Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [46]
“Ma, look. Little trees!” Etta waves from the end of the row.
“Etta honey, we’ve got a whole attic full of ornaments. That tree is too small.”
“I want a big one too. For our house.”
“Two trees?”
“This one is for Joe.” Etta twirls the little tree around. “I want to take it to Glencoe.”
Jack and I glance at each other. We’re both surprised that Etta would want to take a tree up to the cemetery.
“I can decorate it myself. But maybe you can help me.” Etta looks up at me. “I know you’re busy, Daddy.” Thatta girl, Etta. You tell him. He hasn’t been home for dinner in weeks, he’s probably grabbing sandwiches with Karen Bell—and he should be home with us.
Jack kneels down next to Etta. “I’m sorry I’m working so much. I just started the business, and it takes up a lot of my time.”
“Okay, Daddy.” Etta pulls a locket of mistletoe out of her pocket and holds it over Jack’s head. “Mommy?” She grins.
“Excuse me,” I say to Etta. Then I throw Jack on the ground, straddle him, and kiss him. I really kiss him. Not a peck. Not a swipe on the lips. No, it’s one of those French Soul Kisses you heard about in high school study hall the Monday morning after the popular kids had a wild party at Huff Rock.
“Good God a-mighty! Call Spec. Jack needs oxygen, pronto!” Zackie says loudly. “Careful, Av-uh! The Baptists will throw us off the lot!” Jack’s fellow Kiwanians whistle and applaud.
“Hey.” I stand up and brush the leaves off my coat. “Sometimes you just have to kiss your husband.”
“Just as long as that’s all you’re doing,” Nellie Goodloe says from the hot chocolate stand. I look down at my husband, who stares at me as though he doesn’t have a clue as to who I am. Good. He wants a new woman? He’s got one.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the winter, the Powell River curls along Beamontown Road like a rusty pipe; red clay and gray rock and black ice make a path where the water will go come spring. I always thought this hillside by the river was a perfect place for a cemetery, but that was long before I knew anyone inside its gates.
An ornate wrought-iron arch stretches across two regal brick pillars in the entrance way. The cursive letters spelling GLENCOE CEMETERY are surrounded by black iron filigree flowers. A beautiful fountain sits just beyond the gate; in warm weather, water gushes over the marble shells and into a deep pool.
I used to bring the kids here on holidays. We came on Memorial Day, my mother’s birthday, and every Christmas. When we visited the cemetery, I would tell the kids stories about their grandmothers. Jack always thought it was a little creepy, that I liked the cemetery and found comfort here. I tried to explain that this was part of my Catholic faith and my Italian heritage; our gravesites are as important to us as our living rooms. In Jack’s Scotch-Irish tradition, a cemetery is a place you visit on the day of burial, and, hopefully, not often after that. So when I came here, I came with the kids or alone, sometimes just to sit and talk to my mother.
Four years ago this Christmas, I brought the kids here, and we placed green holly wreaths with red velvet ribbons and small glitter charms on Nan MacChesney’s grave and on my mother’s. Joe ran in and out among the stones, laughing and playing, hollering for Etta, then hiding and hooting like an owl or howling like a ghost. She pretended to be scared, and I, of course, teasingly reprimanded him for his lack of respect for the dead.
Now Jack’s truck bounces over the gravel road on the way to the MacChesney plot. The little tree Etta chose for Joe’s gravesite is safe under a tarp in the flatbed. She