Free Pretty Birds by Scott Simon Page B

because she sensed that Mrs. Julianovic was trying her father’s civility. “Things can get messy. Think of a piece of fruit.”
    But Mrs. Julianovic still directed her inquiries to Mr. Zaric. “Are you an undertaker?” she asked.
    â€œNo. I sell clothes in a men’s store.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œThe International Playboy clothing store on Vase Miskina Street.”
    â€œI don’t know it. I have never had to buy clothes for a man.”
    â€œWe have a small women’s section,” said Mr. Zaric. Irena thought that while the conversation might grate, her father welcomed the respite from digging. “You have to, now that men and women are equal.”
    â€œIf they are equal,” asked Mrs. Julianovic, “why is the women’s section smaller?”
    â€œYou are too smart for me,” said Mr. Zaric. “I just manage the store and sell shirts.”
    â€œDo shirt sellers dig graves these days?” she asked.
    â€œWe all have to do different things right now. The funeral homes are busy.”
    â€œI go to Number Three High School,” said Irena. “We learned that Muslims, Jews, and Hindus bury their dead within twenty-four hours. It’s a ritual. But holy men made it a ritual because it was a necessity.”
    â€œWell, I live here,” said Mrs. Julianovic. “It’s been a rough day. I liked your mother, and I have nothing against Mr. Kovac. But they’re not rosebushes.”
    Mrs. Julianovic had a request. “One hole, please,” she said.
    â€œThere are two bodies,” said Mr. Zaric.
    â€œI know that,” she said. “But if you dig a separate hole for each person we might have to bury here, we won’t have room to plant flowers. Or tomatoes or squash. Why not the same space?”
    â€œIt sounds like something Grandma might think of herself,” said Irena. Mr. Zaric’s face broke into a small smile.
    Together, Mr. Zaric and his daughter dug out a space that was a little over six feet long and three feet deep, so that when Irena stood up in it the sides of the hole almost reached her elbows.
    Mr. Zaric carried his mother alone, in his arms. “Grandma is heavier than I thought” was all he said.
    â€œWe can help,” said Mrs. Zaric.
    â€œMama carried me,” said her husband.
    They carefully laid Mr. Kovac in first and smoothed the yellow sheet over his body. Then they lifted Mr. Zaric’s mother and lowered her down over Mr. Kovac and stood back.
    â€œI’m going to go up and get Pretty Bird,” Irena said.
    Mr. Zaric waited for his daughter to return with his wrist held over his eyes. When she did, he said, “We are sorry, Mama, for what happened and that we have to leave you here like this.
Put
you here like this,” he amended. “In some ways, we are closer than ever.”
    â€œAnd she is closer yet to Mr. Kovac,” said Irena, which made Mr. Zaric smile again.
    â€œWait,” said Irena. “The blond lady. I think we should invite her.”
    Irena rapped on the window just above their shoulders. Aleksandra Julianovic, it seemed, was never far from there.
    â€œOf course, I will be out,” she said, and in a moment she was. “We should be quick and careful,” she hissed. “Shit is blowing up all around.”
    They waited for Mr. Zaric to speak. “Thank you, Mama,” he said after a moment. “For . . . so much.”
    It was hard for them to see Mr. Zaric’s face in the dark, but they could hear Mr. Zaric holding his mouth open to breathe, and as if to speak.
    â€œMaybe we could sing something,” said Mrs. Zaric finally.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind hearing ‘Penny Lane,’ ” said Mr. Zaric. “It makes me happy.”
    â€œShouldn’t we sing something religious?” asked Aleksandra Julianovic. “It’s kind of that occasion.”
    â€œWhat about this?” said Mrs. Zaric,