Return to Sender (8 page)

The next day after the three Marías have returned to their trailer, Tyler heads for his grandmother's house. She might not be the best choice to talk to about the Mexicans, but at least she's willing to talk about missing Gramps. Maybe Tyler can indirectly ask if Gramps ever broke the law besides the one time he got a fifty- dollar ticket for driving at night without a reflector on the hay wagon. Gramps could have gone to
court and argued that the darn thing must have fallen off as he was driving home from the neighbor's field. But he couldn't hold up his cows’ milking schedule to go to town to swear on a Bible that he hadn't done anything wrong.

Tyler lets himself in the back door. “Grandma!” he calls out.

“I'm up here, honey.” Her voice is coming from one of a warren of little rooms that form the upstairs part of the house, which she hardly ever uses anymore. The stairs have gotten to be too much for her arthritis. In fact, Grandma has moved her bedroom downstairs to what used to be the sewing room, so it's surprising that she has ventured upstairs. But then, Grandma is big on decorating for holidays. She probably went up to the attic to bring down her plastic jack-o’-lantern, which she'll be wanting to plug in to let kids know they're welcome to drop by for her homemade cookies and candy corn from Wal- Mart.

Tyler still remembers the day Grandma brought the jack-o’-lantern home. Gramps's only comment was “We got a whole patch in the backyard.”

But Grandma said that with her shaky hands she was liable to cut off a finger carving a grin in one of those small pumpkins. “Besides, I'm saving them for pies.” That shut up Gramps, who loved all of Grandma's pies, but most espe-cially her pumpkin pies.

Up in his grandparents’ old bedroom, Tyler finds his grandmother in a rocking chair, facing a dresser covered with a white tablecloth. On top are trinkets that Tyler
recognizes as belonging to Gramps. Several of his grand -father's favorite fishing lures are lined up by his John Deere cap, as well as his army medal and a pipe he stopped smoking but would still stick in his mouth from time to time. There's also a little dish with pistachios, which Gramps really liked, plus a plate with a slice of pumpkin pie. In the middle of this array, sitting on the big family Bible, is the framed picture of Gramps taken only last year, when he turned seventy-six.

Beside the Bible, there's an envelope with some writing on it. The whole thing reminds Tyler of an altar at church except piled up with all of his grandfather's favorite things. Tyler has been worrying that his family is forgetting Gramps, but this is the weirdest thing he has ever seen.

“Isn't it nice?” His grandmother is smiling fondly at the picture of Gramps. Tyler is not sure what his grandmother means, but he nods. One thing that is nice is that his grandmother is talking about Gramps without crying.

“I knew you'd understand, dear.” Grandma rocks hap-pily, as if pleased to have proven herself right. “We decided to put it up here because, well, the others might not under-stand.”

Tyler is not sure he understands, either, especially when Grandma says “we decided.” Who is “we”? Tyler is afraid to ask and find out that his grandmother has gone loony with grief and is talking to Gramps the way people do in the movies. But then, Tyler himself has been seeing his grand -father watching over the farm from the night sky. And he knows he isn't crazy.

“Every time I'm missing him, I come up here now and visit with him,” Grandma goes on, rocking herself cheer-fully. Just last night, Mom mentioned that Grandma seemed to be doing a lot better. But Tyler's mom thought it had to do with Grandma's relief at seeing her son's recovery. “If you'd like to add something”—Grandma nods toward the altar— “I think Gramps would like that.”

The first thing that pops into Tyler's head is his telescope that Gramps gave him. But if he brings it over, he won't be able to look at the stars from his own room or spy on the Mexicans.

“Pull up one of those chairs there,” Grandma is saying. For some reason seeing three chairs lined up against the wall makes Tyler think of the three Marías. Do they know his grandmother has gone a little batty? If so, they have been really nice about not telling anybody or making fun, but in-stead visiting her daily. Tyler feels a flush of gratitude but also shame, thinking about his own behavior toward them.

“Our little neighbors told me all about this,” Grandma is explaining as if she can now read minds. “Did you know, in Mexico, they don't celebrate Halloween like we do?”

Tyler nods. He does know all about it. Ms. Ramírez has been doing a unit on the Day of the Dead. It's a big holiday in Mexico, and it's not just one night but three days, starting with Halloween. Whole families go to the cemetery and have picnics with their dead relatives. Very creepy stuff.

“Our dead are always with us,” Ms. Ramírez told the class. “We take them their favorite foods, sing their fa-vorite songs. We even write them letters, telling them what
they've missed in the last year.” She showed pictures of little sugar skulls with the names of everyone in the family, even those who are still living.

As Ms. Ramírez spoke, Tyler's gaze was drawn to Mari's face, which seemed suddenly lit up from inside like a jack-o’-lantern. Some memory was making her look radiant. Tyler found himself staring, and when she glanced his way, he couldn't help himself, he smiled. But instead of her smiling back, her face darkened as if the light inside her had gone out. Next thing he knew, Ms. Ramírez was calling on Mari, asking her if she'd tell the class some more about the Day of the Dead in her native land.

Mari had looked down, shaking her head, embarrassed. But later when Ms. Ramírez asked the class to each write a letter to a loved one who had died, Tyler noticed that Mari started writing right away. Most of the class was complaining that they didn't know any dead people. Clayton flat out refused on account of his family didn't believe in voodoo stuff. “We're Christians,” he bragged. That was when Ms. Ramírez went into a long explanation about how most Mexicans are Christians and the Day of the Dead is actually an example of how the Church took Indian beliefs and gave them a Christian spin. But Tyler could tell Clayton wasn't buying it.

“The girls told me about how they build altars to their relatives who have died, most especially the ones who've died in the last year,” Grandma is explaining. “So I asked them if they'd help me do one for Gramps. I don't call it an altar,” Grandma adds quickly as if she might get in trouble with Reverend Hollister at church. Tyler's grandmother is
the most churchgoing person Tyler knows. Both his parents go to church—though Dad often misses because of some farm emergency—and they insist their kids go, too, as long as they are living at home. But Tyler's grandmother will ac-tually go to church all during the week, as she is on every committee you can think of where cooking and flowers are involved, which kind of covers most of them.

“I call it a memory table,” Grandma goes on. “It's just been so nice to be able to do this and talk to the girls about Gramps, you know?”

Tyler feels a knot in his throat. Of course he knows.

“María told me all about her grandmother who died last December. Her mother traveled back home to Mexico and got to see her right before she died. She's on her way back— the girls’ mother, that is,” Grandma adds, letting out a sigh.

Tyler feels bad all over again that he didn't get to spend Gramps's last few hours with him in his garden. Gramps died right before summer vacation, on Tyler's last day of school. Gramps had gone out midmorning to check on his peppers and tomatoes, and by the time Grandma called him for lunch, there was no bringing him back. Grandma found Gramps stretched out in the pathway as if he'd waited to have his heart attack until he'd laid himself carefully down so as not to fall on top of his fragile seedlings. Tyler came home that June day to find his mom standing by the mailbox, waiting with the news. Besides the day of Dad's accident, the day Gramps died is the worst day of Tyler's life so far.

Sometimes, Tyler will find himself thinking, What if? What if it had been one day later and classes were done?

What if he had been helping plant the garden when Gramps had his heart attack? Tyler would probably have been able to call for help in time to save Gramps, just like Tyler helped save Dad's life after his accident. These are the kinds of what- ifs that make Mom say Tyler mustn't dwell on Gramps's death. Best to move on.

“So anyhow, dear, I'm glad you dropped by so I could show you before we take it down in a few days.” Grandma suddenly looks bereft, like she might be losing Gramps all over again. “I don't know … “ She hesitates and glances over at her husband's picture, trying to decide something. “Maybe I'll just take away the perishables like the pie on ac-count of ants. But leave this little spot for us to remember him.” Grandma looks relieved. “Anytime you're missing him, Tyler dear, you just come over.”

Tyler can't help feeling remorse. He has been avoiding Grandma's house so as not to bump into the Mexicans. But that doesn't mean that he hasn't been feeling a big black hole in the center of his life. “I've really been missing Gramps,” he admits, and then, as if that admission uncorks the rest of his feelings, he tells his grandmother how Gramps is watching over him. How sometimes the stars seem to form his grandfather's face. Other times, Tyler'll see a shooting star just as he's thinking, Gramps, are you there? As he talks, his grandmother keeps smiling and nodding, which encour-ages Tyler, so that he goes on to mention the phone calls and all the stuff he was not going to talk to her about. Like about the Mexicans.

“Gramps wouldn't have let Dad break the law, would
he?” Tyler glances over at his grandfather's picture on the table. It's as if Tyler is hoping Gramps will settle this matter for them all.

“Actually, dear, your uncle Larry's had Mexicans for a while over at his place,” Grandma explains. “Your dad wouldn't hear of it, until, of course, the accident made him reconsider. But when your uncle Larry told us, you know what Gramps said? He said, ‘We Paquettes came down from Canada back in the 1800s. Nobody but nobody in America got here—excepting the Indians—without somebody giving them a chance.’ That's what he said. ‘Course, he would have preferred that Uncle Larry wait till it was legal. But the cows can't wait for their milking till the politicians get the laws changed. They'd still be waiting.”

Tyler can't believe his own grandfather might have been some sort of revolutionary rebel! Like that priest that Mari told about in class for Mexican Independence Day. How he rang the church bell, waking the whole sleepy town to fight for their freedom.

“So, honey, I think Gramps would understand,” Grandma is saying. And that same tender smile she had when she was gazing at Gramps's picture she now has on her face as she gazes over at Tyler.

Before Tyler goes home that day, Grandma invites him to come to supper next Wednesday, November second—the actual Day of the Dead, the three Marías have told her.

“We'll have a little supper party for him,” she tells Tyler mysteriously. “Just us remembering Gramps, that's all, honey,” she adds, more normally.

“Should I bring my telescope?” Maybe after supper they can look at the stars like he used to with Gramps. It's also getting to be the time of year for the Taurid meteor shower.

“That's a lovely idea,” his grandmother says. “We can set it up in the garden …” She doesn't have to say what Tyler is also thinking: on the very spot where Gramps died. It sounds crazy, but talking about Gramps is actually making Tyler feel as if his grandfather, while not exactly alive, is at least still a part of Tyler's life.

And so, Wednesday after school, Tyler lugs his telescope across the field and sets it up in Gramps's garden. That evening when Grandma lets him in the back door, Tyler sees he is not the only guest. Just as he suspected, the three Marías have also been invited to this special supper. They are helping decorate the table, but they stop when he enters. They look startled, maybe even a little scared, like that first day at the trailer door.

“This is María Guadalupe,” Grandma says, picking up a framed picture that was keeping Gramps's picture company in the center of the table. At first, Tyler thinks this might be the girls’ mother. But the photo shows an old woman about Grandma's age standing in a raggedy dress in front of a tumbledown shack that looks like it's made of cardboard. In-credibly, as poor as she is, she's smiling widely, revealing several missing teeth.

“That's our grandmother,” Ofie explains. “She's dead.”

“Abuelita,” Luby says, but when Tyler looks over at her, she hides behind her oldest sister.

“We brought candles and lids to set them on, Grandma,” Ofie says, pulling out tiny candles as well as a bunch of jar lids from a paper bag.

Tyler is surprised that the girls call his grandmother Grandma as if she is their family. Actually, he is the one feeling like the stranger in this company. But then, he has been avoiding them for weeks, though he has been spying on the family every night. If Homeland Security has also been on the watch, they must be awful bored with how little there is to report. TV sounds, some nights someone plays a guitar and everyone sings, other nights a girl goes out in the back field and stands there for a while looking up at the stars.