Last Rites
by Diablo Priest
Part 2
Back at home, Needy's grandparent's house, more adults gathered on Saturday.
Great Ma was gone. No more could Needy visit Great Ma and gaze upon all the nicknacks that little girls could not touch. Each nicknack had a story behind it. All were gifts from loved ones or friends, or were purchased while Great Ma was on vacations or trips. Even the shelves on which the nicknacks sat were special: The small one had been made by Great Ma's little brother, Uncle Dan; the big one by Cousin Tim, now long gone.
However, the big pink house that Big Pa, Great Ma's husband, had built had been fun for Needy to visit. There was a real doll house out back, made of wood and shingles, with a door and windows, and real tiles on the floor. A kid could actually play inside! It wasn't a tiny plastic thing.
There was nothing plastic about Great Ma.
In Great Ma's bedroom was an old photograph of a slender young solder in his dress uniform, his soft gaze penetrating through the decades. This was Great Ma's first husband. Even as a tiny child, Needy had known the picture was sacra. Hardly able to utter a question, Needy had reached for the photo, far beyond the reach of her thin white arms. Great Ma followed the direction of Needy's outstretched fingers to the top of the dresser were the picture stood in a simple frame. Great Ma smiled.
"That's Harry," she told her great granddaughter.
Great Ma had married him in 1942, and he went off to war.
Not yet twenty, Great Ma became a widow.
After the war Great Ma met another soldier, Big Pa; and after she married him, she gave birth to Needy's grandmother, who gave birth to Needy's mother.
The story was quite simple, but the allegorical meaning of the lost soldier boy in the picture would always remain with Needy. The Truth that Needy learned from the story of Great Ma's first love, the Truth that Needy learned without a lesson, without admonition, without inculcation, without a catechism: Our lives are gifts from the sacrifices of others.
Little Needy felt the despondency of the losses from all those decades. All was gone with Great Ma: All the friends, all the family, all the loved ones, that Needy had never known; and yet, they had loved Needy through Great Ma—all were gone.
Needy sat alone on the front steps while all the adults talked inside. She stared at the ground even when yet another car pulled up. An adult got out of the car.
"There's Needy," the voice belonged to Jennifer's mother. "Be nice to her, Beloved," the voice said to Jennifer, "she's having a very sad day."
Before going inside, Jennifer's mother stopped, stooped, and kissed the top of Needy's head. Needy never looked up.
The sidewalk leading to the steps was marked up with colored chalk. Just a few days before, the girls had been playing in the warm spring sunshine. There was a drawing of a rainbow, a hopscotch pattern in the shape of a cross, a picture of a honeybee, the letters TIH, and also the number 99. Jennifer stood before Needy on a slab that contained the sketch of a fish. It was a minimalist production, more symbolical than illustrative, more like an Ichthus.
"Hi, Needy."
Needy looked up, but said nothing.
Jennifer didn't know what to say.
"Uh..."
Needy looked back at the ground. "Go away," she said.
"I'm sorry your Great Ma died," Jennifer said. "I liked her cookies."
They were old fashioned mincemeat cookies. Great Ma would spread newspaper on the big dinning room table, take the tray from the oven, and line up the cookies to cool on the newspaper. The sweet aroma filled the house. But before the cookies were cold, Great Ma would let Needy have one. A little game they would play, a little ritual of love: Great Ma would say the first batch of cookies had to cool another minute, just another minute. Then she would smile a malicious little grin at Needy. When Great turned away, little Needy would sneak a cookie, which of course was safe for her to bite, yet still warm and chewy. The cookie tasted better for it.
And whenever Great Ma braked cookies or her famous apple pie, Needy always left with some. "Make sure," Great Ma would say, "make sure to share some with your friend Jennifer."
"Leave me alone," Needy said to her friend.
But Jennifer sat down next to Needy. For a while, the two friends were silent. Then Jennifer said:
"Do you want to play with your dolls?"
"No."
"I know," Jennifer said with a hint of triumph, "we can color. I brought my new coloring book—it has lots of animals in it. I was gonna get a Barbie coloring book, but I knew you'd like the one with animals, Needy. I'll let you color any animal you want to."
"Go away!" Needy screamed.
Jennifer was hurt. She stood up and looked at her friend.
"I hate you!" Needy hissed venomously.
For a moment, Jennifer stood still with her head hung to her right. When Needy was stone silent, Jennifer turned and ran away.