13

No one was dressed in black.

That’s what I noticed first. Instead the mourners wore earth tones. Loose khaki pants. Gortex hiking boots. Like they were on a death safari or something. And they were all gathered around a simple hole in the ground.

The dirt was piled to the side, and surrounding the opening there were wildflowers scattered in a loose border. Just to the right of the grave was a body wrapped in a bright white shroud. Maxine was small and tied up like a birthday present with more flowers under one of the lowering straps.

We made our way to the back of the crowd. No one paid us much notice. The service was coming to an end. A man in a tweed coat burned sage while an older woman in a billowy cotton dress spoke in a lilting voice.

“. . . although she has created a rupture in our lives, she is nourishing the trees and the grasses and the flowers the way she nourished her family. And just as she preserved the optimism of so many women of advanced age, she will now preserve wildlife with the nutrients of her body.”

Two younger guys walked over to the body.

“Her sons,” my dad whispered to me.

They lifted their mother’s shroud over the grave’s opening. She hovered beneath their strained wrists like she was levitating.

“Earth to earth,” began the woman in the robe. “Ashes to ashes.”

Hand-over-hand, a foot at a time, the boys slowly lowered the shroud-enclosed body into the ground until Maxine Harp disappeared.

“Dust to dust.”

Nobody moved. Except one of the Harp boys, who walked solemnly over to the pile of dirt and unearthed a digging shovel. He stuck it into the small hill and pulled up a shovelful. Then he carried it back to the grave, and let the soil tumble back into the place where it came from.

He wasn’t crying, but it looked like he might start any minute. His brother came up behind him and took the shovel from his hands. He, too, walked to the pile, scooped and unloaded his dirt. A sister came next, and one by one, all Maxine’s children and grandchildren took turns filling in the grave. When the last shovelful of dirt hit home, my dad turned away from the ceremony and began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” I asked. “Don’t you want to talk to these guys?”

He picked up his pace.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I said. “These people screwed you over.”

He shook his head.

“I was hired to do a job,” he said. “And then I was fired. This is a service industry. We’re not here for the right reasons.”

We were almost back over the hill when a voice came from behind us.

“Duncan,” it said. “Is that you?”

It was one of the Harp boys, jogging toward us, his large hand reaching out like he was flagging a cab.

“I thought it was you,” he said.

“Yeah,” said my dad, “I just . . .”

“It was big of you to come,” said the large guy. Up close, he looked like a giant, though he was probably only an inch or two taller than my dad.

“That was a lovely ceremony,” my dad said.

And I was surprised to hear his voice give out at the end. The Harp boy clapped a hand down on my dad’s shoulder.

“I wanted to invite you,” he said, “but my brother said we shouldn’t since we . . . went in another direction.”

He looked down and his grin fell away.

“Look, Duncan, I’m not going to tell you that the news about your deal in Nantucket didn’t have an effect on our decision. But, Mom loved the outdoors. And then she met this woman with a green burial company, who told her about this place. No coffins. No embalming. No chemicals. Just nature and stuff. Mom changed everything at the last minute. This was what she wanted.”

“I see,” said Dad.

“That’s her by the way,” said the giant, squinting into the sun. “The gal in the beige.”

I looked up toward the grave and felt something in me drop.

“That’s . . . who?” I asked.

He looked down at me, startled. I’m not sure he had even seen me until now.

“The lady with the company. Greener Pastures. That’s her.”

“Greener Pastures,” I said.

She was waving to us now, the woman in beige. Her light blond hair was pulled up into a clip, loose strands spilling down her neck. Her nose and forehead, even at this distance, were darkened with freckles and flushed from the sun.

“Her name’s Grace,” he said. “Would you like to meet her?”

I looked at my dad. He looked back at me. We started walking straight toward her. At the last minute, she caught sight of us and smiled.

“Duncan,” she said. “Tess! I wondered if I might see you again. Welcome to Maxine’s planting.”

Grace the Traitor.

This time she was wearing a tunic dress over tights, with a shawl draped across her shoulders. No makeup. In her earth tones, she looked like a forest nymph. A traitorous forest nymph.

“Planting?” I said.

“That’s what we call them, Tess.”

“Is her body going to grow into a field of corn?”

Grace looked around to see if anyone was in earshot.

“You’re upset about something.”

My dad stared at the ground.

“You’re right,” I said. “We’re just a teensy bit upset about the fact that you poached a goddamn funeral from us, Grace. You double-crossing hippie!”

“I didn’t even know you were in the business,” my dad said, more to himself than to her.

Grace looked at me for a minute. Her voice shifted to a stressed whisper.

“I didn’t poach anything. I met a family that needed my services, and I happily provided them. I assume that’s a lot like what your dad does.”

I took a step toward Grace.

“And I’m sure you had no idea that someone else had already agreed to plant Ms. Harp.”

Grace adjusted her shawl and swept a lock of hair away from her eyes.

“They might have mentioned something. . . .”

The crowd was dispersing around us, friends and family members tromping over the preserve, pointing out the pastoral beauty to one another.

“I’ve met enough liars lately,” I said, “to know when I’m looking at one.”

I grabbed my dad’s arm.

“C’mon, Dad,” I said. “Grace, enjoy your planting. I hope the harvest is bountiful.”

I managed to yank him forward, and we started to walk away.

“Hold on,” said Grace. “Wait a second. Will you, Tess?”

I don’t know why I turned back, but when I did, she looked chastened.

“What?” I said. “What is it?”

Her lips were slightly pursed.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

My hands flexed in my pockets. I thought about my last week, the way I had been duped and crushed over and over again.

“I’ve been watching a lot of television,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

Grace fiddled with a button on her dress.

“Duncan,” she said, “can you give us a minute?”

My dad didn’t protest. He turned around and looked out over the preserve, taking it all in.

“Have you told your father yet?” Grace asked.

“Told him what?”

“How bad things really were that day?”

“How bad were they?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Grace. “Only you can answer that. . . .”

I looked at her face, and beneath the tan and the freckles, there were rings under her eyes.

“. . . but it seemed pretty bad.”

“Really? And what would you know about it?” I asked. “Are you a high school guidance counselor? Have you read some really good self-help books that you want to recommend to me?”

“No,” said Grace. “Nothing like that.”

For a moment it seemed like this was maybe going to be the end of our conversation. Then she spoke again.

“But I have been so depressed that I didn’t leave my house for a month. So there’s that. And I’ve ruined a marriage because of my own personal misery. And I’ve thought of doing things much more irrational than jumping off a dock. It’s okay if you don’t want to hear this from me. I get it. But the reason I know about you, Tess, is that I’ve been you.”

I wanted to yell at her, to flip her off and leave. But I was rooted in place.

“I’m sorry I lied,” she said. “I didn’t know your father was the competition. If you ever want to talk to me when you’re not so angry, you can contact me here.”

She handed me a card, and I held it between my thumb and forefinger. My instinct was to drop it on the ground, let it biodegrade the way it was probably meant to. But, I didn’t do that. Instead, I slipped it into the pocket of my real pants, and then I walked back to the car and drove home with my sulking father.