Sun & Spoon (7 page)

Spoon eyed one of the cinnamon buns. It was as big and round as a grapefruit.

“I'm going to walk to the cemetery,” Pa was saying. “To tidy up Martha's grave after yesterday's storm. I wondered if Joanie and Spoon wanted to join me.” Pa swung around to face his grandchildren. “Think about it while you eat.”

Everyone sat and selected something from the box.

As he poked at his cinnamon bun, Spoon wondered about Gram's cards. Had Pa seen them? If so, what did he think? Is that why he seemed happy? Would he ever mention them again?

Just then, as if he were clairvoyant, Pa said to Scott and Kay, “Oh, by the way, I found those playing cards I had been looking for.”

Spoon felt a tickle at the back of his throat.

“Good,” said Scott. “Where were they?”

Pa had chosen a pale scone studded with dates. He picked at one of the dates. “Oh, it doesn't really matter,” he said. “Dumb mistake on my part.”

Spoon's stomach growled for a long moment. “Excuse me,” he said loudly. He ate his cinnamon bun as if he hadn't been fed in days. And then he had his bowl of Cap'n Crunch and a glass of grape juice.

“So who's coming with me?” Pa inquired when breakfast was done.

“I am,” said Spoon.

Joanie was afraid of the cemetery, and so she said no, timidly, and stayed home.

“Joanie should have come with us,” said Spoon. “She'd love all the bones.”

“Yes,” said Pa.

Debris was all around. Styrofoam cups from fast-food restaurants were caught in shrubs. Sheets of newspaper were pressed to the fence. Small American flags had been ripped from their thin wooden poles and were draped haphazardly across monuments. And then there were the natural things—branches, twigs, leaves, and flower petals; they dotted the soft hills like a pattern on fabric.

“Let's see how Martha's geraniums fared,” said Pa.

“There it is,” said Spoon, pointing to Gram's low, unadorned gravestone.

The rectangle of sod that marked Gram's grave had not completely blended in with the surrounding grass yet. The sod sat high like a plush throw rug. Spoon knew that the empty plot next to Gram's was waiting for Pa. An eerie thought.

“Not bad,” observed Pa, referring to the geraniums. “They're hardy.”

There was only one broken stem. Pa snapped it off and twirled it between his fingers. Petals fell to the ground, a cloudburst of red. Then Pa sniffed his fingers. “Geraniums,” Pa told Spoon, “were Martha's—Gram's—favorite flower, because, she said, they smelled of the earth. She liked the way the smell lingered on her hands after she had been working with them in the garden. Red ones, she liked red ones best.”

They plucked things and brushed things aside until Gram's grave was spotless, except for the red geranium petals.

“They look nice,” said Spoon.

Pa tapped the gravestone, then rested his hand on it for a moment before letting his fingers slide off. He rose to leave. “I'd like to tell you something,” Pa said.

“What?” Spoon rose, too, and fell into stride with his grandfather.

“I was going to tell your parents, but I didn't know how receptive they'd be.”

Spoon blinked.

“Children tend to understand these things. And old people,” said Pa. He paused. “I guess I should start at the beginning. . . .”

Pa explained to Spoon how he had played solitaire with Gram's special deck of cards on the nights he couldn't sleep. “I felt closer to her then,” said Pa. “As if part of her were still here.”

Spoon's throat tightened.

“One night,” said Pa, “just a couple of nights ago, when I couldn't sleep, I went to the dining room to play solitaire, only to find Gram's cards missing from the breakfront. I looked everywhere, even though I was certain I had put them back in the breakfront the last time I had used them.”

Pa's voice was serene, as was his manner. “Then, last night,” Pa continued, “I checked the drawer again—for the hundredth time. And”—Pa looked down at Spoon and smiled—“the cards were there. They were back. Either I'm crazy,” said Pa, “or it was a sign. A sign from Gram.”

Pa hugged himself. “I hesitated telling anyone, but I really wanted to . . .”

“Oh,” Spoon whispered.

“To let someone know . . .”

Silence.

“What do you think?” said Pa.

Spoon opened his mouth, and what came out was a thin, quivery noise that sounded like
mmm.

“I know you loved her a lot, too,” said Pa.

They were near the entrance to the cemetery, near the massive stone wall and elaborate arched gate. Whenever Spoon rode by on his bike, he thought that if there were such a thing as heaven, this is what it would look like when you arrived. The mysteriousness and solemnity of the place were palpable. And so was Spoon's sadness, although he tried to hide it.

“I know it's a lot to think about,” said Pa.

It occurred to Spoon how different his life might be right now if he had slipped the cards under the couch or tucked them behind the toaster in the kitchen.

“We don't have to talk about it,” said Pa. “I'm happy.”

There had been times in Spoon's life when he had been unaccountably sad or fleetingly sad, but this was different. This sadness was overwhelming and specific, and unlike his sadness over Gram's death, was caused by his own actions. For Pa's sake, Spoon desperately hoped that, as in a movie, some miracle would take place and Gram's image would materialize in the clouds or in the leaves on the trees, or that every tombstone they passed on their way out of the cemetery would magically read
MARTHA.

Pa began to hum, something low and lovely.

Spoon closed his eyes so tightly for a few seconds, he saw orange neon spots behind his eyelids. “I did it,” he said. “It was me. I took the cards and then I put them back.”

He spoke slowly, with reluctance. As best he could, Spoon told Pa everything about Gram's cards.

They were out of the cemetery, onto the city sidewalk, when Spoon finished speaking. His eyes were pink; his cheeks were flushed.

Pa set his mouth and turned from him. “Oh,” he said softly, nodding. “I see.”

A siren blared close by.

And then Pa said, “It's okay. Everything's okay.” He tousled Spoon's hair, and laughed. The laugh was gentle and sweet and meant to ease. “At least I know I'm not crazy.”

N
EITHER
S
POON
NOR
Pa said another word until they reached Pa's house. “Come in,” said Pa. “There's something I'd like to give you.

“I'm sorry,” Spoon repeated in a small voice while Pa fumbled with his key ring.

“No need to apologize,” Pa told Spoon. And then he muttered, “Stupid keys,” looking somewhat stricken. His breath came in short huffs.

Casting his gaze downward, Spoon knew that the keys weren't the problem.

Pa finally found the house key and opened the door.

The something was a photograph. It was creased. Black and white. Small. Square.

“She must be about your age in that picture,” said Pa. “That's why I thought you'd like it. It's probably funny to imagine your grandmother as a young girl.”

Spoon was too preoccupied to consider this.

In the photograph, Gram was smiling directly at the camera, holding up both of her hands, displaying the mittens she was wearing. She was outside, bundled up in a fur coat and a fur hat. The fur framed her dark eyes and her white teeth. Snow surrounded her completely, but because there was nothing else in the photograph—not a branch, a porch railing, bushes, houses, a snowman—the snow could easily have been mistaken for a magnificent cloud, and Gram for a girl angel, a heavenly creature.

“It's something to remember her by,” said Pa. “I thought of it on the way home from the cemetery.”

“Thank you, Pa.” Spoon didn't have the heart to tell his grandfather that a photograph was not what he had been looking for.

“I've got something for Joanie, too,” said Pa. “Another knitting bag for her stick collection.” Pa left the kitchen and came right back with the bag, similar to the other one, and a yellowed piece of paper folded in half. He set them both on the table and sat down again next to Spoon. The bag was tawny brocade with wooden handles. “I found it in the hall closet while I was searching for the cards. She'll like it.”

“She will,” Spoon agreed.

“The photograph I gave you was tucked inside,” said Pa, tipping his chin toward the bag, “along with several pattern books for mittens. I'm going to give the books to Mrs. Raymond, down the street. She knits.”

Spoon nodded.

“Most interesting, though,” said Pa, “was this. This was in there, too.” He unfolded the piece of paper and smoothed it gently.

A hand had been traced onto the paper. The hand of a child. The tracing was labeled
MARTHA'S HAND
and dated in spidery, adult penmanship at the top of the page.

“According to the date,” said Pa, “she was ten years old. I think Great-Grandma Tuttle made the outline of Gram's hand to gauge the size of the mittens she was knitting for her.”

Pa pushed the paper along the table to Spoon. Looking at it, Spoon was reminded of how, when he was younger, he would trace around his hand on paper. Then, with crayons, he'd turn the outline into a Thanksgiving turkey, using the thumb as the turkey's head and the other four fingers as the feathers.

This tracing, Gram's tracing, had been done in a light pencil line. A thicker, coarse capital letter
M
had been inscribed sideways across the palm. Following the
M
were the smaller lowercase letters
a-r-t-h-a,
curving up along the thumb. In the same childlike printing, at the base of the hand was written: “M is always for Martha.”

Spoon ran his finger over the
M.
“Why did Gram write her name on the hand and make the
M
so big?” he wondered aloud.

Pa's eyebrows rose and dropped. “I guess she liked her name,” he said, chuckling.

Spoon held his hand directly over the tracing. His shadow fell on Gram's hand.

“Yours is much bigger,” Pa observed.

“And we're the same age,” Spoon whispered, flexing his fingers. The shadow moved like a wing.

“I'm going to put it in one of the photo albums,” said Pa. “But I wanted to show it to you. You may look at it anytime you want.” Pa sighed, then yawned. “All of a sudden, I'm feeling weary. I think I need a nap.”

Spoon pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay,” he said meekly. He felt the urge to apologize again.

“Let me put Joanie's bag in a paper grocery sack,” Pa said, sliding his chair back. “Not the most manly thing to be toting along the street.”

They walked through the dining room to the front door. Pa led, and Spoon followed in a shadowy, unsure way. When he passed the breakfront, Spoon wondered about the cards. He wondered if he'd ever play with them again. He missed having them and worried that his dreams of Gram would end now.

At the door, Pa said, “I hope you like the photograph.”

“I do,” Spoon replied. “I do.”

Holding it gingerly, Spoon studied the photograph on the way home. He held it in his right hand, away from his body, then close to it; he couldn't decide which was safer. Because he was so absorbed by the photograph, he forgot about the knitting bag under his left arm and dropped it twice.

Block after block, he became more aware of how, by looking at the writing on the hand tracing, he had gotten a glimpse into the workings of his grandmother's mind from when she was his age. The girl in the photograph. Imagine that!

“Mr. Spoon!” someone called from behind him.

Spoon jerked around. It was old Mr. Washburn, waving from a lawn chair in his yard.

“How's your grandfather?” he asked, peeling off his familiar brown cap and wiping his gleaming bald head with a handkerchief.

“Okay,” Spoon called back. “Good,” he added in a louder voice, moving on.

And he hoped he wasn't lying. He hoped Pa was okay. Pa had looked so disappointed when he had found out that his sign was nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding. Spoon wondered if a sign was really possible. If he looked carefully enough, maybe
he'd
see something meaningful—a sign. Then he could tell Pa and make him feel better. Although he had to admit to himself, if he did see something there was no guarantee that Pa would believe him. Why should he? Spoon wouldn't blame Pa if he didn't. After all, Spoon had taken the cards and caused all the trouble to begin with.

He dropped the knitting bag again.

At home, Spoon ran up to his room without announcing his arrival. He didn't want Joanie following him. He needed a few minutes' peace.

First he slipped the photograph of Gram into the pocket of his notebook. And then he wrote a new entry:

Satisfied, he went downstairs. His parents and Joanie were in the yard.

“I'm home!” he yelled from the screened back porch. “And, Joanie, I've got something for you.”

Joanie let go of the flowers she was holding and darted to the porch. “What is it?” she asked, her voice expectant, breaking.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Spoon instructed.

Joanie's hands were dimpled and pink, and Spoon noticed what he never had before. His heart skipped a beat.

Formed by the natural creases in each of his sister's hands was the letter
M.

Spoon turned his own hands, opening them flat, palms up. Like a miracle, he had them, too. An
M
etched into each of his hands. Just like Gram's hand tracing.

M is always for Martha.