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  After Henry eats, showers, and gets dressed, and I have watched way too much GMA, we leave the house and walk down to the MiniMart to get Sally a new box of Entenmann’s and us some TV relief.

  “You’ll come to the funeral, right?” I ask Henry.

  “Of course,” he says, shuffling along beside me and pulling at his shirt. When we get to the store, we buy our usual stuff, then sit on the empty bike rack and go halvsies on candy choices, just like always. We start with our melting Twix and finish with Skittles. Henry studies the nutrition label on the Twix wrapper and frowns. “We should really switch to peppermint patties,” he says. It says right on the wrapper ‘70 percent less fat than the average of the leading chocolate brands.’”

  I roll my eyes. “Half a candy bar is not going to make you explode.”

  While Henry quietly chews his share of Skittles, I imagine Claire and my mom back at home, making whatever excuse for plans they need to make. If it wasn’t so hot, I would stay right here with Henry all day. But a drip of sweat trickles down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away and stands up, then reaches his hand out to help pull me up, too. We walk back to his house in silence.

  When we get there, we stop at the end of the driveway.

  “You want to stay here?” he asks.

  “Yes. But I think I should go home.”

  Henry nods. “Okay. I’ll see you at the funeral,” he says. “But, Bean … don’t count on Sally. I mean … you know.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  He nods again. “Well, I’ll see ya.” The plastic MiniMart bag rustles against his leg as he walks up the driveway and disappears into the house.

  chapter five

  On the morning of Gus’s funeral, I’m cursing my too-tight sandals when the front doorbell rings. My mom yells for me to see who it is.

  When I get to the door, Sally is standing on the other side of the screen next to Henry. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers. I bet they’re from the MiniMart. The ones that are prewrapped in clear plastic that sit in white buckets filled with murky water near the checkout.

  I do not let my jaw drop when I see her. Instead, I let my heart grow with gratitude, and try to show it to her in my smile. I open the door and take the flowers and invite them in. Sally gives me a long, silent hug. She squeezes me so tightly, I feel empty when she lets go. I take Sally and Henry to the living room, and we sit on the couch while we wait for my mom and Claire to finish getting ready. Every so often, Sally sighs and pats my knee. I want to tell her how grateful I am that she’s here. But I think that might embarrass her, to point out what a huge step it was just to leave her house. So I stay quiet and thank her in my head.

  When it’s time to go, we walk in our pathetic procession. First my mom, then Claire, then me, Henry, and Sally. Sally is several paces behind, squinting hard as she trudges along behind us in the bright sun. I wonder what it must feel like to her, to have the sun shine on her for the first time in so long. Like a bear must feel coming out of hibernation. Henry and I keep turning back to make sure she’s still there.

  When we get to the riverbank, we form a half circle, looking out over the smelly river Gus fished in every day. My mom clears her throat and shifts the heavy-looking dark blue cardboard box in her arms that she’s lugged all the way. Her hands on the box look small but strong. Her fingers curl over the edges in a sure grip.

  “Beany,” she says, holding the box just inches from her chest like an offering she can’t hand over, “why don’t you say a few words?”

  “What?” I don’t know what I expected to happen at this sorry attempt at a funeral, but it didn’t involve me doing any talking.

  The others all watch me expectantly, as if I am going to say something profound and meaningful like they do on the soap funerals. I rack my brain for some memory of a recent death played out on Days.

  “Um—” I start. I breathe in slowly, trying to think of what to say to their expectant ears.

  My eyes rest on Sally in her large, tentlike flowing dress covered with pink and peach flowers. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Sally standing up in the eight years I’ve known her. I wonder how she got the dress and imagine her bidding for it on eBay, or ordering it through some plus-size catalog, though I’ve never seen any catalogs in their house. All I’ve ever seen there are TV Guides and Soap Opera Digests. Maybe Henry had to go online with her and help her pick something out. And then she probably had to pay tons extra to have it shipped overnight. Or maybe she’s had it all along, for the day she’s imagined—when Henry’s dad comes back. In Sally’s soap world, anyone can return, even from the dead.

  She nods at me with her gentle, mascaraed eyes and smiles encouragingly.

  I clear my throat. “Gus—” I begin, then pause.

  My mom shifts her weight impatiently from foot to foot, and Claire bites the inside of her mouth.

  “Gus was a good grandfather,” I say.

  I catch my mom giving Claire a doubtful look.

  “He loved to fish,” I continue, glancing over at the river. I try to imagine him there in happier days. “He loved his wife,” I add.

  What else did he love? What else? Were there only two things?

  “He loved this river,” I say, gesturing toward the murky water. “He always hoped one day they would clean it up. And—” Across the water on the other bank a car drives by, blasting hip-hop. The bass carries all the way over to our side, practically rattling my teeth.

  Henry sniffs and fans his sports jacket. There is no way with his getup he’ll be avoiding sweat spots today.

  Sally nods at me again to keep going as soon as the music fades down the street.

  My mom sighs impatiently, like she hadn’t intended me to take so long and now she wants me to wrap it up.

  “I loved him,” I blurt out. I can almost see the unfamiliar words hovering in the air. I never told him that. I’ve never told anyone that.

  I look at the box in my mom’s arms. “I did,” I say to it. I want to take the box and hug it to my heart. Saying those words out loud makes me realize how true they are. I don’t want to let go of him now that I know what’s real. I feel my arms slowly start to reach toward the box.

  “He loved you, too,” my mom says quietly. Before I can touch the box, she turns and looks out at the river where she’ll let him go.

  Sally wipes her eyes with an already very soggy tissue. She always cries during soap funerals.

  My arms drop back to my sides. “May he rest in peace,” I say, finally remembering a familiar funeral phrase. It sounds much better than good-bye.

  “May he rest in peace,” Sally repeats. Claire, Henry, and my mom echo Sally, but not all at the same time so it sounds mumbled and awkward.

  “Okay,” my mom says. “I guess it’s time.”

  She carries the box closer to the edge of the bank. We follow, keeping a few steps back. She fumbles with the lid.

  “Let me—” Claire starts to say. But my mom shakes her off and manages to get it open herself.

  Inside, there’s a large plastic bag, which she somehow unseals, then she steps closer to the edge of the embankment. She doesn’t look back as we inch up behind her. The box seems heavy as she struggles to hold it out over the water, then turns it upside down. Almost at once, heavy-looking gray ash slowly flows out of the box just as a gust of wind blows off the water, spraying the ashes against our legs.

  Sally shrieks.

  “Oh, shit,” Claire says.

  The grit settles between my toes in my new sandals. I can’t bear to look.

  Sally glances down at her swollen ankles. Dark ashes cling to her sheer, coral-colored nylons. She does a little jig sort of thing to get the ashes to fall off without having to brush them off with her bare hands, but it doesn’t help.

  Henry stares at his once-shiny black shoes, now covered with a layer of dust.

  “Jesus,” my mom says. She looks down at her own ash-covered toes. Her bod
y goes a bit limp. I think it’s the first time since she cried on the kitchen floor that she looks remotely emotional over the loss of Gus. Slowly, she lifts her face to the sky and holds out her arms, dropping the empty blue box.

  “Happy now?” she asks the sole cloud in the sky. I’m not sure if she’s talking to Gus or God.

  We all stand there, waiting for something to happen.

  The grit between my toes chafes and I wiggle them just a bit to try to set it free. There’s a larger, sharper piece under my big toe. I pray it isn’t bone. But what else could it be?

  I catch Claire watching me try to rid my feet of the stuff and stop.

  No one says a word. We all just stand there with Gus’s dust clinging to us. I look down at the empty box, then up at my mom. She sighs and blinks her eyes up at the sky, as if she is silently asking someone up there what we’re supposed to do now. We all follow her gaze. Waiting.

  Then my mom’s shoulders start to shake and she laughs out loud. Claire looks at her nervously. Maybe even a little disapprovingly. But my mom just cracks up. She kicks off her sandals and howls. And then Claire is laughing, too. The two of them hold on to each other, cackling like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

  As Henry, Sally, and I watch the two of them, I try not to think about the gray, gritty dust still clinging to my sweaty feet inside my sandals. I concentrate on putting all my energy into hating my mom and Claire. But pretty soon, I can’t stand it anymore. I bend down and undo my sandal straps so I can try to wipe off the ash in the dusty, dry grass.

  Following my lead, Henry bends down and gently sweeps the ash off his new shoes. Only Sally doesn’t budge. She just watches, horror-struck by my mom and Claire’s behavior.

  “Come on, Sally,” my mom says. “We’re not all that bad. The old grump’s probably looking down at us and having a good laugh. If he actually made it up there,” she adds.

  I squint up at the lone cloud and think for sure if Gus could see us he would not be laughing. He would be shaking his head, bitterly disappointed in my mom yet again.

  My mom walks over to Sally and tries to brush the rest of the ash from Sally’s elephantlike ankles.

  Henry looks mortified.

  Grandpa, I’m sorry, I say in my head. I know it’s too late to call him that now. But the word seems so much warmer than Gus. There’s love in that word.

  Claire picks up the empty box from the ground and tucks it under her arm. With her free hand, she laces her fingers through my mom’s and leads her back toward the house.

  Sally follows several feet behind, moving carefully. Her soggy pink tissue hangs limply from her hand. She doesn’t look back or wait for us.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Henry says when the others are far enough ahead to be out of earshot.

  “That’s my mom,” I say. “Interesting.”

  But she’s more than that. At the moment, I think she’s worse than that. But I don’t say so. I try to gather some of the ashes on the ground into a pile and scoop them up in my hands. Henry bends down to help.

  “We’ll never get it all,” I say.

  Henry tries to scoop up some of what I’ve missed, but it’s no use. We walk to the edge of the bank and throw the ash out as far as we can. But there’s still grit on our hands, and in the grass.

  “How could my mom laugh?” I ask. “How could she think this was funny?”

  Henry doesn’t answer for a while. Instead he looks out at the water. Bits of trash float past us in the current.

  “To a stranger, the scene might have looked faintly amusing,” he says. “You have to admit it.”

  “It wasn’t a scene, it was real!”

  I try to imagine some other family holding a service for their loved one on this sorry excuse for a riverbank. Gus said it used to be beautiful here, back when it was still a thriving mill town and the old Victorian houses that line our street were called Painted Ladies, and people sat on their porches and took romantic rowboat rides along the river, and you could still eat the fish.

  “It wasn’t amusing,” I say. “Pathetic is more like it.”

  I turn to face the water again, hoping at least some of Gus’s ashes made it down to the current and then, who knows where. I imagine that part of him gliding with the current and eventually finding his way to the ocean, to freedom, away from this place.

  “Come on,” Henry says. “Let’s get back.” He reaches for my hand. It feels familiar in mine even though I don’t think I’ve ever held it. As we start toward the house, I turn one more time and, with my free hand, wave good-bye.

  chapter six

  When we reach the house, Henry’s hand slips out of mine. I feel cold, even though it’s baking hot outside. I feel like I might float away without Henry hanging on to me.

  But I don’t. I just stand here with the tall, paint-peeling house standing over us. Finally, I lead Henry to the back of the house so we can rinse our hands at the spigot Gus used for gardening. As we approach, we see a giant pair of coral nylons hanging alone on the clothesline that never gets used. The large legs hang limply in the windless air, like two recently shed snake skins. I can almost feel Henry cringe. We both turn away and rinse our hands in the cold water. I avoid looking at the puddle we’ve made on the ground under the spigot, and try not to think that a little of Gus is in it.

  “Come on,” Henry says when we’ve rubbed our hands almost raw. He leads the way back to the front of the house.

  I follow him inside. Busy cooking sounds waft from the kitchen. Sally and Claire are sitting at the kitchen table with what look like Bloody Marys, celery stalks and all. They both have cutting boards in front of them. Claire chops onions while Sally attempts to dice tomatoes. Sally’s meals usually come out of a box or a can, and it’s clear she’s not too sure about how to use the knife.

  My mom is busy rushing back and forth from the stove to the kitchen table to the sink to the refrigerator. I look at Henry as he takes in the scene, too. He raises his eyebrows and I know exactly what he is thinking: Welcome to Bizarro World.

  Sally looks up at us with an expression I’ve never seen her use. I can’t tell if she is nervously happy or terrified.

  It’s not clear what my mom’s making, but all four burners on the stove are in use, and the oven has two casserole dishes inside. It feels like Thanksgiving without the football. And without Gus.

  When my mom finally notices Henry and me, she says, “Good,” and marches over to the fridge. She pulls out a giant container of the sauce she made that day and puts it on the counter. Then she goes over to the stove, grabs the biggest pot, and carries it to the sink. Lasagna noodles slap loudly into the strainer as she tips the giant pot.

  “Come here and do the building, you two,” she says.

  I open my mouth to remind her that I’m not supposed to know how to cook, but before I can, Henry walks over and peers into the empty dish as if sizing it up. My mom opens the oven and pulls out a huge casserole dish filled with roasted vegetables. They’re still sizzling when she places the dish on a pad on the counter in front of Henry.

  “Oh, crap. I forgot the ricotta. Okay. Beany, you do it.” She grabs a bunch of stuff from the fridge and puts it in front of me with an empty bowl.

  “I don’t know how,” I lie.

  The truth is, I’ve always wanted to learn how to cook like my grandmother, even if my mom forbade it. All these years of sitting at the kitchen table while my mom cooked for Gus and me, I couldn’t help but learn, even if my fingers never did the actual construction.

  My mom ignores my lie and leaves me to it.

  I scoop the ricotta out of the bucket and dump the soft white stuff into the bowl. Then I cut the fresh mozzarella into small chunks and drop them in, too.

  “You need basil, don’t forget,” my mom says behind me. She drops a handful of chopped green leaves into the mixture.

  I grate some Parmesan onto the top of the heap, add salt, pepper, and nutmeg, and stir it all together. He
nry watches me with a look of admiration. It feels good.

  The kitchen is hot and steamy and smells like an Italian restaurant. My mom always said her dream was to have her own place, making food instead of serving it. She even designed a menu with all my grandmother’s Italian dishes she planned to serve. She drew delicate grapevines between the courses. The sketches were beautiful, and I remember Gus muttering something about wasted talent. It was his way of complimenting her, even though it was also a jab. Sometimes when my mom made a dish my grandmother taught her, Gus would say, “Tastes just like Stella’s—” and then he’d get a sad look on his face and leave the room.

  The restaurant was the only thing Gus shared with my mom—dreams beyond her working at Lou’s. He’d buy the Powerball ticket every Tuesday and wait, clutching the thing, comparing numbers when they read them off during the break in the nightly news. And I would think, Don’t you see that, Mom? He wants something for you. He’s not the horrible father you think he is. But then I would remember the way he spoke to her and just feel all confused. How could you love and hate someone at the same time?

  * * *

  “One more layer,” my mom says, leaning over my shoulder. Henry looks at me doubtfully. There is no way one more layer is going to fit in that pan. We fake it, moving our hands through the various steps while my mom makes herself busy at the sink.

  “Let us help you, Lexie,” Claire says. She and Sally have finished chopping and cleaned the table off, save for their Bloody Marys, which are now nearly empty. I’ve never seen Sally drink before. Her cheeks are pink and glisten with sweat.

  My mom ignores Claire’s offer and begins washing dishes like a maniac.

  “Done,” I say, sprinkling the last of the mozzarella over the final layer.

  “Oven.” My mom wipes her hands on her apron, walks over to the kitchen table, and drops into the chair between Sally and Claire.

  “I need a drink,” she says.

  Claire stands up to make one and stumbles slightly.

  I put the lasagna in the oven, then wash my hands and go back into the living room, waiting for Henry to follow. A minute later he comes in with a bottle of Gus’s five-dollar table wine under his arm. I have no idea how he managed to sneak it out, but Henry moves in a quiet way. Sometimes you can forget he’s in a room with you.