Chapter 4: The Ridge

I did not sleep, and at dawn I was glad of it.

We buried my mother at the top of the ridge, beside my father's stone, which said BELOVED, in letters my mother had picked herself.

Nolan and three pack men dug the grave before light.

They did it quietly, and none of them asked me to say thank you.

About thirty wolves came up the path in the cold.

I had expected five.

Mavis was at the front, my mother's older sister, in her good brown coat, with flour still on one sleeve.

She had been the only one who had written to us, and she had never once been allowed to visit.

She took my face in both hands and said, "You look like her."

"I know," I said.

"I'm so sorry I stayed."

"I told you to stay," I said.

"Someone had to keep the oven lit."

The pack stood in a half circle.

Nobody spoke, so I did.

I had written something in the truck, and I tore it up in my head and said what was true.

"My mother sang off key," I said.

"She sang in the shower, and she sang over the radio, and she sang to the dishes.

"When she was sick she stopped, and the quiet in the apartment was the loudest thing I ever heard.

"She never said one bad word about this pack.

"I'm going to say a few for her."

The older ones looked at their boots.

"Maybe not today," I said.

"She'd want me to be polite at her funeral."

A sound went through the circle that was nearly laughter, and Mavis made a noise into her sleeve.

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