Before heading back to my SUV I walked to the cemetery; it sat to the right of the church. Grandpa Petrovich was buried there. It occurred to me Grandma might not have been by to clean his headstone. I walked toward the tall willow tree; Grandpa Petrovich was buried underneath.
Though I had never met him, I’d heard about Grandpa Petrovich often enough that he seemed alive in my memory. My grandma loved to tell their story. Back in Russia, their families had known one another. They courted but nothing came of it. Then my grandmother decided to come to the US. My Grandfather, Sasha, had written to her every week for five years asking her to come home. Since she always refused, he finally came to the US to join her. They were married almost immediately, and my mother was conceived. But my Grandfather died shortly after coming to the United States. There had been some sort of accident at his work. “Well, I told him not to come,” my grandmother would say, but I saw the pain behind her eyes. I always wondered if she had foreseen his early death.
I found his monument in the same state as Grandma’s house. First, I cleared away the weeds. Then taking a scarf from my pocket, I wiped off the face of his tombstone. It was a shame. I would bring my grandmother by to plant some flowers.
“Layla, is that you?” someone called.
I turned to find Ethel, my classmate Summer’s mother, crossing the cemetery. She was carrying a basket. Inside I saw she had stashed a small shovel and gloves.
I rose, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Hey Ethel,” I called and walked to join her.
She mopped sweat from her brow. “How long you in town for?”
“Not sure, actually.”
“I’ll tell Summer you’re home. How is Grandma Petrovich?”
Indeed, how was she? “About the same.”
Ethel smiled knowingly. How many times had Ethel sat across the kitchen table from my grandma to hear advice from the spirits? “Well, your Grandma always tells it like it is, but I sure was glad she was there when your mother ran off. You ever hear anything from her?”
I shook my head. “For all I know she’s dead.”
Ethel sighed. “That is a pity. She’d be really proud of you, honey. You had a rough start, but you sure made good out of it. Of course you were always the smartest child I ever saw. No one was surprised when you got that scholarship, but I think most people worried that Campbell boy would--”
“Planting flowers on Phillips’ grave?” I interrupted. Ethel’s husband had died the year Summer and I were juniors.
We looked across the graveyard together. “Oh, yes, every fall I plant chrysanthemums,” Ethel said. “Seems like they’ve buried a lot of folks the last couple of weeks,” she added and pointed to some freshly dug graves.
We turned and walked back toward the street.
“Some kind of bad flu going around,” Ethel said as we walked by one of the fresh graves. “We lost old Mrs. Winchester,” she said, pointing to the grave nearest us. “You know she had a green burial? They dropped her in the ground wrapped in nothing but a light blue shroud. Oddest thing. ”
We stared down at her grave.
“I loved her oatmeal cookies,” I said.
Ethel looked questioningly at me.
The soil stirred.
“Watch yourself, Layla. The earth is still settling,” Ethel said, pulling me back and looping her arm in mine.
I walked Ethel to her car. She opened the trunk and dropped the basket inside. She then turned and hugged me. “Don’t be a stranger, honey. Come by and see us,” she said, squeezing my chin, and then got into her car. With a wave, she drove off.
I gazed toward the graveyard. Mrs. Winchester had been the town librarian. I used to sit in the back of the library and hide from my mother, hide from whatever man she’d dragged home that week, hide from the chaos of our house. Mrs. Winchester would give me homemade oatmeal cookies and would lie to my mother when she came looking for me. Mrs. Winchester would wait for my grandmother to turn up. From time to time I still craved those cookies. As I slid back into my SUV, I made a mental note to pick up some flowers for Mrs. Winchester too.
When I got back to the cabin it took nearly an hour to unload all of Grandma’s supplies. By the time I had finished, Grandma returned from her walk.
“Ah, Layla, my good girl. Thank you so much,” Grandma said and clasped her hands together.
I noticed she was carrying her herb satchel. “Harvesting, Grandma?”
She laughed. There was a hard edge to it. “Oh, yes, it is definitely harvest season. Come. Now we go in and get everything ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ehh, you’ll see. Come now, Layla.”