county dump.
“Matt said I’d find you here,” Iris said.
From her perch Jane could see strands of white in the part of Iris’s hair. She wondered for the first time if Iris might not be the older of the two of them. Because of the way she always dressed—like a teenager in jeans cut off at the knee or khakis and a wrinkled man’s button-down shirt—Jane had always assumed that Iris was younger. Grief or insomnia had aged her by a dozen years.
“What do you need?” Jane said, and then, less harshly, “I mean, is there something I can do for you?”
Iris blinked, eyes huge and swimming in the thick lenses of her glasses. Jane had never seen her in anything but reading glasses, perched on the tip of her nose.
“It’s about the funeral,” Iris said. “Daniel and I … Jane, we really hope that you’ll reconsider and agree that the children should be buried together.”
So this was it, then. Iris had come to assert her will over this, as she had over the wedding, as she had even over John’s education. Why, Jane wondered, had she imagined she would be free of Iris’s intervention in how to bury her son?
Jane lowered herself slowly down the rungs of the ladder and followed Iris to the front pew, where she took a place as far from Becca’s mother as civility would allow. As soon as she sat down she was overwhelmed by exhaustion, by a sense that she might never be able to get up again. Sheloathed the idea of sharing her son’s grave with these people. However long John and Becca dated, they’d been married for less than an hour. Less than an hour! Why should they spend eternity side by side? Yesterday she had made it clear to Daniel that she was not interested in a joint funeral or a joint gravesite.
However, yesterday she had also been operating under the assumption that John would be buried in the small Tetherly plot that her ex-husband’s grandfather had bought for his descendants. But when she got back from the funeral home and called Frank to tell him to make the arrangements with the undertaker, her ex-husband had informed her, without even a trace of sheepishness, that he had sold his interest in the plot years ago. “Didn’t know I’d need it, did I?” he’d mumbled, clearly half in the bag. It was a miracle he could remember that he’d ever had anything to lose.
There was no Stoddard plot; Jane’s family lay sown here and there throughout the cemetery. She would have to call Town Hall and inquire about a plot. No doubt she would end up with one of the new ones, across the road, far from the water. And even that would cost a bundle. Her business did well enough in the summer, but she had no cash reserves, and paying for the casket had already depleted the scant savings she possessed. The casket had been far too expensive—she had chosen a more elaborate one than she should have. To buy the casket and pay for the embalming she’d had to dip into the money she set aside every year for property taxes. She had no idea how much the burial plot would cost, but whatever it was, it would certainly be more than she could afford. She’d end up with no money with which to last out the winter.
“My family is all in the Red Hook Cemetery,” Jane said now.
“That’s fine. Mine is, too,” Iris said.
Jane narrowed her eyes slightly. Iris was one of those from-aways who insisted on their Maine roots, as if a lifetime’s worth of summers made you of a place. As if who your family was, what your stock was, wasn’t what tied you, but rather just the fact of your presence. As if a Jew from New York who had never suffered through a black, bleak March in Red Hook had any idea what it meant to be a Mainer, or had any of the hardy tenacity it took to live here.
Iris continued, “My great-great-grandparents are buried in the RedHook cemetery. You know the tall white obelisk down by the water, to the left of the Wescott family crypt? That’s my great-great-grandfather Elias Hewins. He bought all the
“Matt said I’d find you here,” Iris said.
From her perch Jane could see strands of white in the part of Iris’s hair. She wondered for the first time if Iris might not be the older of the two of them. Because of the way she always dressed—like a teenager in jeans cut off at the knee or khakis and a wrinkled man’s button-down shirt—Jane had always assumed that Iris was younger. Grief or insomnia had aged her by a dozen years.
“What do you need?” Jane said, and then, less harshly, “I mean, is there something I can do for you?”
Iris blinked, eyes huge and swimming in the thick lenses of her glasses. Jane had never seen her in anything but reading glasses, perched on the tip of her nose.
“It’s about the funeral,” Iris said. “Daniel and I … Jane, we really hope that you’ll reconsider and agree that the children should be buried together.”
So this was it, then. Iris had come to assert her will over this, as she had over the wedding, as she had even over John’s education. Why, Jane wondered, had she imagined she would be free of Iris’s intervention in how to bury her son?
Jane lowered herself slowly down the rungs of the ladder and followed Iris to the front pew, where she took a place as far from Becca’s mother as civility would allow. As soon as she sat down she was overwhelmed by exhaustion, by a sense that she might never be able to get up again. Sheloathed the idea of sharing her son’s grave with these people. However long John and Becca dated, they’d been married for less than an hour. Less than an hour! Why should they spend eternity side by side? Yesterday she had made it clear to Daniel that she was not interested in a joint funeral or a joint gravesite.
However, yesterday she had also been operating under the assumption that John would be buried in the small Tetherly plot that her ex-husband’s grandfather had bought for his descendants. But when she got back from the funeral home and called Frank to tell him to make the arrangements with the undertaker, her ex-husband had informed her, without even a trace of sheepishness, that he had sold his interest in the plot years ago. “Didn’t know I’d need it, did I?” he’d mumbled, clearly half in the bag. It was a miracle he could remember that he’d ever had anything to lose.
There was no Stoddard plot; Jane’s family lay sown here and there throughout the cemetery. She would have to call Town Hall and inquire about a plot. No doubt she would end up with one of the new ones, across the road, far from the water. And even that would cost a bundle. Her business did well enough in the summer, but she had no cash reserves, and paying for the casket had already depleted the scant savings she possessed. The casket had been far too expensive—she had chosen a more elaborate one than she should have. To buy the casket and pay for the embalming she’d had to dip into the money she set aside every year for property taxes. She had no idea how much the burial plot would cost, but whatever it was, it would certainly be more than she could afford. She’d end up with no money with which to last out the winter.
“My family is all in the Red Hook Cemetery,” Jane said now.
“That’s fine. Mine is, too,” Iris said.
Jane narrowed her eyes slightly. Iris was one of those from-aways who insisted on their Maine roots, as if a lifetime’s worth of summers made you of a place. As if who your family was, what your stock was, wasn’t what tied you, but rather just the fact of your presence. As if a Jew from New York who had never suffered through a black, bleak March in Red Hook had any idea what it meant to be a Mainer, or had any of the hardy tenacity it took to live here.
Iris continued, “My great-great-grandparents are buried in the RedHook cemetery. You know the tall white obelisk down by the water, to the left of the Wescott family crypt? That’s my great-great-grandfather Elias Hewins. He bought all the
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