"Where do you go to buy a monument?" Henry persisted. 

"You go to a place that sells them," Mr. Hairston said, laughing that piglike laugh that was without mirth or amusement. 

"Where do you find such a place?" Henry asked, refusing to be discouraged. 

Mr. Hairston sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling in resignation, and turned to the boy again. "You buy a monument like anything else. You shop around. There's a place near Oak Lawn Cemetery that sells them. A man named Barstow owns it. Makes a good living at it, I guess. Must be a big markup, all you have is a stone with names and dates."

"Is his place far from here? Can I take a bus there?"

Mr. Hairston squinted at him, his eyes bright suddenly with interest. " You're really serious about this?" 

Henry nodded. "My brother deserves a monument. I think he's the only one in the cemetery without one." 

"What kind of monument are you thinking of?"

Henry wondered: Should I tell him? Will he laugh? He hated to say anything that would spoil Mr. Hairston's sudden interest. But why not go the whole way?

"Eddie was a great ballplayer. I was thinking of a ball and a bat." 

Mr. Hairston did not frown or scoff, did not make his strange squeal of a laugh, but continued to look at Henry with his deep dark eyes. 

"I know this Barstow. I'll talk to him." 

Henry felt his jaw drop open in disbelief, like in the funny pages. He blinked. Had he heard Mr. Hairston say what he thought he'd said? He dared not ask. Instead he murmured, "Thank you," having to clear his throat to utter the words, and began to sweep the same spot.