best to your grandfather,” he added, meaning her grandfather Scanlan.
Turning to her other grandfather, who was still kneeling in front of the roses, he said, “Mrs. Romano’s son was very concerned about the vines behind his mother’s grave. He thinks they really may come right over the stone.”
“I will prune,” Angelo said flatly.
“The plants are bothersome to quite a lot of people,” said Mr. O’Neal. “It’s the idea of them.” Maggie knew what he meant. People hated to think about what went on underground in a cemetery. When people looked at the lush growth and strong colors of Angelo’s plants, they could conclude only one thing.
“Good soil,” said Maggie’s grandfather, echoing her thoughts, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight.
“Yes.” Mr. O’Neal clasped his hands behind him, then in front again. He sighed. He and Angelo had had this discussion before.
The fact was that there were very few of his customers who complained about the luxuriant growth in Calvary Cemetery, just as he had been exaggerating when he had told Angelo years before that people didn’t like to see Maggie hanging around, chewing on the ends of her braids, popping up from behind tombstones like an apparition in a gingham blouse and shorts. He was the one bothered by these things. He always thought that the child’s odd behavior, her air of watchfulness, was an object lesson in what happened when you mixed blood that wasn’t meant to be mixed, although no one could deny that she’d gotten the Scanlan brains, walking away with all the honors in her class year after year. But Matthew O’Neal knew his business, even if his daughter couldn’t master fractions, and he knew that cemeteries were not supposed to be turned into gardens, nor children permitted there. Once at a Friendly Sons of St. Patrick testimonial he had made some comments to John Scanlan about how pleasant it was to see Maria Goretti around Calvary and what a change of pace it made. But John had only chewed purposefully at the end of a large cigar and looked at him narrowly, as though he knew that the tone did not match the message. When Matthew O’Neal moved off to refill his drink, he heard John Scanlan say in the sudden silence, “Goddamn ghoul,” and then the low murmur of conversation began again.
“Give my best to your grandfather, Maggie,” Mr. O’Neal said, as he turned to walk back to the group at the graveside, who were passing their rosaries through their fingers. Without answering him, grandfather and granddaughter bent again over the black soil, the rims of their fingernails edged with earth.
6
THE CHILDREN WERE ALL AT THE TABLE, its mottled red Formica dense with cereal bowls and Fred Flintstone cups, when Connie went out into the backyard to watch the construction crew begin their work. She could sense rather than hear Maggie and Terence squabbling, and she heard the clatter at the sink as Tommy went rooting around on the counter for a spoon for his coffee. She was holding her own cup, cradling it in her hands as though to keep herself warm. The sun was still climbing the horizon behind her, and her knees and elbows felt cool in her plaid shorts and white shirt.
Little by little over the years she had begun to dress more like Tommy’s sister and sisters-in-law, more like a Catholic private school girl and less like a girl from a tough public school where the Italian boys wore shirts so starched they could stand up by themselves. Only in her evening dresses and her evening makeup, both always black or red, did she look like her old self. A man waved, circling closer on a big tractor: it was Joey, wearing work clothes and a hard hat, protective plastic glasses on a strip of elastic dangling around his neck. Connie waved back and then turned and went into the house, shivering a little, stumbling on the stones and weeds that gave way to the feeble grass of their backyard. She was still smiling as she came in.
“That’s Joey Martinelli,” she said to Tommy, dropping into her seat next to Joseph’s chair. “Jimmy Martinelli’s older brother. I knew him in school. He’s the supervisor on this construction project.”
“Mommy says he’s a friend of ours,” Maggie said.
“Not mine,” said Tom.
“He says they expect to have the models by the first week in September,” Connie added.
“He’s nuts,” Tommy said, pouring coffee.
“Just three models,” said Connie. “There’s one that’s a ranch house and