Scott Nicholson - Burial to follow

The Ridgehorn kitchen was a mouth-watering shrine.

The island counter, made of polished oak and topped with 1950s Formica, the kind you couldnt chip with a hatchet, was piled high with the fruits of condolence: a sweet potato pie, with pecan halves floating face-down in its burnt-orange sea; glazed ham, ringed with pineapple slices and brown sugar; green bean casserole, though beans were out of season so they must have come from some basement-stashed Mason jar; gallons of sweetened tea and diet Coke and banana pudding and gravy.

Roby Snow looked around and made sure no one was watching. Not that anyone would care. At all the death sittings and watch-overs and grievings and gatherings hed ever attended, food was usually the last thing on the minds of the bereaved but the first act of sympathy by acquaintances. He dipped a pinkie in the gravy, brought it to his mouth, licked the turkey drippings from his lips, and smiled.

The marshmallows that dotted the sweet potato pie caught his fancy, and he plucked two, popped them in his mouth, then rearranged the remaining four so that no one would notice the gap in the pattern. The ham was growing cold, and gray-white grease congealed in the bottom of its tin foil container. Roby crossed the room to the cabinets, opened them.

Crystal. Nice stuff, the kind that would hum if you put water in the glasses and rubbed your fingers around the rim. Hed seen a man on TV once whod played a whole row of them at the same time, the glasses filled to varying depths, the performer wetting and wiping his fingers, raising a series of full notes that hung in the air like the blowing of lost whales. Crystal symphony, the man had called it.

"Mr. Snow?"

Roby looked away from the crystal. Anna Beth had entered the kitchen. She was the youngest of the Ridgehorn clan, and the prettiest. Years had a way of stealing beauty. Of stealing everything.

Auburn hair. Her nose was all Ridgehorn, humped in the middle but not yet jagged, as it would be in a decade. She had her mothers bone structure and, lucky for her, not her fathers eyes.

Because her fathers eyes were glued shut in the back room of Clawsons Funeral Home.

"Hey, Anna Beth," he answered, turning his attention again to the cabinet shelves, the chinaware, the tea set, the chipped bowls in the back, the plastic fast food cups that the family probably used at the dinner table on weeknights.

"Can I help you find something?"

"I was looking for the Saran Wrap." He nodded toward the counter. "Flies are about to carry off the ham."

"Next cabinet over."

"Much obliged." He nodded, moved over, and rummaged through the shelves, behind the gelatin molds and paper grocery bags and cereal boxes. He found the wrap and brought it out. Anna Beth stared at him.

"Sorry about your dad," he said. The wrap felt as if it weighed twenty pounds.

"Well, we was kind of expecting it," she said.

You never expect it, Roby Snow thought. We all know were bound for it, but none of us believe, deep down in our hearts, that it will ever happen to us. Or to the ones we love.

Anna Beths eyes grew moist. They were as bright as the deviled eggs on the silver-plated tray. She was in her Saturday night dress, dark blue with white ruffles. Sunday best would be saved for the funeral. That was only proper. But this dress was plenty good enough for receiving callers.

"Its okay," Roby said. "You can cry if you want. Wouldnt blame you a bit."

She shrugged. "Im about cried dry."

"Reckon so. You folks have the sorrow round-the-clock. The rest of us get to come and go. And after its done, when your daddy, God bless him, is tucked in the ground, you all have to come back here and go at it some more. Grieving dont let up its grip so easy when it comes to blood kin."

From the living room, the widow Ridgehorn let out another long wail, this one a little tired and drawn out, as if her heart wasnt really in it.

"Poor Momma," Anna Beth said.

Roby put the wrap on the counter, rolled out a couple of feet. When he yanked the clear film across the serrated blade, he caught his thumb on the sharp edges. The blade bit the thick meat above his nail.

He put the thumb in his mouth. The blood tasted of gravy.

"You okay?" Anna Beth asked.

"Ill live," he said.

Someone had been thoughtful enough to bring paper napkins, which lay in a sterile pile near the desserts. He pulled one free and wrapped his thumb. The bleeding stopped. He ripped the piece of wrap, fluffed it in the air so the corners wouldnt stick, then draped the clear film over the ham.

"Cant have all this going to waste," he said. "I know you dont feel much up to it now, but comes a time when hunger helps feed the grief."

"Yeah. Its been a long time since Aunt Iva Dean passed. That was the last one in the immediate family."

"You were seven then. I remember, because you were in the second grade, and some boy had kicked you in the shin and you had a big bruise."

Anna Beths face grew thoughtful and far away, the sadness momentarily gone. "Yeah. Funny how things like that come back. Id forgotten all about it."

"Its the smell," Roby said.

"Huh?"

"Smell. See this sweet potato pie? Thats Beverly Parsonss favorite recipe. But she changes ingredients a little for a bereavement. Uses molasses instead of brown sugar. So the smell of molasses is a little sad to me."

"I never noticed. I probably ate dozens of her pies, her being a neighbor and all, and she makes one for every homecoming at the church."

"Its not how many you eat, its when you eat them."

The talk in the next room had heated up, and Anna Beths second cousin on her mothers side was asking when the burial would be. The cousin was Cindy Parsons, Beverlys daughter, maybe a future in-law since she was sweet on Alfred, the sole surviving son.

Roby shook his head, weary. What had happened to manners? You didnt come right out and ask the burial time, especially of the immediate family. You looked in the local newspaper and read the obituary like everybody else, or, in a pinch, you called the attending funeral home and asked. Unless you were a professional, you never spoke of the burial when you were calling on the home of the deceased. It was practically like spitting on the grave. Or spitting in the face of the survivors.

"Anna Beth," someone called from the sitting room. Sounded like the oldest sister, Marlene. The one who liked chocolate. Roby shot a glance at the bundt cake, saw the swirl of yellow that was exposed inside the crumbling brown wedge. Marlene was clumsy with a knife.

"Id best go," Anna Beth said to Roby. "Thats real nice of you to take care of things out here. Most men consider that sort of thing to be womens work."

"I aint most men," he said. "And its the least I can do."

"Well, you got that stubborn Ridgehorn blood in you. Just like me. I guess Im more like Daddy than I ever like to let on."

She waved a small good-bye and left the kitchen.

Roby looked at the sweet potato pie. If only someone had the nerve to mention to Beverly Parsons about the molasses. Maybe it was some old Appalachian tradition. Hed never heard of it, and he was big on tradition himself. He made sure the lid was secure on the bowl of Cole slaw and slipped it into the refrigerator before the mayonnaise turned.

That Anna Beth was a silly girl for being in her late teens. She wasnt like her daddy at all. She was still breathing, for one thing. And she and Roby didnt have anything in common except this house and this wake and this monumental tribute of food. They certainly didnt share any Ridgehorn blood.

Roby took a knife from his pocket, eased out a sliver of Beverly Parsonss pie, and slid it into his mouth. As good as her other death pies, molasses and all.