In the late hours the train arrives in Washington and the coffin is eased from its car and taken from the station down Constitution Avenue along the Mall’s northern border to the Lincoln Memorial where people sing, then to the cemetery to lie alongside the buried brother. She’s never seen a night funeral before filled with torchlight: All funerals should be at night, she concludes, it’s the only beauty bleak enough to be worthy of funerals. Next to a plaque that quotes from the speech he gave in South Africa two years before, in that moment that first so alienated her and then so moved her to give him her heart, there’s only a small unassuming white cross.