We buried Mary on a Sunday. She looked pretty in her best white dress. Mama tied pink ribbons in her black hair. My sweet sister Mary, all wrapped up in pink and white. Like a gift to the angels.

You couldn't see the hole in the back of her head. But we all knew it was there.

It was a nice service. All of Mama's friends came. All of Mary's friends came, too.

None of my friends came. I knew they wouldn't. I was glad they didn't.

A lot of people sent flowers. The workers at Mama's factory. The teachers at Mary's school. Even the kids in the neighborhood. Big bunches of dandelions. They were all that grew in the heart of the city.

Mama arranged them around Mary's grave. Even the dandelions. Mary would have liked that. She thought they were cheerful. Even if they were only weeds.

Mama didn't buy any flowers for Mary. She spent all of her money on the coffin.

"I want Mary to rest in peace," she'd said. "She needs a nice place to sleep."

It was nice. Soft on the inside, and shiny on the outside. Much prettier than Mary's bed at home. But cold. And lonely. The pastor said a few words. About God, and about death.

Then other people started speaking. I didn't listen to them. I was thinking about Mary. And about Mama.

The day before I had found her sitting in the kitchen. She'd had her head in her hands. A stack of bills had sat at her elbow. Rent, and heat, and insurance. But the biggest one was from the undertaker.

"Don't worry, Mama," I'd told her. "I'll help pay for the funeral."

Mama looked up. She'd pushed her chair away from the table. Then she'd stood. She turned to me. She reached out with one hand. She slapped me hard across the face. I let her.

"I don't want your dirty money," she'd said. "And neither does Mary."

I knew she didn't want it. She had never taken it before.

But I needed to do something. I owed it to Mary. It was my fault she was dead.

Mama stayed up all night baking pies for the reception. I heard her rolling dough in the kitchen. Near dawn, it grew quiet. I was still awake. I went into the kitchen.

Mama was standing in front of the sink. It was full of dishes. The counter was covered with flour. There were four pies cooling by the window. But Mama wasn't moving.

"Do you want help with the dishes, Mama?" I asked.

She didn't answer me. She kept staring at the sink.

"Are you all right, Mama?"

"Get out, George," she said. She didn't turn around.

I left the room. She didn't try to stop me.

*  *  *

After the funeral, people came to the apartment. It was filled with the smell of the pies. They smelled good. I loved Mama's apple pies. But I didn't eat any. I left it for our guests.

They stood in our kitchen. They talked quietly to one another. Many of them had been to funerals like this before. The gangs were strong where we lived. Sometimes people get shot. But most of them were young men like me. Not girls like Mary.

No one talked to me. I was glad. I knew they blamed me for what happened to Mary. Maybe they were right.

"That poor, sweet child!" they said.

"Her poor Mama!" they said.

No one said anything about her big brother.

It was after dark when everyone left. I waited outside while they said goodbye to Mama. No one wanted to say goodbye to me. I acted like I didn't care. But I did.

I stood at the window, looking out. I watched the people walking away down the street. The mothers drying their eyes. The fathers with their heads bowed.

Thinking of their own little boys and girls. How it could have been them instead of Mary.

I helped Mama clean up. This time I didn't ask if I could help. I just did it. She still didn't look at me. I didn't look at her, either.

Finally she went and sat down in the living room. I sat down at the kitchen table. For once I had nowhere else to go.

I could hear Mama blowing her nose. I knew she was crying.

She had been crying ever since it happened. Sometimes I didn't think she would ever stop crying.

Sometimes I didn't think I would, either.

    Mary had just turned twelve. It was nice having a sister who was twelve. She thought her big brother was the greatest guy in the world.

    Mama and I liked to tease her about how pretty she was getting. We asked her if she had a boyfriend yet. She laughed at us. Then she ran outside to play ball with the boys.

    Most of them were good boys. They were kind to Mary. They were polite to Mama. They did what their parents said. They went to school. They stayed out of trouble.

    It was hard to stay out of trouble around here. I never wanted trouble. But it came after me just the same.

    I don't know how much Mary knew about me. About who my friends were. About where I went after school. About why I came home so late. About where I got my money.

    Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she wasn't old enough to know.

    But Mama knew. She hated me for it. She had told me to quit so many times.

    "We'll get by," she said. "The Lord will provide."

    I laughed at her. Like it was a joke. It wasn't a joke anymore.

    I needed the work. Mama barely made enough to feed us. Her friends gave us hand-me-down clothes. Sometimes they didn't fit right.

    I could get by. I wore torn blue jeans and an old Army jacket. No one cared. We older boys all dressed the same.

    Mama wore a uniform for work. She wore her one dress to church.

    But I wanted us to have better things. I wanted that for Mary.

    There was always work with the gang. I never knew what the other fellows did. No one talked about it much. But sometimes I would hear about a gas station robbery or a holdup. I would see a police drawing of the suspects on TV. Faces that I knew. Most of the time no one got hurt. But once in awhile someone did.

    I would hear guys talking about it. Some of them even seemed to enjoy it. Scaring people, hurting them.

    Mama would read about them in the newspaper. "They're scared," she said. "And they're hurt. They want other people to hurt, too."

    I didn't know if she was right or not. I only knew I wasn't like that.

    I didn't do robberies or holdups. You had to use a knife or a gun for that. I had a knife and I had a gun. But I never wanted to stab or shoot anyone. Not anyone.

    Dealing seemed safe. You sold to the people who wanted it. Who needed it. And not to kids, never to kids. At least, I never did.  

    I thought it was safe. Who did it hurt?

    I didn't know it would get out of hand. That there would be other gangs who wanted our turf. That we would end up fighting for our part of the city. That someone would get shot because of it.

    That it would be my sister Mary.

    Mary was gone. Six feet under the ground. In her best Sunday dress. In her church shoes that were shiny but too small. In the nicest, softest bed she ever had.

    She would never look at me with those big brown eyes again. They were like the eyes of a deer. Soft, and a little sad.

    I will never forget those eyes. Not as long as I live. Mary's eyes.

    I see them when I wake up. I see them when I lie down to sleep. I see them when I look at Mama.

    But I'll never see those eyes again.