Read by Max Berendt
For the most part, Dave kept his mother in his closet except on her birthday when he would set her on the fireplace mantel so she could get some sun.
Now Miriam, his sister, was going to spoil all that.
For Dave, a mild-mannered, bespectacled high school history teacher, life was going along at an even pace. Then, he met Sharon. Last month, he turned forty and planned to marry her in December.
That’s when Miriam had jumped in. “It’s time,” she announced in her matter-of-fact way via a telephone call from her condo in the Deep South. “No bride in her right mind wants her mother-in-law’s ashes hanging around, especially at Christmas.”
Okay, so his closet wasn’t the perfect location; but at least it was safe and warm, and it felt like he was taking care of her. Dispose of her. Wasn’t that what Miriam had said. We need to dispose of the ashes. You disposed of garbage, but not people. Why couldn’t they keep things simple and simply get a space at a mausoleum?
“It’s been two long years, Dave. We have to get this done.” Miriam was unwavering. She announced she was taking time off from her job as an account executive for a Savannah, Georgia advertising agency and flying out to Oregon.
“We have to think about what’s best for Mother,” she said, when she arrived on that cold December day with two suitcases, a clipboard, and a pencil behind her ear. She tweaked his cheek. “You always were Mother’s little dear.”
Miriam, who was pushing fifty, had been in Dave’s apartment for a long, agonizing week and already he felt like he was on a long hike wearing boots three sizes too small. She parked her pudgy body in front of his computer, researched Oregon’s landscape, made numerous phone calls, endless lists, and plastered the wall with yellow sticky notes.
“Why don’t we spread the ashes at that park where she took us camping?” Dave asked. “She cherished that spot.”
“We need something with more pizzazz,” she replied, as if searching for a location to shoot a toothpaste commercial.
“How about those rolling hills that had beautiful sunsets? She loved going there—”
“We can’t just dump ashes anywhere.” She took a long sip from her Coke. “We’d need a permit. We want a setting with a little bling.”
Dave’s slight body tensed. “Dump. Did you say dump?” He felt a deep stab in his gut. It didn’t seem right to dump Mother, particularly during the holidays.
Miriam, brown eyes blazing, fleshy face flushing, kept talking. “A place where there’s water—maybe off Astoria where the mighty Columbia meets the ocean.” She ran her hand through her short, efficient blond hair.”
Dave struggled to understand Miriam’s need to be in charge. She and Mother had never been close. Every time they’d been in the same room together, it was like someone curdled milk with vinegar. It had been that way as long as he could remember. Mother never liked Miriam’s flamboyant clothing or her choice of men.
“Miriam always goes for the money instead of the man,” Mother would say. “And she dresses like a tank on steroids.”
As an adult, Miriam didn’t approve of Mother’s tasteless garage sale art, how she styled her thinning hair, the clutter in her house, or her penchant for hanging onto things like empty coffee cans or plastic cottage cheese containers or that big wad of rubber bands in her kitchen drawer.
Most of all, Miriam couldn’t fathom her mother’s decision to marry her eighty-year old boyfriend, Ross, a quiet man, who was hard of hearing. “He’s just a retired mailman, Mother, a milquetoast, and why for God’s sake, now?”
“He’s a good man,” Mother had snarled through gritted dentures. “He likes me the way I am, and he wants to take care of me.”
Following her second divorce, Miriam moved to Savannah. Things got more peaceful, until they learned Mother had cancer. Two months later, she was gone. Once she passed, Ross, with Dave’s help, sold the house and moved to Sunflower Haven, an assisted living community.
“You just don’t open the urn and spread the ashes,” Miriam said for the umpteenth time bringing Dave back to the situation at hand. “There has to be a ceremony.” Miriam checked her clipboard. “We need to get a wreath … one that floats … with red roses and white carnations. Mother so loved that combination. She had those colours at all her dinner parties.”
“Miriam, Mother didn’t have dinner parties—”
She waved her hand. “I mean the times she had people over.” She looked at Dave over turquoise-rimmed glasses that rested on the edge of her bold nose.
Dave swallowed. “Those were gladiolas … red and white glads from her yard.”
Miriam wasn’t listening.
*
Finally, the day arrived. Miriam had made her decision: they should scatter Mother’s ashes at sea.
Dave downed coffee and paced waiting for Miriam. After what seemed like hours, she emerged from the bathroom with every hair in place, wearing a navy blue pants suit, green eye shadow that made the skin above her lids look like crepe paper, and dangling snowflake earrings.
Once she grabbed her clipboard, Dave refilled his cup. He gently tapped Ross’s shoulder. “It’s time,” he said. The old man nodded and quietly folded his newspaper.
“I’ll get Mother,” Dave said, retrieving the plain white ceramic urn from his closet. He placed it on the back seat of his car, carefully securing it with a seat belt. Ross sat in the back squeezed between the urn and the Christmas wreath of variegated holly dotted with red roses and white carnations.
As soon as the car reach the highway, Miriam started in on Dave’s driving. “You’re going too slow. I have to get back and pack, so I can fly out in the morning.”
“What’s that?” Ross asked from the rear. “There’s no fly back here.”
“Sheesh,” Miriam blurted.
Dave pressed his foot down on the accelerator. He fought off the urge to push Miriam out the door. Instead, he reached for his coffee cup.
*
They arrived at the coast at 11 a.m. sharp—exactly as Miriam planned. The early morning fog had cleared, and balmy sunlight made the blue waves glisten. Dave took a deep breath, relieved that it was going to be a beautiful day. Hearing waves crash against the beach and seeing gulls flying overhead calmed him even more.
They met Pastor Eldon, and Captain Bill at the dock. The captain, sporting a Santa hat, welcomed them to the Neptune, a white vessel with blue trim. When he wasn’t assisting with ash ceremonies, Captain Bill chartered fishing excursions for salmon and halibut.
Ross carried the wreath, Dave hugged the urn, and Miriam clutched her clipboard. Soon, the dock and buildings became a dark line in the distance. At sea, the crisp winter wind picked up, and choppy water rocked the boat. The acid from that strong morning coffee churned in Dave’s stomach. The Neptune’s fishy smell didn’t help either.
Finally, the skipper cut the engines. The sound system crackled and played Amazing Grace. Afterward, Pastor Eldon opened his Bible to the twenty-third Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want . . .” He licked his lips as if he could taste the words.
Perspiration beaded on Dave’s forehead. His gut was about to explode.
“Yea, though I walk through the shadow of death …”
Dave, still clutching the urn, made a mad dash to the side of the boat. Eeeaugghh. He heaved, tasting the oatmeal and banana he had for breakfast. A rope of saliva hung from his chin.
Miriam looked horrified. “Jesus Christ, Dave!”
“What’s that?” Ross asked.
Pastor Eldon stopped for a moment. His eyes moved from Dave to Miriam. “Thy rod and staff comfort me…”
Dave wiped his mouth with a wad of tissue and returned to his spot.
“… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Let’s bow our heads for a moment of silent prayer,” Pastor Eldon said.
The prayer over, Miriam reached for the urn. “I’ll release the ashes, Dave. You toss the wreath.”
“Dave,” she whispered, “for Christ’s sake let go.” Miriam pried the urn from his hands.
Dave hung his head.
Ross stood there, a wistful look on his face.
The minister nodded to Miriam.
“I just wanted to say I love you, Mother,” Miriam said to the urn, “You went so fast, and I was so busy …” Her voice quavered. “Oh, I know we had our differences, but … but you were a saint. You know, to put up with it … and all.”
Dave couldn’t believe his ears. Really? Who was she talking about? He stared at his sister whose eyes were glistening. Miriam was not someone who cried easily.
Miriam twisted and pulled the lid as if she was trying to open a stubborn jar of pickles. “Mother, this is no time to be difficult!” She shook the urn. “You’re spoiling our event.”
“Here we go again,” Dave mumbled. He smoothed what was left of his sparse hair.
“What’s that you say?” Ross asked.
Pastor Eldon raised an eyebrow. He looked at Dave, over at Miriam, and finally up at the sky.
Dave checked his watch. In twenty-two hours, ten minutes, and three seconds Miriam would be boarding her plane. He couldn’t wait. He yearned for a stiff shot of bourbon.
Uhhhhhguh. Miriam, grunting like a tennis player returning a volley, gave the urn another mighty twist. The lid popped off, and she pitched the cremains over the boat rail. Suddenly, the sea breeze shifted. The ashes blasted back into Miriam’s face.
“Shit!” She gasped.
Pastor Eldon again tilted his glance heavenward. When he lowered his eyes, he calmly nodded at Dave.
Dave tossed the wreath into the sea. “Goodbye Mother. Merry Christmas.” He choked back tears. “We love you.”
“Was I supposed to say something?” Ross asked, as they watched the festive wreath float away. His voice sounded tired, and he looked more frail than usual.
“It’s okay, Ross. We took care of it,” Dave assured him. He put his arm around the old man’s stooped shoulders.
“When I go, I want to be out there with her,” Ross said, his lower lip quivering like a lost child.
“Sure Ross. Sure,” Dave whispered. His throat tightened.
Captain Bill rang the ship’s bell eight times to signify the “End of Watch.” Pastor Eldon stood quietly at the railing looking out at the ocean, as if he wanted nothing more to do with this peculiar family.
Dave patted Ross on the back and shook his hand. He snuck a peek at Miriam who was still trying to recover from the flurry of ashes.
“They got all over my new coat,” she wailed, vigorously stroking her face and brushing her shoulders. Her mascara smeared below her lower lids, making her look like a raccoon. The wind had not been kind to her hair.
For the first time, Dave put his arm around his sister’s wide body and cautiously drew her closer. Surprisingly, she didn’t explode. He had spent the entire week and most of his life resenting her annoying intrusions. Maybe this wasn’t just another event for her, he thought. Maybe it was a journey of sorts—a last chance to make peace with Mother in her own exasperating way. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, Miriam, actually had a heart—however strange it was.
“You’re okay,” Dave managed to say. “We’re all okay.”
“Quit squeezing me,” she grumbled, pulling away. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”
The corners of Dave’s lips twitched before breaking into a smug grin. At least Mother had had the last word.
(c) Jean Rover, 2017
Jean Rover lives and writes in Salem, Oregon. Her writing has appeared in various literary journals and business periodicals. She is an award-winning fiction and business writer. Her story, The Day Truman Ruined our Jam will appear in the Saturday Evening Post’s Great American Fiction Contest 2018 Anthology. She has also authored a chapbook, Beneath the Boughs Unseen, featuring stories about society’s invisible people. Her novel manuscripts Touch the Sky, and its sequel, Ready or Not, are looking for publishers.
Max Berendt studied drama at Manchester University and trained at Mountview. Theatre credits include The Trial (BAC: Total Theatre Award), Peer Gynt (Arcola), Journey’s End (West End), and The Devil is an Ass (The White Bear). Max works regularly as a voiceover artist and in immersive theatre, most recently in Door in a Wall's Appetite for Murder.
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