Part 36 (1/2)

”It already has a stamp on it. All you have to do is pop it in the mail.”

”That's great.”

”I appreciate it.”

”No problem. Fathers can be hard on their sons, I know.”

He frowns. ”Think so?”

It's snowing harder now, the flakes large and light; they pile up quick and high as Hattie pockets the form and Lennie crams the bubble-wrapped urns into backpacks. He helps Hattie put her arms through the shoulder straps of one.

”It's better to wear it frontwise,” he says.

”Like a marsupial,” she says.

”A what?”

”A kangaroo or some such. An animal that carries its young in a pocket.”

”Whatever,” he says. ”This is heavy. You have to lean back.”

”Okay.” She supports the weight with her hands, the way she used to support her belly, sometimes, back before Josh was born. It's like being pregnant again, only with her mother.

Your mother turned bowling ball.

Lennie bears the other urn back to the car, one earbud in. In a show of respect he does not add the other bud until the car's out of the cemetery and on the main road. He bops his head with a pecking motion, like a chicken.

The urns seem much larger in Hattie's kitchen than they did in the graveyard and, next to Hattie's computer, older-as if they hail from another reality. The time of the large jars. And as if with reverence for that ancient dispensation, Grace and Greta stand now, like the jars, side by side, a pair. They're about the same height; they both fold their hands.

Twins.

”It's a beautiful thing you're doing,” says Grace.

”A compa.s.sionate thing,” says Greta.

Hattie shakes her head. ”I think my relatives are nuts.”

Grace examines the glaze. ”May I touch one?”

”Of course.”

”Is this your mother or your father?”

Hattie tilts the jar; she's still surprised how heavy it is. ”My father.”

”I'll touch both.”

”I'm sure they'd like that.”

Grace stretches a finger out. Greenhouse gardener that she is, her cuticles are rimmed with dirt such as seems to befit the occasion as she touches the side of the urn, then lays a palm on its top, her fingers flat and splayed. Her eyes are squinched so tight her eyelashes flip up at the corners, but her face is serene.

”Thank you,” she says at last.

”You're welcome,” says Hattie, though why is Grace thanking her? She asks if Greta wants a turn.

Sarun is home! As he's still in a neck brace and supposed to stay still, he mostly watches TV or plays with his PlayStation, which he isn't usually allowed to hook up to the TV but is now. What hair he has is not blond but black and enough like Mum's that they're quite a sight together. Mother 'n' son buzz cuts! Lee would have said. It's pretty wack. Mum lets him smoke marijuana in the living room, why not-everyone did it in Cambodia, it seems, and she likes the smell. In fact, when Mum has the energy she is going to make him chicken soup with marijuana in it, Sophy says. Hattie does not encourage this. All they need is to get busted, she says. But Mum is far more worried that Sarun will be charged with arson. Because someone must be upset, Sophy says. Like probably Everett is upset. And fair or not, people do think Sarun and his friends set the fire.

”But why the f.u.c.k would I burn down the mini-mall?” says Sarun.

He would shake his head if he could. As it is, he can only move it enough to jiggle his pirate earrings, which Sophy and Hattie have cleaned and fixed for him. The earrings rest lightly on the padding of his neck brace, around which is wrapped his gold chain, though it is barely long enough; it looks like an absurdly delicate dog collar.

”And f.u.c.king plywood!” he goes on. ”That be low, man.”

Anyway, Sophy volunteers, even if he's charged, he'll get off, because she knows who really set the fire.

”Oh, really,” says Sarun. ”Who?” His pupils are huge, his face alive and amused.

”Me,” she says. ”I set the fire.”

”You!” scoffs Sarun. ”You can't even strike a match.”

”I can so.” Sophy takes some kitchen matches out of a drawer that could be the very drawer Hattie rescued long ago. She lights a match then immediately blows it out, dropping it in the sink.

Sarun laughs. ”You see? You afraid of fire.”

”I did it!” she insists all the same, smiling.

”And why'd you do it? Please tell us.”

She pouts prettily, her lower lip protruding.

”Spit it out, now. What was your mo-tive?”

”I did it so they'd pin it on you!” She sticks her tongue out at him.

”Because you wanted me locked up?”

She plays with her hair. ”Because you were upsetting everyone.”

”This was your grand plan?”

”I thought it was G.o.d's plan. Because ...” She wrinkles her nose.

”Spit it out,” says Sarun again.

”Because you were doing Satan's work!” She juts her chin out.

Sarun laughs so loud Mum pokes her head out from her bedroom; Gift claps his hands but then stops, confused.