CHAPTER FOURThat winter they hired a small bus — Mother had suggested that Father should be buried in the village. Where he was born.
Sasha hadn’t argued.
“What do you think, son?” Mother asked in a completely unfamiliar tone. Until then, there had always been a man’s voice that had the final word in the house. Now, that voice was dead.
“We’ll get there somehow,” Sasha answered, though he was almost certain that they would not be able to get there. Anyway they couldn’t bury father in this decrepit town, a place that Sasha had always loathed.
And Sasha couldn’t imagine telling his grandparents in the village of his father’s death, knowing that, not only would they be unable to travel to the funeral, they would be unable to visit their son’s grave until the spring came.
They didn’t prop
