the Captain General—would have been a little much. At least we don't have to handle everything that would have been involved with having him here."
"Which reminds me. What about other prominent guests?" Arnold Bellamy gestured at Count Ludwig Guenther. "You'll be there, won't you? And your wife? The mayor of Badenburg, certainly; several other mayors are still 'maybes. Jena, almost certainly; Erfurt, perhaps. People like that?"
The count nodded. "Duke Albrecht and his wife, as well. Plus, since Duke Ernst is in transit from the Upper Palatinate to Magdeburg in any case, his brother. Wilhelm Wettin will apparently be staying in Magdeburg. Unwise, that, in my opinion. But . . ."
Ludwig Guenther shrugged. "I suppose he had to keep from irritating his own followers. Duke Johann Philipp from Altenburg and his wife and daughter will be here. I'll have my steward furnish you with a head count."
Inez resigned herself to the inevitable. "We can borrow folding chairs from all the churches, I guess. And the American Legion and the lodges."
At the funeral, Veronica went through everything with a perfectly calm face. Then she went home and locked herself in their bedroom for a while.
Inez had to go through it all in a wheel chair, because of her injured leg, which was worse. She couldn't go home and lock herself in afterwards, because they took her right back to the hospital. Doctor Nichols thought he would have to operate on the broken leg, not that Wilton hadn't splinted it right, but because there had to be some injury in addition to the break. Inez still didn't have any feeling in it.
Will rode back to the hospital with her in the ambulance. He didn't leave right away, which meant that he was still there when Gina brought Brette.
When he looked up and saw them standing in the door of the room, he said, "The restraining order expired a long time ago."
Chapter 50
Grantville, March 1635
"Buster didn't belong to any church," Christin said, "and he definitely would not want to be buried by some preacher." Buster's grandfather Johnnie Ray agreed with her, considering that he had managed to live eighty-five satisfactory years without being a member of any church himself.
They ended up, the day after the state funeral, with this overfilled memorial service at the old movie theater downtown, conducted by Jenny Maddox. There was no way they could have fitted everyone into even the big parlor at the funeral home. Not even with the folding doors open and both parlors thrown together.
Jenny had written a nice statement about the boy, Johnnie Ray thought. The printed program called it an eulogy, which he sort of wondered how to pronounce. Now she got up and was reading it out loud.
Denise wished she didn't have to listen to it. Daddy had been alive and now he was dead. He was dead because she had phoned him. If she hadn't phoned him, he wouldn't be dead. He would be up at the storage lot, working at something. Probably working in his weld shop. He was—had been—one of the town's best welders. He would have been there at breakfast this morning, saying something rude about the fancy funeral they had yesterday where all the politicians got up and orated about Mayor Dreeson and Reverend Wiley.
If she hadn't phoned him, he would still be alive. Taking care of his Princess Baby.
From now on, she would be taking care of herself, forever and ever and ever.
Dealing with the boys at school, without the threat of Buster Beasley in the background. She might have to change the way she handled them. Mom wasn't . . . quite the same thing as Daddy.
She wasn't really too worried about that, though. Daddy had made sure that she could take care of herself.
Was this speech of Jenny's going to go on forever? After that, there was going to be music, because Johnnie Ray thought there ought to be. Even though Daddy would rather have been put out in a garbage bag.
"Let Benny pick," Johnnie Ray had said. "We've known each other all our lives. Old men. Way older than Henry and Enoch. Let Benny decide what's right."
Benny Pierce was sitting on the theater's little stage. Jenny had brought him a chair. Minnie stood by his side. She had a fiddle of her own, now, but she held it loosely by her side, waiting for him to play. Once he started, her voice joined in:
'Tis a gift to be simple,
'Tis a gift to be free,
'Tis a gift to come down,
Where we want to be.
That wasn't one of Benny's songs. Benny hadn't picked that. Minnie had! Minnie knew that she was a sucker for that song. How dared Minnie pick that? How dared she?