“That Fletcher Morgan left you, didn’t he?”
Apple crumble lodges in Maggie’s throat. Gran doesn’t wait for her reply.
“It doesn’t matter. You stick it out up there. Show him what a woman can do.”
Maggie can’t believe what she’s hearing. Out of the blue, like a blast of grace, she has finally been granted the grandmother she always wanted. In her astonishment, she blurts out her plans to purchase the farm and work the place herself. Gran shocks her again by approving.
It doesn’t last. The next morning Gran is tetchy and caustic, back to her usual self, unable to stop talking about the miracle of her son’s death.
At the cemetery, fallen leaves rustle around the headstones while an American flag twists and snaps against the sky. Maggie stands with Gran and a few dozen others near the open grave, keeping her chin tucked low so the brim of her hat obscures her face. While the elderly priest speaks and Gran dabs away tears with a handkerchief, Maggie sneaks glances at those around her. Finally she spots Fletcher near the back in his trench coat. His hair has been cropped, and he’s reaching up to tug at a moustache no longer there.
The priest makes the sign of the cross. Soon most of the mourners disperse, but a few stay behind to converse in hushed voices. Maggie doesn’t speak much, just accepts the words of others. She’s remembering how her father used to call her Opie and announce his return from work by whistling the theme song from The Andy Griffith Show. She remembers the two of them pretending to be Topo Gigio and Ed Sullivan, Maggie saying to him in a high-pitched voice, “Eddie, keesa me good night!”
Fletcher waits until everyone but she and Gran has gone before he draws near. He gives Maggie a tentative hug.
“You didn’t have to come,” she tells him. “I said that on the phone, right?”
Gran glares at him, then says she’ll see Maggie at Aunt Harriet’s and starts away. Once she’s gone, they begin to walk together across the grass.
“It was a nice funeral,” says Fletcher.
“It should have been weeks ago,” she replies. “There was a lot of red tape getting him back.” She grimaces at her own words. Her father isn’t back. He’ll never be back. “The Church has been making a big deal about him, you know. Reporters keep turning up at Gran’s doorstep.”
Fletcher says he heard about it on the news. He says it must be hard for Gran.
“Oh, she’s loving every minute,” Maggie replies. “She and the bishop are thick as thieves. Today she bent over backwards to avoid introducing me to him. She doesn’t want the hippie daughter spoiling things.”
Fletcher gives her a startled look, and she realizes she doesn’t sound like herself. She doesn’t care. He can’t expect her to be the same as always.
“Gran blames me for his death,” she says. “She thinks he wouldn’t have been so reckless if I’d written him like he wanted.”
“She said that?” asks Fletcher. “Don’t listen to her. She’s projecting, probably.”
They leave the grass and start along a path of crushed stones. After a few steps, he turns and asks if she’s still going back to Canada tonight. “Long drive on your own. Maybe wait until tomorrow?”
She shakes her head. “If I have to stay at her place one more night, I’ll go insane.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, and she wonders what he’s thinking of exactly. Then he asks, “Did you tell her about the pregnancy?”
Maggie cringes and pulls up short. “Phantom pregnancy, you mean.” She doesn’t want to talk about it. “No, I didn’t tell her. Why would I? There was nothing to tell.” A part of her still worries that he thinks she tried to trick him. She didn’t read the symptoms right, that’s all. The doctor said anyone could have made the mistake. She still hasn’t fully forgiven Lenka for mishearing what the secretary told her.
Fletcher reaches to put his hand on her shoulder, but she shies at his touch. “You’re a strange one,” she says. “Two months in Boston refusing to come back, only visiting that once after I found out he was dead”—Fletcher starts to object, but she cuts him off—“and then, without me asking, you drive all the way here for this.”
He keeps his eyes on the ground and doesn’t reply.
“You know, I prayed for McGovern to lose,” she finds herself saying. “Back in October, when I still thought we might work things out. I worried that if the Democrats got in, you’d take a job in Washington. I figured if Nixon was re-elected, you’d move back to the farm.”
Fletcher stops in the middle of the path, looking dazed. “Why are you telling me this now?”
She doesn’t know. It was the first thing that came to mind, and the part of her that censors speech seems broken. She watches a man and woman in blue rain slickers pass by hand in hand, while a little boy wearing a baseball cap skips ahead.
“George Ray’s going home in ten days,” she says. This morning she promised herself she wouldn’t mention him. “The second extension on his contract is up. He’d have come down for this, but migrant workers aren’t allowed to cross the border.”
“You’re going to miss him,” says Fletcher. There’s an insinuation in his words that she chooses to ignore.
“He’s been a big help on the farm. Most days he’s the only person I see. Sometimes there’s Father Josef and Lenka. I go to their place for dinner.” Fletcher seems surprised. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I want to hang out with priests?” Then she adds, “It’s hard having a social life when everyone’s run out on you.”
Fletcher takes on a pained expression. From her pocket she produces a pack of cigarettes and lights one.
“You still stuck on your plan to buy the farm?” he asks.
“I told you I was serious, didn’t I? As soon as the lawyer gets Dad’s finances sorted out, I’ll know where I stand.” She has other means now too, but she isn’t about to mention them.
“And more Jamaicans in the spring?” he says. “You sure this is something you want to do?” She sets her mouth, stays silent. “I mean, I’ll make sure you get a fair deal, but it’s company property, I can’t just give it to you—”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I promise not to make you look bad in front of your old man.”
His shoulders slump. “That isn’t what I meant. Don’t you think you should wait, at least? It hasn’t even been two months. You need time to mourn—”
“Fletcher, I don’t think you’re in a place to judge what I need.”
He hangs his head, and she takes a long drag on her cigarette, then flicks it away. A mist has settled on the cemetery lawn and it’s begun to drizzle, beading on the brim of her hat.
He points toward the gate leading to the street. “Walk with me to the car? I have something for you.” They move onto a paved walkway lined by thick elms with amputated limbs. Halfway to the gate, he stops and says, “Listen, Brid came with me.”
“She’s here?” Maggie turns back toward the burial site.
“Where—”
“Coffee shop a few blocks over. At the last second she decided it would be too much. She’s a wreck. Completely broke down last month.” His voice slows along with his pace. “She took pills.”
“Oh,” says Maggie.
“She spent three weeks in a sanatorium—how do they put it?—under observation.”
Maggie moves closer and takes his hand, pulls him to a halt and hugs him. “Why did no one tell me?”
“She didn’t want you to find out. You had the news about your dad to deal with.”