Free Return to Sender by Julia Álvarez

knows he isn't crazy.
    “Every time I'm missing him, I come up here now and visit with him,” Grandma goes on, rocking herself cheer-fully. Just last night, Mom mentioned that Grandma seemed to be doing a lot better. But Tyler's mom thought it had to do with Grandma's relief at seeing her son's recovery. “If you'd like to add something”—Grandma nods toward the altar— “I think Gramps would like that.”
    The first thing that pops into Tyler's head is his telescope that Gramps gave him. But if he brings it over, he won't be able to look at the stars from his own room or spy on the Mexicans.
    “Pull up one of those chairs there,” Grandma is saying. For some reason seeing three chairs lined up against the wall makes Tyler think of the three Marías. Do they know his grandmother has gone a little batty? If so, they have been really nice about not telling anybody or making fun, but in-stead visiting her daily. Tyler feels a flush of gratitude but also shame, thinking about his own behavior toward them.
    “Our little neighbors told me all about this,” Grandma is explaining as if she can now read minds. “Did you know, in Mexico, they don't celebrate Halloween like we do?”
    Tyler nods. He does know all about it. Ms. Ramírez has been doing a unit on the Day of the Dead. It's a big holiday in Mexico, and it's not just one night but three days, starting with Halloween. Whole families go to the cemetery and have picnics with their dead relatives. Very creepy stuff.
    “Our dead are always with us,” Ms. Ramírez told the class. “We take them their favorite foods, sing their fa-vorite songs. We even write them letters, telling them what they've missed in the last year.” She showed pictures of little sugar skulls with the names of everyone in the family, even those who are still living.
    As Ms. Ramírez spoke, Tyler's gaze was drawn to Mari's face, which seemed suddenly lit up from inside like a jack-o’-lantern. Some memory was making her look radiant. Tyler found himself staring, and when she glanced his way, he couldn't help himself, he smiled. But instead of her smiling back, her face darkened as if the light inside her had gone out. Next thing he knew, Ms. Ramírez was calling on Mari, asking her if she'd tell the class some more about the Day of the Dead in her native land.
    Mari had looked down, shaking her head, embarrassed. But later when Ms. Ramírez asked the class to each write a letter to a loved one who had died, Tyler noticed that Mari started writing right away. Most of the class was complaining that they didn't know any dead people. Clayton flat out refused on account of his family didn't believe in voodoo stuff. “We're Christians,” he bragged. That was when Ms. Ramírez went into a long explanation about how most Mexicans are Christians and the Day of the Dead is actually an example of how the Church took Indian beliefs and gave them a Christian spin. But Tyler could tell Clayton wasn't buying it.
    “The girls told me about how they build altars to their relatives who have died, most especially the ones who've died in the last year,” Grandma is explaining. “So I asked them if they'd help me do one for Gramps. I don't call it an altar,” Grandma adds quickly as if she might get in trouble with Reverend Hollister at church. Tyler's grandmother is the most churchgoing person Tyler knows. Both his parents go to church—though Dad often misses because of some farm emergency—and they insist their kids go, too, as long as they are living at home. But Tyler's grandmother will ac-tually go to church all during the week, as she is on every committee you can think of where cooking and flowers are involved, which kind of covers most of them.
    “I call it a memory table,” Grandma goes on. “It's just been so nice to be able to do this and talk to the girls about Gramps, you know?”
    Tyler feels a knot in his throat. Of course he knows.
    “María told me all about her grandmother who died