the trick is to keep breathing

Barret's mama had always taught him that it was just fine if a man wanted to shed tears. Why, even the good Lord had wept sometimes, she said, and Barret believed her, as he believed everything Mama told him. If she said that the sky was pea-green and coal came outta a mule's asshole, Barret would roll up his sleeves and get ready to give that critter a thorough rectal exam.

When he got older that didn't stop him from drying up, of course. Corel was a coal-mining town, and coal miners generally didn't wail like damn babies, not for nobody or nothin'. Barret Wallace had a reputation to maintain, after all.

No-one bothered to be stoic the day after the massacre.

Big fat tears went rolling down Barret's nose and splashed onto what was left of Myrna and he didn't even notice he was crying until the world blurred like smeared newspaper ink. He leaned down close to her face - there was a scent like charred meat and gunpowder; it was a long, long time after before he could eat anything over a cookfire again or even smell woodsmoke without retching - and, gentle as he knew how, kissed her on the lips.

Then Barret Wallace picked his wife up for the last time and carried her home.