"The cemetery will be a problem if you ever need to sell out," Sarah said. "I done some studying on it. Once you make a graveyard, it puts an easement on it so you can’t never do nothing else with the land."

"Goddamned government," Buck said. "Next thing you know, they’ll be telling you what color to paint your barn."

"How big is the graveyard?"

"The fenced-in part is half an acre," Alfred said. "You got grandpaw and grandma up there, his parents, the two oldest, plus that one baby that died. With the hole for Daddy, there’s still probably about two generations’ worth of dying room left."

Roby clenched his fists, then stuck his hands behind his back so no one could see his anger. This was a family affair, after all. It wasn’t his duty to make sure the survivors behaved like they had a lick of human decency. He had other worries.

"Turk’s cap lily," the widow said. "I want to plant Turk’s cap on his grave. He always liked those."

Turk’s cap was a drooping yellow-orange mountain flower that bloomed in early summer, its petals curling up so that it looked like one of those fancy, old-fashioned caps. Roby figured a dead man’s wishes were to be respected, even if it involved a horse and a deep hole, keeping a farm together, or passing a tractor down to an in-law.

"So, Momma, when do we get to read the will?" Anna Beth asked.

"When the time comes," Alfred said, not easing his grip on the Japanese rifle. "Best get him buried first. That’s only proper."

"Well, you know they ain’t no savings," the widow said. "And the government trimmed the tobacco allotment again. Down to four acres next year. Why can’t they treat us like they do soybean farmers and pay us not to grow it?"

"They sued the ass off the cigarette companies, that’s why," Buck said. "It won’t look good for them to turn around and say, ‘This is good for farmers but bad for everybody else.’ Hell, I almost want to take up smoking just for spite."