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Celia trudges across the opalescent, snow-pocked beach holding the box in front of her like a gift. Inside is bone and gristle that could belong to anyone. Last night in her bedroom she studied the contents, thinking to say a prayerful word or two, but it felt too weird speaking to a heap of shavings. In bed, though, she stared at the empty place that Paul had once occupied, and his absence became palpable. It was as if he’d just been beside her and then whisked away.

When her father died, her mother murmured that it was the proper order of things, parents before children, but what about husbands and wives?

At yesterday’s brief service for Paul, the few people who attended shed no tears. Still, for her, it was more rending than she’d anticipated. Suddenly she missed him terribly again. When he was gone from her life while still alive, she banished him from her mind. Now that he’s dead, she’s more than reluctant to let him go. That he loved her was never in dispute for either one of them. Knowing this may steady her. Their years together happened. She owns them. He left her their sons. She’s grateful for that.

She glances at them now: Sam’s head is down staring at the sand, and Quince wears an expression she can’t decode. A while back, Quince said his father was a coward for leaving them. Yet it was Quince who contacted hospitals and ERs to find Paul.

Miles should be here. Without him the ritual feels incomplete. Neither son asks about their brother. Strangely enough, Johnny asked if he should try and find Miles. She told him no, let it be.

Her mother’s head and shoulders are wrapped in scarves against the cold; the family has folded her within its small circle. Terry’s slim body shivers in a mini-length coat, her cheeks red and raw. Johnny talks to the priest, a friend he convinced to participate. Josie would’ve been here if she weren’t at home sick. So, too, Richie if he were stateside. Her women’s group stands a little apart from the family. Clustered near them are Paul’s bandmates, whom she hasn’t spoken to in months. Who told them?

Snowflakes drift out of a pewter sky to land in the dense black water.

As the priest finishes reading the psalm, the wind picks up the muttered “Amens.”

Quince says, “Mom, we’re ready. We’ll each take a handful and toss it in the ocean. I’ll go first, then Sam, then you. Okay?” She nods. All of her sons have Paul’s eyes.

Her gloved fingers grip the box so tightly someone else will have to prize open the lid.

“Here, let me.” Johnny takes the box from her.

“Go on then,” she urges Quince once the box is open.

Quince takes a fistful of ashes, then walks carefully to the water, a tall boy with a straight back. He tosses the ashes, which the wind picks up and deposits on the sand.

Sam dips into the box, then jogs to the water. With a rapid overhand motion, he pitches the ashes as if they were too hot to handle. Once more the wind lifts and scatters them along the beach.

Johnny is saying, “Celia, your turn.”

Roper begins to play the sax. She hears the varied tones as wails of protest: Not yet, my lady, not yet.

Pulling off her gloves, she takes a fistful of ashes in each hand. “One for Miles,” she says aloud. Someday she will tell him how he was present in his absence. With her eyes steady on the bruised horizon, she walks until the toes of her boots are in the white wake.

“This one from Miles,” she whispers. “And this from me.” Then lets go of both handfuls. The wind blows the ashes back in her face. A faint smile cracks her frozen cheeks. So like Paul, recalcitrant to the end.

She searches for Quince through the gritty windows of the slowly departing train taking him back to West Point. He didn’t want her to see him off, but she insisted, can’t get enough of each of them as they grow up and leave her. As the last car pulls out of the station, the train lights up the tunnel for an instant before the long throat of darkness returns.

She heads out into the cold street. Shoulders hunched against the wind, she walks uptown. She isn’t ready to go home.

She rings the bell. “Josie, it’s me, Celia.”

“A minute,” a muffled voice says.

In a grubby long T-shirt, Josie opens the door, her face pale, drawn.

“Sorry about Paul; sorry I couldn’t be there to say good-bye.”

Celia touches her sister’s forehead. “Warm. Go back to bed.”

The apartment smells like curdled milk. No surprise. An uncapped milk container has been left out on the table. She pours it down the drain, then runs the water. She won’t ask how long it’s been since Josie cleaned, but getting down on one knee, she’s about to wipe up a spill.

“Celia, stop cleaning.” Josie sits in bed, the blanket thrown to one side.

“Order will help.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Maisie told me that your boyfriend left. How are you?” Celia pulls a chair to the foot of the bed.

“Is there a trick to deleting misery?”

“Just go through it,” she says, knowing the pitfalls of the journey.

“Like there’s a magical light at the end of the—”

“No light, Josie, but it’s the only way to reach the other side.”

“Are you on the other side of it?”

In Josie’s voice she hears her own grief. It may have been a mistake coming here so soon after scattering Paul’s ashes.

“Are you?” Josie probes.

“After Paul walked out, I was too angry to think straight. Then I refused to think about him at all. And then he died, which has made it difficult all over again. Yesterday, on the beach, when Roper blew the sax, it was Paul playing, except it wasn’t and never would be again.”

“He died a little when they stopped appreciating his music,” Josie says.

“True. Yesterday was also sad because Miles wasn’t there.”

Josie’s face registers only her own unhappiness.

“You won’t always be this miserable. Not because time heals, but life insists on itself and you go on; you just do, Josie.”

“I want to believe you.”

“The women’s group helped me some,” she says. “Though my past and theirs isn’t at all alike, when it came to broken relationships, the similarities were illuminating. And so what? you might ask. Well, every woman in the group had gone through some form of loss or breakup, though reasons might differ. It became clear to me that each woman ended up being okay and that was encouraging.”

“Melvin left to meet the needs of his people.”

“I don’t understand all the ins and outs of his struggle. I do understand that it’s simply unbearable to lose someone you love, and when it happens no reasons are ever good enough.”

“His presence is still palpable. When it got dark and lamplight brightened the room, our shadows used to cross the wall together. It’s as if each piece of furniture mocks his absence.”

Celia gazes at her little sister, who has been a grown-up far longer than she realized. “When the fever is gone, come stay with me for a while. And visit Ma. I know Ma and Johnny don’t understand the life you lead. But they love you.”

“I fear that if I step into their vortex, I’ll never be free again.”

“Well, that’s simply not true. You have a life. It’s yours, not theirs. I should get home. Though, lately, Sam has been hanging out at his friend Maria’s house until dark.”

“Any word about Richie?”

“Ma received a letter two days ago. He’s being shipped stateside to be mustered out and then will be sent home. It won’t be long now. We decided he would live with me for a while. I have the extra room. He’ll want to see you. I’d like to have a welcome-home party.”

“Oh Jesus, Celia, don’t. It’s the last thing he’ll want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s horrid to be backslapped by family and friends for something you can’t come to grips with.”

“Oh, I see. I’m glad you told me. Could I heat up some soup for you before I leave?”

“Please don’t.”

“You should consider joining my women’s group,” she says, slipping into her coat.

Watching her sister leave, she thinks to get out of bed and lock the door but doesn’t. With Melvin gone and Miles heaven knows where, danger feels further away than just outside her door. She’s discouraged friends from visiting. Even Ben, who has a key, she shoos away soon after he appears. Doesn’t want to talk about Melvin, doesn’t want to either blame or defend him to any of them. Doesn’t want to think about him at all.

Switching on the TV, she finds a rerun of an old movie, which will lull her to sleep the way it has each afternoon of the past week.

Someone knocks hard at the door. Outside the window, only blueberry darkness. It’s late.

“Who’s there?”

“Johnny.”

She slips into jeans and unlocks the door. “Celia was here a few hours ago.” It sounds like an accusation.

“Oh yeah?” His grim expression registers the mess of her. He’s not in uniform and totes a shopping bag in each hand. He walks past her to the kitchen table. “Ma cooked; Terry packed. Have you seen the doctor?”

“No. It’s just a virus or the flu. My boyfriend isn’t living here anymore. His departure didn’t help my condition.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, a fighter in the liberation struggle. He had to leave because he needs to help his people. He’s Black.” Swallowing against the pressure of tears, she scans her brother’s face. He looks perplexed, uncomfortable, and for a moment she feels sorry for him.

“Johnny, I’m tired of lying is all.” She is, bone tired of storing truths in different boxes, each with its own lock and key, each labeled appropriately, tired of having to figure out which one to open where and with whom.

He waits for her to say more. When she doesn’t, he begins to unpack the bags.

“Ma wants the empty containers returned. I have to go. I’m on duty in an hour.” He eyes the three locks before opening the door. “I’m glad it’s not pneumonia.”

Instructions are written on each container: Store on second fridge shelf. Cook at 350. Broil only. Keep in freezer. Discard after 5 days.