Paul was pleased to have a part in something of such importance. Moving about the tiny graveyard, his enthusiasm was tempered only by the bald-eyed angel who stood, marble shouldered and abstinent, in the center of the yard.

He knelt to trim the toes of the last stone. Since settling on the island two years ago, Paul had been, as he liked to say, a figure on the fringe of island society. He was going on thirty, well educated, and employed in his father's manufacturing firm when he grew suddenly disenchanted with the pretense and acquisitiveness of his friends and moved to the Maine island he'd visited with his family as a boy. He had come in search of anonymity, found it and relished it for a long time until he found himself growing envious of the others who took part in the life of the island and consequently became principals in the stories he'd heard about the place.

At that time, less than a month had passed since he had taken up with Gordon Woodyard. It had not been a sudden emotional thing between him and the old man, but rather a gradual drift toward an unspoken partnership. Unlike the other island men, Gordon neither fished for lobster nor was he too infirm to take small jobs. He had approached Paul and asked him to help dig a cesspool, and Paul, pleased, had accepted. They had worked well together, and enjoyed one another's quiet company. Paul was younger by thirty-odd years, Gordon an active sixty-two.

Then old John Small fell in the middle of the night and died on his kitchen floor. John's wife, Mae, asked Gordon to tidy up the family plot out on the point. Gordon had agreed, refusing payment, and Paul, who was asked to help, had done the same.

The day before the funeral they had worked with spade and bar, Gordon disturbing the soil with the long bar, Paul shoveling. At times it took both of them to walk the big rocks down to the shore and slide them into the sea. All day long, leaning on his bar, Gordon told stories of the old days when he and John had fished together. Now here he was burying him. Paul had been surprised to learn that Gordon and John had been such close friends back then, when they had seemed so indifferent to each other in the last year.

When they finished the grave late in the day, Gordon was tired and stooping. Paul had offered to do the trimming and raking in the morning saying confidently that one man could have it done well before the afternoon mailboat brought the body down from the undertaker's on the mainland.

The morning of the funeral Paul came early to the yard and worked alone. When he finished the trimming, he stood to brush his knees and the wind, stronger now, lifted his hair in tufts. The Small family plot covered the crest of a grassy knob of rock that protruded into a narrow channel between the islands. The wind was southwesterly: it ran over open sea for hundreds of miles before it entered the channel, funneled, and swept between the islands like a swollen river through a conduit. The point, which anchored the northeastern end of the channel, took the full force of the wind.

Paul turned toward the noise from the road. Gordon's truck, snuffling in its own foul fumes, worked its way to the crest of the hill north of the graveyard, rolled slowly over the hump, and began the descent toward town. Gordon was braking by downshifting. He drove in the center of the road, straddling the white line, listing and heaving as he rolled downhill.

Passing the graveyard the old man turned his attention from the road and raised his hand in greeting. It had always seemed to Paul that Gordon rode as a passenger in his own truck, he paid so little mind to its operation.

Either Gordon had heard on the CB that the mailboat was on its way down from the mainland, or he had been drinking and was taking a tour of the island. The boat wasn't due to leave the mainland for some time, and crossing would take more than an hour in such wind. Paul watched as the truck gained the bridge, veered slowly but inevitably to the left, then ran along with two wheels in the field before it found the road again.

Drunk, grinned Paul. Drunk as a lord. How they'll talk.

He gathered the tools and stacked them at the edge of the road, then followed Gordon's truck in toward town.

Emma Russell was established on the worn porch of the Post Office. Wrapped in a russet coat, she sat upright and motionless in an armed oak chair, staring out past the opposite house into the channel. Her black shoes, one resting atop the other, were covered with transparent overshoes. She watched Paul approach over the edge of her spectacles.

Paul said, "Good morning, Miss Emma, fine day," and she returned with an unusually affable grunt, almost enthusiastic.

"Gordon's been drinking again," she said. "He's driving around looking for something foolish to do. I thought he was working on the grave with you."

"Yes," said Paul. "I saw him when he passed the point just now. The grave's finished."

Emma nodded, the forward edge of her hairnet flapping in the wind. "He says he's going down to lower the flag to halft mask. He says it's to show respect for John when they bring him in."

Paul said he didn't know John was ever a soldier.

"He never was," snapped Emma. "He had bad feet. Gordon knows that of course, but it's no difference to him."

Paul felt his ire rise. "He's real upset about John. I guess they were pretty close years ago. He's taking this whole thing pretty hard. He talked about John all day yesterday while we were digging."

"Close?" grunted Emma. "It was Noyes, Gordon's brother, who fished with John. Gordon's not a fisherman, he never was. The same year when John and Noyes teamed up Gordon announced to everybody that he was going fishing too. He spent the whole winter getting his father's boat ready, scrounging glass floats and painting them for buoys. He hung them out to dry behind his house. Summer people's kids came by and broke them all with stones. Gordon never got up from his chair after he saw that; that was all the fishing he ever did. Now he's drunk on rum in the morning with the sun out and he's going to have a ceremony with the flag, if there is a flag down there."

Paul smiled. "I didn't know that," he said. "I'd never heard that."

"I wouldn't expect you had, seeing your source of stories is Gordon. To hear him tell it would be interesting, I'm sure."

"Still, he's upset about John dying. Perhaps that's why he's been drinking this morning. Perhaps the flag is the only way he can think of to show how he feels."

Emma, her old face set straight on Paul's, heaved in her chair, and, lifting with her arms, she rose from the seat and took a step forward. In spite of himself Paul retreated two steps.

"Don't be foolish," she said, setting her jaw. "He's drunk because he's bored, the same as every day, and he's out on this flag business because he's rumdumb from years of drinking. His brain's pickled; if you could see it you'd think it was a plateful of that soused tripe we used to get from Rockland."

A car stopped in front of the porch. Gordon's younger brother Noyes, himself not yet sixty, rolled down his window and said good day to Emma. He nodded to Paul, saying it was chilly yet for an April morning and the sun out.

"The wind's going to let off," said Emma as if the decision was hers. "Is the mailboat started down yet?" she asked.

"Yes," said Noyes. "It left Stonington fifteen minutes ago, or twenty now. Did you want me to take your chair up to the yard? I should do it now I'll want to be at the landing when they come in."

"Yes," said Emma. "Paul here will tell you where to put it, where it won't be in the way. I won't want to stand, not on my hip."

"No," said Noyes. He glanced at Paul then shouldered the car door open.

Giving Emma a wide berth, Paul moved around to the porch and lifted her chair. Noyes opened the trunk for the chair and Paul stepped back with a sudden sense of import, saying humbly that it could go anywhere on the north side of the grave, where the mourners wouldn't be coming in and out.

"I'm going down to the landing now if you want to ride along..., Emma," said Noyes. "Or I can pick you up on the way back. Helen already went ahead to collect Mae and take her down early. Mae's taking it real well considering.

"Considering," retorted Emma, "that your rumsoaked brother is down there with intentions of putting the flag at halft mask to honor the war hero that's coming in his coffin. It seems he told Paul here what good friends him and John used to be, how they fished together, and how John would want a flag lowered for him when he came around the point."

"He never said anything to me about the flag," offered Paul.

"It's gin, not rum," said Noyes. "I hope he doesn't go through with it. Mae would be some embarrassed to have the flag lowered, as if John was a congressman. John hated congressmen."

Emma made her way to the car door. "He'd have a colored guard too, he said, if there was any of them on the island. It's the rum that's eaten his brain away."

Noyes nodded sadly and turned to Paul. "Maybe you could stop off at the store and see what Gordon's up to. If he's not up to anything, you might mention it's time to go home and get changed." He glanced down at Paul's pants, at the damp circles on his knees. "You been praying?" he asked, smiling.

"No," said Paul, smiling too. "Weeding."

Noyes drove off slowly, politely, the bold-shouldered, peach-hatted Emma riding blameless and upright next to the window. They turned the bend into town and disappeared with Paul following on foot.

Gordon's truck was in the small dirt lot in front of the store, parked on the windward side of the tall, stone-ringed flagpole. Paul scanned the grounds for sign of the old man, and when he didn't see him, assumed with relief that he had gone inside the store and was occupied, maybe distracted, by something else. The flagpole was bare; its long rope, disturbed by the wind, tapped against the hollow metal pole. Paul walked around to the rear of the store and looked up the channel for the mailboat.

The wind had raised a two foot chop on the channel so that the mailboat, coming in from the northeast, would have to work its way against the chop and into the wind. It had not yet rounded the point, and was still in the bay. Paul would have time yet to walk back home, change his clothes, and be there at the graveyard when they brought the coffin up from the landing.

As he turned, the side door of the store broke open, and Gordon, bent double over his bundle, came thrusting out of the building. His chin, wrinkled in anger and defiance, was white against an otherwise crimson face. His legs pumped and struck into the wind like a madman struggling in a bog. He didn't see Paul, who was standing still by the truck, until he was off the porch. Gordon slowed himself, straightened in the wind, and nodded to Paul, trying to force a smile. He eased his grip on the flag.

"The wind's getting wicked," tried Paul.

Gordon looked around himself, surprised, blinking in the light. "It'll let off. Tide's turning. Did the boat come around the point yet?"

"No, I just looked. It's about twenty minutes out, though. I just saw Noyes. Is that the flag?"

Gordon looked down at his bundle. "It isn't a codfish." He smiled and swayed. "Of course it's the flag."

Gordon started toward the pole.

"The flag wasn't even up yet, if you can believe that. You'd think they'd at least have the flag up today. I didn't expect they'd have it lowered but at least they could have put it up."

"Perhaps they thought it was too windy."

"Don't be foolish. If it was a dead calm this would be inside on the shelf. A flag looks better in the wind. It flies. Here, hold on to it while I get this line unsnarled."

Gordon passed the bundle and lurched forward to bend over the bulging knot on the cleat at the base of the pole. He leaned into the knot, nose over it, and began to pick and pull.

"Is this for John, for the funeral?" asked Paul in strained innocence. "Are you raising it for the funeral?"

Gordon didn't look up. "When someone who's respected dies you lower the flag to half mast. It's got to be done the right way or it's against the law."

Paul glanced anxiously up and down the road. "Noyes says he's not too sure John would want the flag at half mast. He said Mae would be embarrassed by it because it's normally for heroes and politicians."

Gordon spun around from the knot, rocking in the wind, almost going over, then straightening, hefting himself upright. "Noyes said! Noyes?! You mean Emma said!" he said angrily.

"Well," Paul hesitated, "they both mentioned it just now."

"They did, did they? Well, what do they know about respect? What do they know about showing respect to a dead man? That John might not like it? Did you mention that John's dead, and if he wasn't he couldn't see it anyway inside that box. Maybe they thought there'd be a window cut in the box, so the corpse could be on the lookout for flags." Gordon turned back to the knot.

"What they meant was that Mae might not think it was appropriate; that she might think it was too much show."

"That might be so -- damn this knot -- that might be so. But did it ever occur to them, or to you leastways, that this flag business is for me, and not for Mae." He looked up, eyes steadied. "You can call it my wreath. John hated flowers; he said it was like paying for salt water. If you're worried about being part of this, you can set that flag in the truck."

Paul said no, he wasn't worried. Glancing up the channel, he saw the boat rounding the point. "Here's the mailboat, Gordon," he said anxiously. "What's the trouble with that knot?"

Gordon stood again, hands on his hips. Laden with mourners from the mainland, the mailboat was working its way against the chop. "This goddamn knot!" he said.

"Cut it," Paul suggested excitedly. "Cut through it. They'll be off-loading in a few minutes."

"Can't cut it. We'd have to tie another knot and it wouldn't go through the pulley on top. It has to go all the way to the top or it's against the law." Gordon's face brightened and, with a lurch, he started for the truck. Stopping at the tailgate to balance himself and reaching in the bed among the scattered tools, he returned with a rusted axe. "Here," he said proudly.

Paul blinked and then laughed. "No, no, it's a metal pole," he said shaking his head.

"You damned fool. I'm going to knock the cleat off. We can undo the knot and secure the line to the pole down here. I can put on a new cleat tomorrow. Here."

He waved Paul aside, and spreading his legs at the base of the pole, leaned back and away with the axe. Before Paul could speak he had taken a practice swing, moved in a step, and swung with all his shoulders. The axe smacked the cleat, knocked it loose, and continued inexorably in its own arc, striking Gordon in the calf with a dull crack. The old man fell to the ground, thrashing and swearing, grabbing impotently for his leg.

Paul rushed forward, dropping the flag and reaching for his old partner in one motion.

Gordon was on his back twitching, his eyes stretched open. His left leg was broken below the knee; the foot, seemingly unattached, lay on its side in the parking lot.

"Pick up that flag off the ground," he shouted. "Now you'll have to kiss it. Pick it up!"

Confused, suddenly cold and self-conscious, Paul kissed the flag and hurried to the porch where he set it carefully on the railing, and then, in deference to the wind, shifted it back to the bench.

"We'll have to get you to the mainland fast. It's a bad break." He reached down for Gordon and helped him into the truck. His face ashen, Gordon reached inside the glove compartment and took a long swallow of gin from a pint bottle. Paul started the truck.

"You go put that flag up," muttered the old man. "I'll wait while you do that."

Paul said no and drove toward the town landing.

He eased the hesitant truck down the incline toward the wharf. The landing was backed up with cars. Mourners milled about the dock in dun-colored clothing, holding hats in the wind. Several men and women were transferring wreaths and pots of flowers from the deck of the mailboat to a flat bedded truck. A cluster of slow moving men was lifting the coffin from the transom and jostling it carefully into position on their shoulders. The crowd split open and the coffin began the ramp.

"There. Now it's clearing. I'll go get somebody to help you down the ramp with me." Paul opened his door.

"No. You sit still. I'm not going through that mess. Wait here 'til they clear the landing. Wait here like we're watching, which is what we're doing." Gordon reached again for the gin, and crouching under the dashboard, took another drink from the pint.

Paul squirmed in his seat. He lit a cigarette and glanced at Gordon's face, which was smoothing again is if the pain was subsiding.

"They're all going to the funeral," Paul said. "Who'll be left to...?"

"Be still will you?" Harvey's running the mailboat today. He has to go right back. Wait 'til they clear and we'll get him to help. That's if we need help."

Noyes helped Mae and Emma into the cab into the cab of the truck carrying the coffin. Noyes gave mute directions to several of the men nearby, then climbed into the driver's seat with the women. The procession passed Gordon's truck; the two men lowered their heads as it crept by. Gordon nodded silently to occasional as they moved towards their cars. No one stopped to speak.

When the crowd had dissipated and the drive cleared, Paul rolled the truck down the wharf and hurried to stop Harvey before he pulled away from the landing. "How did he do it?" asked Harvey as he and Paul walked back to the truck.

"With an axe. It glanced off and hit his leg."

"Jesus, is it cut bad?"

"No," said Paul, "it was the hammering end."

"How was he feeling when he did it?"

"He was fine, just fine. I'm not even sure it hurts him now. At least, you wouldn't know it."

"He won't feel so fine when he sobers some," predicted Harvey.

"It'll be a good reason not to sober."

Harvey held the cab door while Paul reached inside and took a hold of Gordon under his arms. "Here," said the old man faintly, "pass me out my gin."

Paul slid the flat bottle inside his jacket and the two men walked Gordon down the ramp to the heaving boat. They set him swearing on the gunwale and gingerly lifted the dangling foot over the side, Paul nearly losing his stomach at the sight, Harvey looked away.

"Set me inside out of the wind," said Gordon. "Set me by the window so I can see the funeral when we go by it. They'll be wondering where we got to, the bastards."

The boat, lifting and pitching in the chop, turned slowly and started downwind along the shore, passing the store and empty flagpole.

Paul stood out on the stern deck, his legs spread apart, knees bending with the heave of the boat. He stood mute, squinting into the wind, and watched as they drew abreast of the grassy point where the mourners were gathering behind the truck that had backed to the gate of the cemetery less than fifty yards away. Gordon, quiet now, his forehead wrinkled and reddened, watched out the window while Harvey, his hand lightly on the wheel, leaned back to peer over Gordon's shoulder.

"The cemetery looks good," said Harvey. "Who was it that cleaned it up like that?"

"We did," answered Paul. "Mae asked us to do it."

As the casket was being carried into the little yard, Noyes walked the few feet out to the road and craned his neck toward town. He shook his head and walked slowly back to the door of the truck.

He reached for Emma, who had turned in the seat. "I wonder," he said, "where my brother and Paul have got to. I saw them on the landing."

"Gordon's probably so liquored up he can't start the truck; or else he ran into a tree," answered Emma.

"I doubt that. I doubt they'd miss the funeral on any account. I doubt Paul would especially. It was him that cleaned up the yard like it is. It hasn't looked this good in years."

"John would be pleased," said Mae as she got out of the truck. "Look at all the flowers."