You Forgot
the Christmas Lights

Danny had taken the long way around the cemetery because he didn't like walking over people.

His mother said the paths were there to be used, and if there wasn't a path you went between the stones. But there was no way to tell exactly where somebody stopped. Once, when he was smaller, he had asked whether their feet went under the next person's head. His mother had said she didn't think so. Aunt Ruth had told him to stop worrying about it.

He came around the end of the row and stood at his father's stone.

There was a little snow along the top. He brushed it away with his mitten. Most of it fell down the back, but some caught in the cuff of his coat, and he shook his hand until it came out.

He hadn't brought anything. His mother would bring flowers later. At breakfast she had taken them from their paper wrapping and stood them in the measuring jug because she couldn't find the vase.

He'd wanted to ask her whether Dad would know it was today. Instead he had asked if she needed the jug for anything.

Now he wished he'd asked the other question.

He looked at the date. Three years. He remembered being seven, but it didn't seem like something that had ended three whole years ago. Some of the things in his room were still the same. The dresser. His curtains. The place on the wall where he'd peeled the paper away and pushed it back down so nobody would see.

"I'm going to be eleven," he said.

He'd spoken too loudly. He glanced along the row.

Near the far path, a man was standing with his hands in the pockets of a green coat. Danny hadn't noticed him when he came in. He was looking down at one of the older stones.

Danny lowered his eyes again.

He could tell his father about school, but there wasn't much to tell. He'd lost a worksheet and found it in the book it was supposed to be in. He'd thought of something funny yesterday, something Dad would have liked, and now he couldn't remember it.

He tried for a while.

A truck went past on the road. It was getting late enough that the other kids would be coming down to the bus stop.

"I have to go," he said.

He stayed another moment, then turned toward the path.

The man in the green coat was coming the other way. Danny moved aside to let him pass.

"Morning."

"Hi."

The man stopped on the other side of the path. He looked toward the stone Danny had left.

"Your dad?"

Danny nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"It was three years ago."

He usually told people that part quickly. Otherwise they sometimes went on being sorry, and he never knew what to say while they did it.

"I lost mine when I was about your age," the man said.

Danny looked at him. "How old were you?"

"Ten."

"That's how old I am."

The man nodded. His nose was red from the cold. He had a little gray in his hair above one ear, although Danny couldn't decide whether it was gray or just very light.

"Did you come by yourself?"

"My mom's working. She's coming later."

"Ah."

"She wanted to come this morning, but she couldn't."

He wasn't sure why he'd added that. The man hadn't said anything about her.

"She'll get here," he said.

Danny pulled his mitten farther up his wrist. "I've got to catch my bus."

"Of course. Go on."

The man stepped back. Danny went past him and took the path to the gate.

He had reached the road before he remembered what he had wanted to tell his father. Someone in his class had written that the Pilgrims came to Massachusetts on the Cauliflower.

Dad would have liked that.

Danny almost went back. Then he saw two kids from his stop coming down the sidewalk, one pushing the other sideways into the dirty snow.

He stood with his hand on the gate until they passed.

Next time, he thought, and went to join them.

The flowers tipped over when Kate turned into the cemetery.

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

She caught the measuring jug before it rolled off the seat. Water had soaked into the upholstery and was dripping onto the floor mat. She parked beside the gate and rescued her sandwich from underneath it.

The sandwich was dry. Something had gone right.

She left it on the dashboard and took the flowers out of the jug. There was no sense carrying the damn thing all the way up there. She'd look as though she'd come to make pancakes.

At the grave, she crouched to set the stems against the stone. The ground was hard enough to hurt her knees through her pants. She shifted, then gave up and stood.

"These'll last about ten minutes."

He would have said she'd wasted her money. Then he would have found a vase for them.

She tucked the stems under a little ridge of snow so they wouldn't blow away.

Danny had asked about the measuring jug that morning. She'd nearly asked if he wanted to come with her, but he would have missed school, and he had been so careful not to ask her anything else. Sometimes they could get through a whole breakfast being considerate of each other and hardly say a word.

She should have asked.

A car slowed on the road, its tires crunching through the grit at the edge. Kate looked around. A man in a green coat stood near the older stones with his head down. She turned back before he could catch her looking.

"He's nearly eleven," she said quietly.

She had bought eleven candles. Counted them out on the kitchen table to make sure the packet held enough. Last year Danny had let her put her arm around him while everyone sang. This year she wasn't sure he'd allow it.

"You could have dealt with that part."

Her nose began to run. She searched her pockets and found the napkin she'd used while making her sandwich. There was mustard on one corner. She folded it under.

She stayed until she could leave without feeling she was hurrying, then checked her watch and hurried.

The man had reached the path ahead of her. He stepped aside where the snow narrowed it.

"Thank you," she said.

"Careful there. Bit of ice."

She put one foot on the grass. Her other shoe slid, but she caught herself before he could reach for her.

"Graceful," she said.

"You stayed up."

"That's about my standard these days."

He smiled. Up close he looked roughly her age. His coat was zipped to his chin, and the skin beneath his nose was red.

"Someone in your family?" he asked.

"My husband."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded, already preparing to thank him and go.

"My wife," he said. "That's why I'm here."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He looked down the path. She stopped folding the napkin in her hand.

"You'd think we'd have something better to say to each other," she said.

"I don't think there is anything."

"No. Probably not."

For a moment neither spoke. He didn't seem to need her to fill it.

"Have you got children?" he asked.

"A boy. He'll be eleven on Friday."

"A hard age to lose your father."

"He was seven when it happened. Nearly eight."

The man nodded.

"He came before school," she said. "You might have seen him."

"No. I didn't see him."

"He doesn't stay long."

"Three years today," she said.

"A hard day."

"I don't know. Tuesday was a hard day. Today I've mostly been trying to get here."

She hadn't meant that to sound so sharp. But he nodded as though it were a reasonable answer.

"What happened Tuesday?"

"Nothing. That's the trouble. I was buying toothpaste."

She could still see the tube in her hand. The brand he'd liked, picked up without thinking. She had put it back and stood looking at a whole shelf of toothpaste until somebody wanted to get past her.

"He was particular," she said. "About the stupidest things."

The man waited.

"Sorry. You don't need to hear this."

"I don't mind."

She believed him. He wasn't glancing toward a car or reaching for some cheerful thing to tell her.

"I ought to let you get back," she said, looking toward the stones.

"I'm all right."

"I've got to get back myself. Work."

He nodded and moved farther onto the grass to give her room.

"Watch that patch on your way out."

"I'll try to leave standing up."

At the car she put the wet jug on the floor and climbed in. The sandwich had begun to warm in the sun. She unwrapped it, then remembered the napkin and set it aside.

She took a bite before starting the engine. She was hungry now.