Last Remains

Deano bent over the camping gear in the attic, brushing away the cobwebs and dried out flies, careful not to lift his head to the sloped roof with nails sticking down through any number of the shingles that had been put on over the years. Behind the sleeping pads, almost hidden in the depths of fiberglass insulation, lay the utilitarian urn that contained half his father’s ashes. He smiled when he saw it. He remembered where it was, after all.

He hefted up the urn, surprised at its weight, and put it upright on the floor wondering for a moment about the heavy gold bridge— the sanitary pontic— his father got care of a US Army dentist during the war. It was a story his father never tired of telling all the way to the day he died. Literally.  That very day he opened his mouth for the nurse administering his morphine and told how his jeep had hit a mine emphasizing it was a ‘kraut’ mine, rolled into a ditch, and he d broken several teeth.  A ‘million dollar’ wound he called it; “Better than a purple heart!“

Always to Deano he’d say, “It’ll be yours someday if you can pry it out!  Worth its weight in gold.  Get it?”

Oh, Deano got it all right. If not the first time, then the hundredth time.  He never did get the pontic though, his father disproving the rule that ‘you can’t take it with you.’  He did, however, leave pretty everything else to Deano’s sister Marion. To be fair, Deano didn’t need the money and had acquiesced when his father discussed the will and, for the umpteenth time, open his mouth to display the gold mine inside.  “Must weigh an ounce if it weighs anything,” he’d laugh.

He thought for a moment about sifting through those last remains. An ounce would be close to $2000. His father would have wanted him to sell it. In fact, he had insisted. “Won’t be doing me any good,” he would insist, then open his mouth to reveal the glittering bridge. it was all too morbid for Deano, though he was curious enough to shake the urn listening for the dull rattle of an ounce of gold.

Deano looked about, moving more of the camping gear, looking for a depression in the insulation that held his next objective. He scrambled backward, over a box with Christmas ornaments, squeezed through crates with tax documents, groaning at their weight, pushing aside those with dates older than seven years; those he could throw away. “Gotta clean up that mess if we ever want to sell,” he whispered to no one.  

“Sheila,” he yelled down the stairs. “Are you sure it’s up here?”

“Which one?” his wife returned.

“Mom’s! Found Dad’s.”

“Christ, I don’t’ know! It’s a pigsty up there. We’ve got to clean up that mess if we ever want to sell,” she said.

Deano rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, well maybe you could come up and help, huh?”

“It’s your funeral!”

He winced at that and continued scrounging around for Mom, mouthing ‘bitch’ under his breath. It wasn’t his funeral. It wasn’t a funeral at all. It was just that after years of collecting dust he thought it was time to let go of his parents’ ashes. It wasn’t emotional. It was a matter of convenience. They were off to Provincetown for a long weekend, and he remembered a rare moment of familial happiness there in the summer of 1965 and figured it was a fitting spot to finally dump his share of those ashes.

After having moved aside boxes with the kids’ baby clothes, the china they’d gotten for their wedding and never used, various pieces of outdated luggage, and college papers he hadn’t looked at in over 30 years, he found the wooden box containing his mother’s last remains. He held that under his arm, tightly, and grabbed his dad’s urn.  When he stood to leave, his head banged a beam, jarring him to the side, where it hit a nail causing him to drop both parents. The box flipped open, and the plastic bag holding his mother’s ashes tore while the top of the urn came off sifting some of his father’s ashes on top of his mom. “Oh, god damn it,” he said, wincing at the pain. There was no blood to his relief.

He swept the mingled ashes into the urn, stirring the mess with a finger as if looking for something and swept the rest between the cracks of the attic floor. He smiled thinking that would have been the only time, since the divorce, that his father had gotten on top of his mother. Looking at the urn and the box with a now deflated bag of ashes, he said, “Time to say goodbye, guys.”

*

Marion sat on the couch in her cramped Manhattan studio and stared teary-eyed at the urns that held her share of her parent’s ashes. The urns were a matching set, touching each other, with a photo of a smiling couple holding a little girl, not more than four, pouting before the camera. The TV was on CNN—the TV was always on CNN, with the sound down low—showing footage of the aftermath of a terrorist attack in Spain where a truck barreled down a busy shopping street killing half a dozen people and injuring 23. Marion was wiping away tears as she picked up the phone.

Deano eyed the caller ID on his phone and squeezed his eyes tight. He hesitated before picking up.

“Deano?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I miss them so much.”

“Who?”

“Mommy and Daddy.”

“Mommy and Daddy? How old are you exactly?”

“Fine. Mom and Dad then.”

“Why today? Is it an anniversary or something?”

“No, I’m just thinking about their, you know, what you want to do. ”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Well, I think it’s high time we let the genies out of their bottles. It’s been, what, ten years for Dad or something, more for Mom. “

“14 for Mom. 12 for Dad. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

Deano rolled his eyes and about to say, “What difference does it make?” he decides to go for a calmer mood.

“Wow. Seems like yesterday. 14 years for Mom. The kids were, what, 12 and 15? Wow.”

“Are they coming?”

“Coming? Coming where? “

“To the ceremony.”

“Ceremony? What are you talking about?”

“When you put them to rest. On the Cape.”

She’d called it a ceremony. Deano had said, made sure he was understood, that he was simply spreading their ashes. There would be no ceremony, no speeches, no priest, even if they had been Catholic, and no fanfare. His very words to Sheila had been, “Just, you know, open up the box and let them go. It will be like a visit to the dump.”

Apparently, Sheila hadn’t delivered that message to Marion.

Deano tried to soften the words to Marion, but the line “like a visit to the dump” didn’t go over well. There was silence at the other end of the phone, which meant tears would come, then blubbering, followed by a guilt trip, and they wouldn’t speak for weeks until Marion contacted Sheila and Sheila then urged Deano to make up. Deano held the phone until he heard a click and put it away. He went to warn Sheila, who would give him a look, sigh, and then go back to whatever she was doing.

The phone rang again.

“I dropped the phone,” said Marion with only a light blubbering.

“Oh, I was about to call you back.”

“I think we should have a service, a ceremony. That’s what I want.”

“Well, you can have that, sure. With your ashes, if that’s what you want. I just don’t think it’s that big a deal. I mean, Dad didn’t care. He did that Neptune society thing until you intervened. And would you want, like, a rabbi, priest, minister? Druid, maybe? I mean, I wouldn’t know.”

“I intervened as you put it, because that stupid society was just so cold. They’d toss his ashes anywhere. They didn’t care.”

“No, not quite. The society would take his ashes and distribute them over the ocean, which Dad thought was fine. He checked the ‘Any ocean’ box. That much I remember.”

Marion started to cry, louder this time.

“He did it so not to burden us.”

“Exactly, exactly. And I plan to honor that. Unscrew the top, pour him out, and voila, Dad’s ashes are on their way. Better than hanging out in a cramped attic.”

“And Mom?”

“Open the box and off she goes to wherever the winds may take her.”

“The box? You still have her in a box? In the attic?”

Deano held the phone away from his ear, gritting his teeth, and took a breath trough his nose, almost sensing the hairs being sucked down deep in his nostrils. Then he took another more calming breath. Slowly, deliberately, with stressed calm, he said, “Shel, I gotta hop. Talk later. Let Sheila know you’re going to have a ceremony for your ashes.” He heard snuffles, at the other end and a quick, controlled, “Fine” before his older sister hung up. He could breathe easily again.

He was up in the attic retrieving two suitcases before heading to the garage. He eyed his rods and tackle, deliberating over whether he’d need a surf rod of something light or maybe the fly rod. He took all three, just in case. Sheila yelled down the steps telling him to take beach chairs and warning him it would be getting cool so he should bring a jacket. “It’s the Cape in October, you know.”

“Oh?” he replied. “It’s not Boca in August?”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“Nothing!”

“WHAT?”

“NOTHING!!”

Sheila arranged a bag with snacks for the ride, and Deano suggested maybe they could stop for fried clams on the way. She said she’d already prepared food and didn’t want it to go to waste. “We can get clams in P-town,” she said.

“If anything’s still open,” he countered.

“Of course, if anything’s still open,” she retorted.

When she opened the back of the SUV, she asked him to get a third chair. He looked up from organizing his box of lures. Confused, then worried, he asked, “Why?”

“For Marion. She won’t want to sit on the sand for goodness’ sake. And can you move your rods? There’s no room in the backseat.”

“What? Why? Wait! She’s coming? I didn’t know. Really? Tell me your joking or I’ll kill you!”

“I’m not joking. We’re picking her up at the station.”

“It’s justifiable homicide then. I didn’t know. God, she’ll ruin everything.”

“She said you told her to arrange it with me, so we did.”

“Arrange what?”

“The ceremony.”

“There’s no ceremony! I’m just tossing their ashes in the water, finally, after a hundred years. What ceremony?”

“She wants to come and do it together. I think that’s nice.”

“She’ll be there the whole time?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t she? It’ll be fun. She can sleep on the pullout in the living room.”

“She goes to bed at 9! I was hoping to watch stupid TV.”

“There’s WiFi. You can watch on your computer. Hurry. Her train comes in soon.”

Deano’s life flashed before his eyes. He envisioned the last moments soon to come. The slurry of ashes in the sea coating his legs with a heavy, thick cement, in the cold water off Herring Cove Beach, dragging him out with the tide, his sister clinging to him like a drowning man, sobbing, taking him under the waves and Sheila filming it all with her iPhone 11+. “Ah, that’s sweet,” she’d say. “Ooh, this is really nice,” then she’d swing the phone around to take in the lighthouse. “Oh, look, isn’t that an osprey?”

He could feel himself prying his sister’s arms and fingers from his now bruised shoulder, pushing her off as she grabbed for him, diving into the surf, swimming his best dog-paddle, then sidestroke out into the sea to the point of exhaustion, finally slipping beneath the waves as he hears the muffled cries of his sister and Sheila’s enthused shouting about how much they love the Cape at this time of the year all while he takes into his lungs the mud of seawater and ashes, choking, smothering, in this final act of parental control. He could hear his mother’s long-dead voice, “I told you you should take swimming lessons at the Y,” and his father in rare agreement. “But, nooo, you wanted to play guitar!”

“You okay? You look dazed.”

“Fine, just fine. Like you said, it’s my funeral.”

Marion met them at the train station, with a very large suitcase in tow with a second one still on the platform waiting to be picked up. “You packed a lot,” said Deano. Marion glowered at him, turned to Sheila, and said the second bag contained the urns. “They’re heavy. Do you mind?”

She carried a bouquet under her arm that kept slipping out. “Flowers for us?” asked Sheila.

“Oh no. I thought we’d lay them in the water so the tide could carry them out with Momm…Mom and Dad. Buddhists do that. Or Hindus. Maybe Hindus now that I think about it.”

The drive to the Cape went surprisingly well—no fights, tears, or stirring up of a lifetime of family tensions—because Marion slept most of the way and only woke as they crossed the Bourne Bridge, which was just in time for her to see the Clam Shack boasting of being the first or last fried-clam Mecca on the Cape, depending whether you were coming or going. “Oooh, I love fried clams…let’s stop, I’m hungry anyway.”

Sheila said she was peckish, too, and might indulge in their onion rings. Deano glared at her, but she just smiled and said maybe they’d have a light dinner.

The sun was still below the horizon when he woke to go fishing, tiptoeing past Marion, who asked him to keep it down. It was a long walk to the beach, but with rod in hand, he was happy. The tide was out, which was not the best time for fishing, and the wind was blowing hard, making for difficult casts. He managed to land just a handful of mackerel, which he threw back. Still, any fish were better than none. He looked into the morning sky and saw the night’s final stars in the dark blue overhead giving way to a rising red from the east. “Red sky in morning,” he thought to himself.

After returning to breakfast at the rental, Deano said they should drive to Herring Cove Beach, where they used to go as kids and do what they came to do, “Then we can head over to Wellfleet, catch the incoming tide, and, maybe, get some more fried clams.” Marion said she’d be up for a cappuccino, maybe frozen custard, in Provincetown, and Sheila couldn’t agree more.

“And then Wellfleet,” said Deano.

“Maybe, let’s see,” said Sheila.

“No, not maybe. C’mon.” It came out as a whine.

Marion looked at him with sympathetic eyes, leaned her head to one side like she did when she was trying to be helpful, and said, “It’s hard, I know. You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset. It’s not hard. It’s easy. The hard part is doing what I’m here to do. Fish!!!”

“And the ceremony,” said Marion.

“Not at all. I’m here to drop the ashes in the only place I remember them being happy together. How old was I? Seven? I probably didn’t know any better. Let’s go. And then cappuccinos.”

“And ice cream. Daddy would have liked that. Pistachio with hot fudge was his favorite.”

“God,” said Deano.

There were only a handful of people on the beach and they were already leaving as the wind picked up and clouds darkened. “No one’s here,” observed Sheila.

“Just as well,” said Deano.

“Why ‘just as well’?” asked Marion.

“Because it’s illegal to spread someone’s ashes in a public place.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Sheila said.

“Nope. It’s illegal, and in federal waters it’s really illegal unless you’re three miles offshore. I looked it up.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Marion. “They’re clean organic matter. That’s just not right.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I don’t see any cops or undercover looking people. Let’s do it and get those coffees.”

“Cappuccinos,” corrected his sister.

“Honestly, they’re still coffees.”

“They’re more espresso than coffee and I don’t want you taking us to a coffee shop instead of a café, that’s really—”

“Fine, fine, let’s move it. Bring your ashes.”

“I’d rather not,” said Marion.

“Do you want me to carry them, hon?” asked Sheila.

“No, I decided to keep them. I like having them near me.”

“When did you decide that?” demanded Deano.

“On the train up. I just held those urns and couldn’t let them go.”

“So you didn’t have to come up here?”

“Of course I did. You have Mommy and Daddy, too. Half of them anyway.”

Deano turned to glare at Sheila who put on a smile and said, “I think that’s a very nice idea. Deano, maybe you want to keep them. Somewhere other than the attic.”

“No, I don’t. They were happy here. We were happy here. Once. I think. You know why?”

“Why?” they came back in unison.

“Because we didn’t have to distribute anyone’s goddamned ashes!”

“No,” said Marion. “We buried them in those days.”

“Let’s get this done,” said Deano.

They walked over the wet sand, Marion stumbling in her heels, finally leaning on Deano as she took them off. Sheila was smiling at the high waves driven by the wind. “Oh, it’s like a storm,” she said.

At the water’s edge, Deano took out his mother’s box from a large canvas beach bag and started to open it.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to say something, like a prayer or some words about Mom and Dad?”

Deano stared across the rough sea and wondered how far out he could swim. “The thought never crossed my mind. I’m up for a silent meditation.”

“Well, I want to say something.”

“Be my guest!”

“Mommy and Daddy. I love you and miss you and now send you off to your rest.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Those are the words you wanted me to say?”

“Well, a bit more, a lot more. Like with god and everything, but I didn’t prepare a speech so, yes, that’s it.”

“Christ,” he said.

Deano opened the lid of his mother’s box, looked about again for the authorities, and, seeing none, undid the twist tie on its plastic bag, and poured the ashes into the shallow surf of the incoming tide. Marion came over to him, tears shedding, and held his arm in a vice grip. He threw the box back onto the sand and took a few steps into the water, the higher waves lapping over his thighs. Marion held on more tightly, sobbing now.

He unscrewed the urn and slowly poured out his dad’s final remains. The slow stream of ashes made a soft whoosh as they hit the water. As the last dust fell into the sea, he heard the non-whoosh sound of a splash. Unwinding himself from Marion’s clutches, he dove in, pushing her away. Sheila yelled, Marion screamed, and Deano rose, triumphant, his hand raised in the air.

“The sanitary pontic! A half-ounce if it weighs anything!”

He gulped in the ashy slurry after his sister pushed him into a particular large incoming wave, still holding tightly to his father’s former dental work.