Taps
It was a bright day and the wind was still, quiet, behaving herself for the occasion though she refused to dress for mourning. People had gathered beside a hole in the ground. Tarnished silver and gold, dulled with time, flickered among them, badges worn in remembrance less of battles than of comrades and circumstance. A balding man made a speech and said a prayer.
The bugler stood apart.
He had kept the brass warm by blowing through it, quietly, as the service wore on. Twice he drained water from inside, letting it splash to the ground at his feet: he wondered if he stood on a grave, or to one side, and put that thought out of his mind as he read the program once more. The pastor and speakers were named, each beside their moment at the microphone.
The bugler was not.
He brought the horn to his lips and made to play, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart tracing, his hands shaking as they nearly always did. It was a simple melody, nearly flawed in the ease with which its notes fell, too easy to rush through or to cut short. He had played it a hundred times, perfectly. A thousand, perhaps.
But only in practice.
At the graveside it was different: a mountain, an Everest, an unassailable fortress. No mortal lung could carry such a tune the way it had to be carried. Inevitably, a note cracked. The song, now marred, floated across the grass to the gathered well-wishers and onlookers. Women cried. Men pretended not to or, standing face to face with their own future—or their past—gave in without shame.
The bugler left.
He had to walk a long way to his car, parked apart from the rest so that he could leave without disturbing those in mourning. He put away the horn, wiping its shining silver clean and taking it apart quickly to hide it in the trunk, but not before a man caught sight of him. The funeral director, or an assistant. He came over to say a word.
"That was good."