Bekky took the driver’s seat. I wanted no distractions, nothing else to think about. I wanted to permanently record every second of the short trip into my memory. Reaching for my phone, I connected it to the car stereo and hit play.
“Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl. Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl...”
We sailed past Clarkston’s homes, shops, trees and people, driving past a micro-casino that was a gentle reminder of his times in Reno. The city opened up to a far-reaching reservoir, an endless expanse of water to our right. The sun glinted off its placid surface. A sharp turn to the left and we saw the cemetery’s sign.
“Grave 1, Lot 74, Block 4,” Joey’s plot of land. Parking the car, we walked out in search of it. We headed to Block 4 first, where he should have been, pacing up and down the lines of the graves but finding no sign of him. The lines weren’t marked, so there was no way of knowing exactly where he would be. Back and forth, up and down, still nothing. Certain that we had checked all of that area, we ventured out across the others.