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155 A A cemetery, V said, from her chair in the corner. The dog stirred and Sara scratched his neck. Tell me more, F said, lifting a plate away from V; she had been dragging a fork over it ceaselessly. You’re not going to tell me how disgusting an idea it is? Hateful? V said, turning toward him, her neck stretched over the armrest. No, go ahead, F said. Tell me how we should blame the dead. Not the dead themselves—V sat up—but how we honor them. How we’re told they died for our freedom. It’s as bad as dying for our sins. No, F said, sin is— If it’s real freedom then we should be free from them. If we’re not free to choose, free to violate, then they died for nothing . I said: But really they just died in the wars they were sent to. 156 They both looked at me, annoyed. The families would hate you, F said to V. It’s not as though I’d sign my name to it, she said, It’s a bombing, not something you publish. Gravestones broken up, she said, toppled in, the bones all mixed. For what it’s worth, F said, I might hate you. But that doesn’t matter, V said. ...
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