Chapter 6: The Burial Box

The Millvale lodge hall smelled of roast lamb, cabbage and four hundred people in their best clothes.

Long tables ran the length of the room under paper lanterns, and a tamburica band played at the far end.

I sat at the head table in a green dress, with Mirko on my left and a priest on my right.

Tomo sat at the end of the row with a plate he had not touched.

Mirko poured me slivovitz and told me about his boat, his bad knee and his late wife's cooking.

He called me "our Zuzana." He was a warm, generous, wonderful host.

I smiled and nodded and counted the cash he waved around.

At seven the band stopped, and the raffle drum came out.

It was a wooden barrel on a stand with a brass crank.

A steel cashbox sat beside it on a white cloth, with a red ledger book on top.

The oldest widow in Millvale was helped up onto the little stage by two great-grandsons.

She wore the black cardigan. She did not look at Mirko.

Mirko rose with his arms wide. "Friends! Tonight we thank God for the harvest and for the lodge."

"Before we begin," Tomo said, and stood up.

His voice was quiet. It carried anyway.

"Brothers. Sisters. My uncle is unwell. He's been sweating all evening, and I'm worried for him."

"Tomo," Mirko said, laughing. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying the rules say the cashbox is counted before the raffle, in front of the oldest member. Teta, would you?"

The widow folded her hands and nodded.

"Sit down, nephew," Mirko said gently, and the gentleness was a warning.

I stood up before I knew I would.

"May I help count?" I said. "I keep the books for my father's company. I love a cashbox."

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