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316 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 2005
Zamatryna was already eating. "Too much work," she said, around a mouthful of hot popcorn. "Uncle Max, if the popcorn were haunted, I'd know."
"How? How would you know? How can you be sure?"
"I'd know," she said, rolling her eyes. "It would be, like, scary popcorn. This isn't scary popcorn."
Macsofo looked pained. "The dead are not frightening, Zamatryna. The dead love us. You have been watching too many horror movies."
Zamatryna stuck her arms out straight in front of her and began lurching around the kitchen. "Night of the Living Popcorn," she said, in her best horror-movie voice. "Woo-woo-wooooo! Would you just chill?"
"You are not listening to me, Zamatryna. I am saying that the popcorn does not have to be scary to contain the spirits of the dead. The popcorn loves you. You should thank it.
The Great Breaking is why we always bless and thank our food before we eat it: for anything, fruit or flesh, may contain the spirit of some beloved person. We must believe that the dead delight to feed us, lest we starve, but we must also pay due reverence.
"You are not bad, Zamatryna." Timbor's voice was gentler now. "You have been hurt. We have all been hurt. We all have different ways of healing from hurt. It is a gift to know what you need to heal, Granddaughter, and a gift to be able to ask for it. And what I need to heal is to give you what you need to heal, eh? And I'm glad I can do it."
Stan Buttle's god would have turned my sorrows into nonsense. And Stan Buttle's heaven seemed a bleak, cold place, for as he told it, the spirits of the dead were plucked forever from the world, rather than remaining in fruit and flowers, in leaves and lizards. And I needed to believe that my dead were in sight, even if I could not speak to them. I needed to believe that they were growing and learning and alive.
Jerry was willing to give Betty his life savings. It occurred to her that she had to be crazy not to be in love with him. It also occurred to her that he was much too good to be true, and was probably an ax murderer wanted in fifteen states.
Down at the office had to fill out the forms
A pink one, a red one, the colours you choose,
Up to the counter to see what they think
They said 'It doesn't count man, it ain't written in ink'.
Don't trust anybody least not around here, cause
It's not fun being an illegal alien,...
~Genesis, "Illegal Alien" (1983)
She insisted that we call her Zama because her real name was too long; she kept pet plastic dolls and memorized insipid television jingles about underarm deodorant and automobiles; she acquired a distressing interest in watching young men in cumbersome body armor symbolically slaughter each other on fields which could have been used for more important things, like growing beets.