The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page A

begin?
    Dad, what happened between you and Grandma and Grandpa?
    Hey, Dad, our new house is kind of haunted.
    So, Dad, Grandma says “hi.”
    Yeah right. The entire situation was ludicrous. No. I couldn’t tell him.
    We came to a small clearing in the trees about fifty yards long and thirty yards wide. A foundation of an old stone chimney sat in one of the corners, and on the opposite side was a cluster of small, crooked headstones—mangled teeth jutting out of the earth. Many were split in half, lying in two pieces on the hard ground. Some were simple with a single initial, and others looked relatively new, having survived the elements well. The most recent date I could make out was 1802.
    â€œYour grandpa used to bring me to this spot when I was little,” Dad rested his right foot on a fallen log, “before everything got so complicated. He used to tell me I needed to learn how to listen to my own heartbeat. He said that people didn’t know how to sit quietly, to breathe, and to listen. I didn’t get it back then, but I think I finally understand what he was trying to say . . .”
    â€œWhat is this place?” I whispered.
    Greta silently read the epitaph on one of the stones. She bent down and ran her index finger over the chiseled indents.
    â€œThis one was only seven months old,” she exhaled.
    â€œDad did some research and found out this plot of land had been the residence of the Ashe family for three generations. They’d been slaves early on, and after the Civil War they moved on to someplace else. Naturally, there were no records of their leaving. For a long time, Dad came out here to think or read or blow off steam. It was his place of solitude.”
    â€œIt’s kind of a morbid place to do your thinking.” Greta turned toward Dad, who was sipping coffee with his free hand on his hip.
    â€œMy father identified most with working people. He admired more the man who built the house than the one who lived in it. I brought you here to show you a little more of our new place because this isn’t just my land and my house anymore. You’re both part of it. You’re part of the story.” He paused to clear his throat. “Now that I’m living here again, I’m getting sentimental. You girls deserve to know the truth.” Dad grabbed Greta’s hand, and I saw her wince. Dad didn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, he pretended not to.
    â€œWhat do you guys think about that one?” Greta’s eyes lit up as she subtly pulled her hand away and pointed across the cemetery toward a squat Fraser fir. It was perfect.

    The smell of turkey seeped throughout the house like thick gravy as we decorated the house for Christmas. Dad insisted on basting the bird every thirty minutes even though I told him basting dried it out. Two pumpkin pies were already baked and cooling rather pleasantly on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. They each had large cracks in their centers, which to me symbolized perfection.
    â€œI wonder why the can of Libby’s always makes two pumpkin pies. Seems like it’s not very accommodating to the smaller, nuclear families of America,” I commented, wrapping a garland around the tree.
    â€œThanksgiving isn’t a three-person holiday for most families,” Greta replied, pouring herself a glass of diet cola. No ice. That’s how they drink it in England.
    â€œThe average American family is 3.14 people,” added Dad from the corner where he crouched, untangling strands of Christmas lights.
    â€œThree-point-one-four? A family- pi eating pumpkin pie? How splendid!” I exclaimed, smug with cleverness.
    â€œNot to mention—” Dad added as he joined us near the tree. For a moment, I thought he looked like the Sundance kid, sans mustache. “—there are going to be four of us dining today. Half a pie each.”
    Rosemary arrived with a cast-iron teakettle in one