Just in case. A hearse enters the front gate of the cemetery. More than a dozen cars follow. The procession winds around the road in sight of Mr. Carter’s plot. Younger men and women help the elderly to their seats under the tent. Every chair is filled. It’s 1:45 p.m. The workman from the vault company has the casket almost in place. Just a few more tugs on the ropes. The men from the funeral home says cremation was considered. “But we didn’t go that route because maybe some day someone will want to stop by and pay respects,” one explains. “The burial provides a piece of ground for them to look at.” The workman is finished. He folds his green rug and gathers his boards. It’s 1:50 p.m. The men from the funeral home look one last time to see if any latecomers are making their way to the pauper’s plot. Nobody. A call comes in on the cell phone. “We’re clear,” one replies. “Nothing going on here.” They drive away. I look at the grave. No flowers. No reminders of a life lived. Just a half-filled pop bottle on an adjoining stone. And a pile of smoothed-over dirt. No one came.
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