The wounded hornet stabbed the earth to stop the hurting.
This ladybug on my finger, is it him?
He seemed enlightened, but denied it. "Incipient, perpetually incipient!" he said, laughing. I used to use big words like that, even at breakfast. He would speak that way to gently tease me.
He was sitting when he smiled beautifully, rose, went into the garden, and began killing bugs. He ground them under foot. He squished them between his fingers. He smiled the beautiful smile as he killed them.
But when he saw the spider, his smile changed to one of vengeance. After he had crushed it, he looked surprised and fell.
When I returned from calling the ambulance he was smiling peacefully.
Ladybug, ladybug,
Fly away home.
Your house is on fire,
Your children alone.
My name, I remember, is Keaton. I'm a refugee from MUDville. For months I have spent whole nights and weekends there - sometimes a whole day at work.
And now MUDville is no more. My modem gets no answer when I phone up to log in.
MUDville, a Camelot with pale yellow skies and blue nights, floating canals and hanging gardens. I picture the cherubs and ivy around the doorway of the Anti-Depression Hotel, where it's always 1934 and tea is being served at 4:00 in the palm court.
Where I met Valerie and her friends one afternoon ~ it was winter in the real world, another blizzard rattling the windows, but high summer in MUDville, as it always is, the Rio Trio on the bandstand playing 'Eyes of Blue' and a few couples dancing in the breeze from the grounds outside the French doors. We drank lemonade instead of tea and ate watercress sandwiches and almond cakes till we were stuffed. I fell in love that warm summer day, and when the lights went out during a thunderstorm, I squeezed Valerie's knee under the table.
In our intimate conversations, we have told each other everything, walking hand-in-hand across the hotel grounds, sitting on a bench under a willow, canoeing on the pond. I have loved her sweetly, chastely, and given her my heart. And now she and MUDville, I fear, have slipped through a crack in cyberspace. And all I have is a phone number with a Pittsburgh area code and a name of a bar on the Southside.
There, just over there, just good-bye to the place and hello to the road past these fields and no clear destination because there isn’t one, couldn’t be, you’ve been there and you know how it goes on outside time or something without words just blades of grass sharper than history in books. Alone on that road is ghostly just for the fact of it, people before me, after me, and these telephone poles alone (one) alone (two) alone (three) and not so alone on and on.
I’ve seen these birds before. They crapped on the map I’d spread to read where I was. They obliterated North Battleford.
Conjunctions, crossroads, footsteps, footprints in sharp relief the sun so low now stretching everything sideways, same sun of the Romans, same sun watched us climb down from the trees, same as shined on the death camps on those beautiful days in World War Two that ought to have been grey as newsreels, Nature boycotting our games. She won’t argue. The sun shines when he feels, shining on whoever. I remember it between my shoulder blades. In the grass, our sounds were part of that melody, symphony ~ strange amoral sympathy. She could teach us about unconditional love, Nature could, if we’d accept her terms.
A truck rolls by kicking up dirt, a beast in a hurry burying itself over that rise, only to rise again much smaller now and slower, then to disappear over another something of a hill, smaller again next time as it crawls up bugspeckle bound for the horizon. Carrying food home for a hungry brood. Maybe that’s where I’d be headed too, if she’d let me be.
It would be a luxury to be lost, but the crapped-on map still reads. I’m not headed for North Battleford.
Moon peeks up, early, hurrying the sun along. There will be stars. It will be cool. Maybe I’ll stop thinking and have memories of my own, like the ones you gave me, with love, in love ~ nice. Not as certain as this road, never as determined, but light enough to carry and lie back on in need.
There’ll never be another shooting star like that Lucifer that stole our breath and melted us to one another. Each one different in lots of ways.
Stretched out in the Lazy-Boy rocker, book open on his chest rising and falling with his breath, glasses pushed up on his forehead ~ this is the archetypically eternal image of my father. I knew that someday the old Lazy-Boy would be empty, and yet it could never be, nothing could challenge the rise and fall of his breath, each cycle new yet timeless.
Thus my surprise when the meteor crashed through the roof and passed through my father’s body, the old Lazy-Boy rocker, the floor, and so on down into the earth so long ago covered by our suburban home.
The heat of the meteor had cooked father’s insides and left a hole of perfectly circular integrity, like in the cartoons I had watched as a child. What the cartoons did not intimate, however, was the scent of cooked meat which caused me to salivate in a Pavlovian manner, inappropriate though I knew this to be.
I would have stood there staring all day had not a piece of burning wood fallen on my head and set my hair on fire.
Acting quickly, I smothered the flames by burying my head in the big, old, floppy pillow that had always sat on the sofa, the primordial image of a ‘stuffed thing’. I had never appreciated it until then.
I assessed the situation. There was little that could be done for father. The meteor had obliterated his diaphragm and the lower portions of both lungs.
I was saddened, but the expression of grief would have to wait for a moment more opportune. As the timbers of the roof groaned, I regretted the urgency of the situation which made recovery of my father’s body ill advised. I looked one last time upon him reclining in his Lazy-Boy rocker as he had ever done (though previously in a more integrated way) and then recalled that long ago Vikings burned their honoured dead in longships. In a similar manner my father would begin his journey to the beyond in the old Lazy-Boy rocker. Comforted, I called the emergency number and left the house.
My sister’s blue pick-up truck arrived shortly after the fire department. She had taken mother shopping. They were dismayed when I related to them what had happened and that the meteor no doubt still smouldered below the foundations.
"Meteorite," my sister said, "They’re meteors when they’re aloft, but when they fall to earth we call them meteorites."
I stood corrected.
When his flight is announced, he waits to be the last one on board, before the long ride belted into a cramped economy seat. In the queue waiting to step into the cabin, he stops behind a young woman. She is studying her watch.
"Do you know what time it is in New Haven?" she asks.
"One hour ahead," he says and shows her his watch. He has not changed it since he left this morning.
"I always get confused," she says. Her shoulder touches his arm as she sets her watch to his. She is much younger than he, wearing a short dress, her long hair brushed out over her shoulders.
She finally looks up at him. The queue has begun to move again. "I'd like to talk with you," she says. "Can we sit together?"
He is surprised, flattered. Says no, and makes a lame excuse. They step on board.
His seat, he finds, is near the back of the plane. The window seat next to him is empty. Across the aisle, reading a book, is a crewcut young man in jeans and a sweatshirt. College kid, he thinks.
He takes off his shoes and flips through a magazine. But he is still thinking about the woman. Was she hitting on him? Afraid of flying? Bored? A psychic who suddenly saw something he should know about himself? Or just someone peddling one of those pyramid business schemes? He'll never know.
The cabin is hot and the air from the overhead vents is weak, though he opens them full force. Finally, the captain announces there will be a delay while mechanics fix the ventilation.
Passengers filter back into the terminal to wait, but he stays in his seat, getting drowsy.
The cabin is filling again when he opens his eyes. The college kid is coming down the aisle to his seat, talking to someone behind him. It is the woman again. She has found someone to talk to.
But the kid does all the talking. And she listens, turned to face him. He orders a beer, eats both their box lunches, jokes with the stewardess, keeps talking. She moves closer to him, lightly touches his arm.
Finally, the kid climbs over her to the aisle and walks back to the john. Sitting alone, she checks her makeup in a pocket mirror. If she knows he is sitting across the aisle, she does not even glance his way. She is a complete stranger, minding her own business.
In New Haven, the plane taxis in from the runway. Outside it is dark; the terminal is brightly lighted. The passengers crowd into the aisle and slowly file off.
The back of the plane empties last, and he waits to let the kid and the woman go ahead of him. She starts down the aisle, but the kid hangs back. He has bags to get down from the overhead bin.
She hesitates, then walks on. There is nothing to do but follow her.
Crossing the tarmac to the terminal, she walks without hurry, dropping behind the passengers who hurry on ahead. He senses that she wants him to catch up to her.
Just inside the terminal, a man in a dark suit and dark shirt stands watching. His hands clasped in front of him, he seems to recognize no one.
The woman walks directly to him and stops as she reaches him. He puts his arms around her, enfolding her against his body. They remain in each other's embrace, without moving, without speaking.
He walks by them and out to his car in the parking lot. Did she want the man in the suit to see her get off the plane with another man? He gets into his car.
Or ~ and this suddenly seems more likely ~ did they really not know each other at all? And did she finally find someone as reckless as she, willing to fall in love at first sight?
And what next? And how would it all end?
He'll never know.
My sister bursts into tears. "It looks like one of those office waste paper cans!" she sobs.
"I'll get a different one. Don't worry. I'll go pick out a special one." I say quickly. My eyes lock on hers and do a little fibrilating thing in an attempt to communicate without words. I'm hoping desperately that she'll suddenly become aware of how detrimental it is for her to appear vulnerable. We may be dealing with death, but the key word is deal. No luck; she thinks that my eyes are bulging because I'm barely able to contain my anger. She cries uncontrollably. So much for our telepathic link.
The funeral man closes his book. "We have a wide selection of urns that you might like to choose from", he informs us as his unnaturally large head rotates on it's axis, coming to rest in the direction of my sister. "This particular model is simply the standard container in the event that your priorities call for a more...economical choice".
Though I always try hard not to use ugly, easy words to judge people, I think, "You fat asshole," as I look at him grimly. My sister inhales a shuddering breath and puts her face in her hands. I notice a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck as he leans forward to place a brochure in front of her.
They make their cheap urn look like a crappy garbage can so that grief-stricken people will feel shitty enough to spend hundreds of dollars for a fancy garbage can. I'm just not capable of loving ashes that much, no matter who they used to be.
"No, thank you anyway. I already have one in mind that I was looking at yesterday," I tell the funeral guy. His veiny cheeks flush shades of mottled red and white as he smiles tightly and looks everywhere but into my eyes.
I take my sister home and then go off by myself to the gift shop that I had seen the urn in. I spot it on one of the rows of glass shelves, a golden glint amongst a sea of crystal dinner bells and clear glass serving platters. I stare at it on the shelf for a minute, appraising it, giving it the weight of much importance. It is tall and brass and shaped like Barbara Eden's bottle from I Dream Of Jeanie. The $60 price tag seems reasonable so I carry it up to the counter.
As I pay the saleswoman I become aware of my desire to tell her that I will be using it as a container for my father's ashes. "While you're standing here scowling at customers with that clump of mascara clinging on to your eyelash for dear life, we'll be filling this thing with his burnt remains, you know," I think I might say. But in the end I just take my urn and say "Thank you".
**************
The next morning the funeral parlor calls me.
"We're sorry but we've found that the urn that you delivered to us isn't large enough. There's still a small amount of your father's remains that don't fit in. We're so very sorry". The voice belongs to what sounds like a genuinely sympathetic woman. I imagine the perspiring funeral man standing behind her grappling with the notion of whether or not to grab the receiver and try to do a hard sell on a deluxe urn in the hopes that I feel sufficiently horrible about the situation.
My father was, in fact, a big man: Over two hundred pounds, tall; a big man.
"Well, how much is left over?" I picture Julia Childs with a measuring cup, doling out the leftover Dad into a mixing bowl.
"Well, not very much. Um, about a cup and a half, I suppose. I'm sorry if this is upsetting."
"I'll get right back to you," I say as glibly as possible. In fact, I am appalled. My mind returns to the one thought that has provided me solace a dozen times over the last few days: He would have thought this was all so funny. I wonder if I'm full of shit.
I call my sister who agrees with me that, for vaguely superstitious reasons, we should use the urn that I had purchased. She offers to bring them a small container to hold the rest of him, which is currently employed as a fancy container for her incense.
"I don't see any real reason why it wouldn't be all right for him to be in two urns," she says, surprising me with her confidence.
******************
It's a clear day. Warm enough to melt snow. The Chinook winds dance through the coulees, flapping hanging laundry everywhere into submission. Discarded plastic shopping bags that have caught themselves on chain link fences look almost patriotic as they whip and flutter in their bid for freedom. The two cars full of my family sit impatiently waiting to take us to scatter his ashes at the golf course that my father played on every weekend before his death.
My sister and I have just had a terrible fight, the whispered, clenched-teeth kind. She has decided that she would like to keep the small portion of our father that sits inside her incense holder. I think of it as irrational, an attempt for her to cling on to him instead of having him blow away forever into the wind. My own irrational image of an incomplete and disgruntled Dad on her mantle fuels my anger. I can see my brothers both looking at us from the back seat of my car, furious for creating extra ripples in the pain. My sister and I part, slamming the doors on our respective cars. As we pull out, I can see my sister's minister trying to reason with her in their back seat. I hope he uses phrases like "Jesus Christ, Barbara!" and "There's no goddamn bloody sense in it!" Blaspheming ministers can't help but drive a point home.
I absent-mindedly formulate a plan as we drive on. I shall tackle her if need be and free the excess dust of my father before she can recover.
*************
There are four golf carts waiting for us next to the country club parking lot. Someone has actually polished and waxed them and placed little pots of Mums in the holes where the golf bags usually go. Four young men, employees of the club, sit waiting to drive us to the designated hole. I take the passenger seat in the first golf cart and sit quietly, imagining how we look with our urns and sad faces and shiny electric golf carts which have now begun to hum and bounce over the grass. Thankfully, the owners have cleared off the golfers for the morning so that we can carry out our mission in private. With any luck at all, we'll be the only witnesses to this Pee Wee Herman funeral procession.
I turn around and catch my youngest brother's eye. He has an incredulous look on his face which I assume to be the shock that abject humiliation might cause. He sees me but doesn't respond to my smile. My other brother rolls his eyes for my benefit and then ducks his head a bit as he hunches forward to protect himself from the chill. I can faintly hear my sister singing Amazing Grace to herself, but faster and hipper than usual. It suits the Lilliputian feel of the event.
"Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to grieve we go," I sing to the man steering my cart. Unsure of what to do he stammers out, "You...you're, uh, quite a good singer."
The drivers deposit us by a grass covered hill and gradually disappear back towards the parking lot. My sister immediately sits down with her minister and they begin playing and singing catchy religious songs.
"If you want to, you can join in," says my sister to no one in particular.
One of my brothers lights a cigarette, then flicks the match into the air. I follow it with my eyes to where it lands near the song book that my sister has secured open with two flat rocks and the incense holder. I find myself staring at the match, willing it to stay lit and ignite the pages of the hymn book, but with no success.
"OK, I'd really like to do this, Barb," I say finally. "It feels like the right time now."
"I'm sorry about before," she says sincerely as she puts down the guitar and picks up her part of Dad.
As we take our places a few yards from each other halfway up the hill my sister shouts "Peter, be careful of the big bone bits. It doesn't all just burn into ash."
I wonder how she knows this sort of thing.
We take our lids off simultaneously. I only hesitate a moment before swinging my arms in a large arc, so that the contents spread into the air like a blanket. Time seems to slow down. I can see a few of those white pieces rise and fall, but the larger cloud of Dad ashes whirls for a moment in the wind, suspended. Suddenly a gust catches my father and blows him in a flurry towards my sister.
I shout, "Barb, Duck! It's Dad!"
She turns towards me and squeals as she comprehends what is happening. She tosses her now emptied incense holder and flattens herself on the ground, covering her head with her hands. Dad dust blows by her before settling in a series of little waves near the green of the fourteenth hole.
I start to laugh when I see her expression.
"Prick," she says laughing as she sits up, brushing off the brown grass from her pants. "Shut up and give me a cigarette".
We all move together in a sort of huddle, my brothers and sister and I, and stand quietly with our arms around each other. Every now and then my sister's arm reaches out from the group and flicks cigarette ash into the air.
