Within the span of a year, Charlie had taken custody of and held funerals for nearly a dozen anonymous souls.
Violet Hausman had been a war bride from Britain and the mother of three sons, all of whom had followed in their father's footsteps and enlisted in the military. Unlike him, all three had been killed in the line of duty: David in Vietnam, Paul in the Beirut barracks bombing, and George in the Persian Gulf War. Her husband had died of a heart attack in between Paul and George. Despite these losses, Violet persevered, earning a living as a seamstress and dressmaker, and was estimated to be nearly ninety when she finally died. She had been found in the back of a fabric store, clutching the bolt of red gingham she had been inspecting when the aneurysm struck.
John Czernesky gave the best years of his life and health to the second shift at the plant, where he helped build the thousands of circle saws and power drills that went out and built treehouses and fences and bookcases, only to see his job vanish and his skills rendered useless when the corporation packed up and moved to cheaper climes overseas. He soothed his despair with can after can of cheap beer and cigarettes, eventually drinking himself onto the street. His liver poisoned beyond repair, he died in his sleep under the bridge he used to drive across twice a day coming and going from the plant. He hadn't been much older than Charlie.
Summer Johnson had run away from home when the arguments with her abusive stepfather became too much to bear. Blessed with a magical singing voice, she dreamed of escaping to New York City and making a run at Broadway. She had been living with a friend, studying for her GED and working a mall job to save up the money for a head shot and bus fare. Unfortunately, she had begun stripping and turning the occasional trick as well, and one night, she ended up with a john who had a thing for snuff films.
Violet, Paul and Summer, and all the others, had ended up in Charlie's care, and he tried to plan respectful and appropriate funerals and burials, even putting in personal touches: a coffin blanket of pink daisies (her favorite) for Summer, having a soloist sing a haunting rendition of 'Jerusalem' for Violet, carving the emblem of the machinists' union on Paul's headstone. (He didn't dare carve the name; the names remained in his notes at home.) He spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on the services and burials, trying to treat every last anonymous body as if it was his family member.
He even created portraits of each person. He had tried his hand at drawing them, but the results were laughable. Then he began leafing through magazines at the supermarket checkout line to look for matches, but never could get anybody just right; the eyes of one person would be right, but the nose and the mouth and the hair would be all wrong. That was when he experimented with cutting the ads and pictures apart and building new faces out of the pieces. The new faces were disjointed, to be certain, but with practice and technique he was soon able to make some startingly precise pictures. He made one for every decedent, then began to make baby pictures and, for the older ones, pictures of their younger days. Violet even had a magnificent wedding portrait.
At first he kept the pictures in the person's folder, but soon purchased picture frames and displayed the pictures on his bookshelves and end tables. It was nice to return home from a long day and see Paul or Summer smiling at him.
Charlie's pictures and funerals remained his secret for a long time, until the day that Thomas St. Pierre came into his custody. Thomas hailed from New Orleans originally, coming here to teach music at one of the local colleges, and had meant to return to his beloved hometown, but an accidental fall by the river ended his life before he could go back South. Charlie decided to throw Thomas an old-fashioned Louisiana funeral, complete with parade, marching band, umbrella-waving dancers and steaming kettles of gumbo at the repast.
The spectacle-- the likes of which had never been seen in these Pennsylvania streets-- attracted a lot of attention.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Remains-- Chapter Three
The unknown man ended up with a beautifully-stained hardwood casket lined in white satin, a new suit, a blanket of white roses, and a graveside service conducted by Vera's minister, who had agreed to hold rites for the man free of charge. Tim and Tom Hoffman, the coroner, and Charlie had attended, the four of them acting as pallbearers. Then the man was laid to rest in a plot--purchased by Charlie-- in the cemetery closest to Miller Furnace Park, his grave marked with a simple stone etched with the year of death.
Charlie had done a beautiful job providing the stranger with a respectful funeral and burial. But he still felt that it was inadequate, that something was missing. He pondered it for days and days after the burial, wondering what he had forgotten, and why he couldn't lay the anxiety to rest. Then one evening, as he was watching the news, it suddenly occurred to him.
He needed to know the man's name. The man had died anonymously, mourned by strangers, and now slept in an unmarked grave, and Charlie found that utterly unacceptable. He resolved to give the dead man the final dignity of having his name, and life, acknowledged, and in the morning placed another call to the coroner.
The officer on the other end of the line let out a long, weary sigh. "I'm not sure what else we can do, Charlie. We did everything we could to find out who he was."
"DNA?" challenged Charlie.
"Yes."
"Dental records?"
"Of course. Fingerprints, the whole nine yards. We even put the notice in the paper."
"But...he had a name," insisted Charlie. "He had to. He had a life."
"Welcome to our world," said the coroner sadly. "This happens a lot. More often than you'd think."
"Somebody out there might be looking for him!"
"Perhaps, but-- well, at this point, it's not likely. Look. Most people around here have lived here their whole lives. Their families have been here for generations. And sometimes, well, the rest of the family dies off, drifts away, whatever, and people are left alone, and they remain here, and they eventually die here. And, a lot of the time, that's it. We have a lot of unknown bodies here. They aren't claimed because there's nobody left to claim them. It's sad, but it is what it is."
Charlie looked around at his little house, empty and-- unless the TV was on-- silent. Would anybody claim me when my time comes?
"I want them," Charlie said.
"I'm sorry?"
"I want them. The unclaimed people-- I want all of them. When the time for finding their families is over, and there's nothing left for you to do, I want you to call me."
"You don't want to do that, Charlie. You can't do what you did for that man for all these other people. It will cost you a fortune."
"I have a fortune, and this is how I wish to spend it. Until it runs out, I'm going to hold funerals for all of them. Nobody should have to go unknown and unclaimed."
***
He hired a private investigator to try and find the dead man's identity, but with the limited information from the coroner-- white male, 6' 1", 200 pounds, in his early 60's, three silver fillings, early stages of heart disease-- there wasn't much to go on. The investigator chased the few weak leads he had, but came up empty, and told Charlie that he, too, had done what he could. Charlie had to confront the horror that the man would never be identified.
He tried to let go of the mystery, but as much as he distracted himself and lectured himself, the nagging question would not lie still.
Unable to sleep, he padded downstairs for a glass of milk. He sat at his little table, drinking the milk and staring at the clock, which glowed 1:38 accusingly.
Then he had a strange idea, which he initially dismissed, but then called back for further consideration. He finished the milk, got up, and picked up the notepad and pen from beside the phone. He poured himself a second glass of milk, sat back down, and stared at the blank page.
C&S Industrial Forms, Inc., read the logo at the top. He had no idea where he had gotten the pad.
Then he set the pen down on the paper and began to write cautiously.
Walter Schmidt
Age 62
Born in Upper Rock Haven Township
Mother Mary, Father Henry
Six feet tall, eh?
Guard, West Valley High School basketball team
...which meant that, he may have...
Attended Villanova University on basketball scholarship
...and, if he was in his sixties, he may have...
Played in the NCAA Tournament
What else? He had cavities and heart disease, so...
Favorite foods were hard candies and sausages
He looked at the list of Walter's supposed accomplishments and felt better. He chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully, and continued to build the dead man's imaginary resume.
Charlie had done a beautiful job providing the stranger with a respectful funeral and burial. But he still felt that it was inadequate, that something was missing. He pondered it for days and days after the burial, wondering what he had forgotten, and why he couldn't lay the anxiety to rest. Then one evening, as he was watching the news, it suddenly occurred to him.
He needed to know the man's name. The man had died anonymously, mourned by strangers, and now slept in an unmarked grave, and Charlie found that utterly unacceptable. He resolved to give the dead man the final dignity of having his name, and life, acknowledged, and in the morning placed another call to the coroner.
The officer on the other end of the line let out a long, weary sigh. "I'm not sure what else we can do, Charlie. We did everything we could to find out who he was."
"DNA?" challenged Charlie.
"Yes."
"Dental records?"
"Of course. Fingerprints, the whole nine yards. We even put the notice in the paper."
"But...he had a name," insisted Charlie. "He had to. He had a life."
"Welcome to our world," said the coroner sadly. "This happens a lot. More often than you'd think."
"Somebody out there might be looking for him!"
"Perhaps, but-- well, at this point, it's not likely. Look. Most people around here have lived here their whole lives. Their families have been here for generations. And sometimes, well, the rest of the family dies off, drifts away, whatever, and people are left alone, and they remain here, and they eventually die here. And, a lot of the time, that's it. We have a lot of unknown bodies here. They aren't claimed because there's nobody left to claim them. It's sad, but it is what it is."
Charlie looked around at his little house, empty and-- unless the TV was on-- silent. Would anybody claim me when my time comes?
"I want them," Charlie said.
"I'm sorry?"
"I want them. The unclaimed people-- I want all of them. When the time for finding their families is over, and there's nothing left for you to do, I want you to call me."
"You don't want to do that, Charlie. You can't do what you did for that man for all these other people. It will cost you a fortune."
"I have a fortune, and this is how I wish to spend it. Until it runs out, I'm going to hold funerals for all of them. Nobody should have to go unknown and unclaimed."
***
He hired a private investigator to try and find the dead man's identity, but with the limited information from the coroner-- white male, 6' 1", 200 pounds, in his early 60's, three silver fillings, early stages of heart disease-- there wasn't much to go on. The investigator chased the few weak leads he had, but came up empty, and told Charlie that he, too, had done what he could. Charlie had to confront the horror that the man would never be identified.
He tried to let go of the mystery, but as much as he distracted himself and lectured himself, the nagging question would not lie still.
Unable to sleep, he padded downstairs for a glass of milk. He sat at his little table, drinking the milk and staring at the clock, which glowed 1:38 accusingly.
Then he had a strange idea, which he initially dismissed, but then called back for further consideration. He finished the milk, got up, and picked up the notepad and pen from beside the phone. He poured himself a second glass of milk, sat back down, and stared at the blank page.
C&S Industrial Forms, Inc., read the logo at the top. He had no idea where he had gotten the pad.
Then he set the pen down on the paper and began to write cautiously.
Walter Schmidt
Age 62
Born in Upper Rock Haven Township
Mother Mary, Father Henry
Six feet tall, eh?
Guard, West Valley High School basketball team
...which meant that, he may have...
Attended Villanova University on basketball scholarship
...and, if he was in his sixties, he may have...
Played in the NCAA Tournament
What else? He had cavities and heart disease, so...
Favorite foods were hard candies and sausages
He looked at the list of Walter's supposed accomplishments and felt better. He chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully, and continued to build the dead man's imaginary resume.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Remains-- Chapter Two
Many months passed. Charlie went to his job every weekday morning, came home every weekday evening, pretended to care about Penn State football, fell asleep in front of some crime drama, raked leaves, raked his neighbor's leaves, cleaned out his closets, ordered pizzas and, one afternoon, bought himself a new pair of oxfords for work. He tumbled comfortably back into the mundane routine he had known before the inheritance, and after a while forgot entirely about the unknown dead man, the phone call, and even his fortune.
The only thing he didn't forget was Aunt Vera. She had been an old curmudgeon, but she had been the only family he had left, and he mourned the loss of her muttering, frowning little mouth and watery coffee.
He returned one day from work to the message light on his answering machine, flashing on and off in a oddly celebratory manner.
Mr. Wentzl, this is the coroner's office? Please call us back at your earliest convenience at 484 646 9903. Thank you!
Charlie's eyes flew wide. He grabbed a pen, replayed the message, and jotted down the number. As it was after 5 pm, it was too late to call that day, but he resolved to call first thing the next morning.
And he did.
"Coroner."
"Hello, this is Charlie Wentzl. Your office called me yesterday?"
"Oh, yes. You had contacted us some time back about the John Doe from Miller Furnace?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, nobody's claimed him. Do you still want to take him?"
"Absolutely." Charlie grabbed his pen and notepad again. "What do I need to do?"
"Just pick him up."
"Pick him up?" Charlie quailed. "Like, come put him in the trunk of the car or something?"
"Sure," replied the coroner, "although you need to arrange for a legal method of disposal. You can't take him home and bury him in your backyard or anything like that. You need to get a licensed mortician lined up. I have some names and numbers of funeral homes that can help you."
"No, that's okay. I have one. I'll arrange for them to come get him." He made a mental note to call the Hoffmans; they had done a good job for Vera.
"Who will you be sending?"
"Hoffman Brothers in Weisstown."
"Oh yeah, I know Tim. Just have him call me with his pick-up time."
It felt eerily like he was arranging for the purchase and delivery of a piece of furniture. "Will do."
He hung up the phone, jogged his memory for the Hoffmans' phone number, and failing to recall it completely, caved and looked it up in the phone book.
"Hoffman Brothers Funeral Home," said the gentle yet assertive voice. "How may I help you?"
"Yes, this is Charlie Wentzl. You handled the arrangements for my aunt, Vera Wentzl?"
"Oh, yes, Charlie. How are you doing?"
"Fine. Look"-- and suddenly, he realized just how bizarre he was going to sound, and he stumbled. "Um...um."
"Is everything all right?" Tim prompted.
"Um...yes. I'm sorry. I need--I need to have a body picked up from the county morgue?"
"Of course." Tim's businesslike demeanor betrayed no alarm, but then again, he did this for a living. "What name?"
"Um...well, I don't know. John Doe."
"John Doe?" Now Tim sounded a bit surprised.
"Yes. I--I don't know his real name."
"Well, Charlie," Tim said gently, "I'm not sure that I can claim somebody without a name--"
"No," Charlie interrupted. "They'll know who you're looking for. They don't know who he is, either. Do you remember the bit in the paper some time back about a dead man in Miller Furnace Park?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, that's this guy."
"Is he a relative of yours? Friend?"
"No."
"Can I ask, then, why you want me to pick him up?"
"I'm going to have him buried," explained Charlie. "Otherwise they'll donate him to science, so-- they're letting me take him and handle his arrangements."
"Charlie, that's so kind of you," exclaimed Tim.
"It's nothing," dismissed Charlie.
"No, it is," insisted Tim, "but-- well, even a basic funeral isn't cheap. You know that."
"No, I know. It's okay."
"You'd do that?" Tim sounded awed. "You'd do that for this man you don't know?"
"Like I said, it's nothing."
"It's very kind." Charlie could hear Tim ruffling through some papers. "I'll call them and arrange a pick up time, and then I'll call you back to schedule a time for us to meet and make the arrangements." He paused. "I can't make any concrete promises right now, but I'll talk to Tom and see if there's something we can't donate to the cause. I can't do the whole thing for free, but I'm sure we can give a few things."
"You don't have to do that."
"It would be our pleasure. What a wonderful thing you're doing here, Charlie."
***
It felt weird to be seated, once again, in the exquisitely-upholstered leather chair opposite Tim Hoffman's mahogany desk, answering the same questions he had just answered months earlier, with the added oddity of making such sensitive decisions for a total stranger.
"Now," said Tim, his manner much more matter-of-fact this time around (he wasn't dealing with the dead man's relatives, after all), "do you want a burial or cremation?"
Charlie hadn't even considered cremation. "Um...I'm not sure. What do you recommend?"
"Well, considering how long this man has been...deceased, I would suggest cremation. Plus, it's a much more economical choice." Tim peered up over his frameless glasses. "If that is a consideration, of course."
"Obviously, I don't want to spend a fortune on this," Charlie pondered aloud. "But I don't want to be cheap, either."
"Cremation is a very respectful choice, Charlie. A lot of families are electing it these days."
"But..." Charlie sighed. "I'm worried about doing something this man wouldn't've wanted."
"There's no way to know one way or the other," Tim reassured him.
"True."
"Plus then we can forego consideration of an outfit, purchase of a burial plot..." Tim scanned his worksheet. "The only issue would be scattering of the ashes. Or you could inter them in our memorial garden here."
"How much would cremation be?"
Tim methodically punched some figures into his computer and clicked the mouse with a bit of flourish. "$3,155. That includes our basic service fee, cremation in the fiberboard container that we used for transit, and the fee for pickup and transit from the morgue."
Charlie didn't say anything.
Tim glanced up at him. "Is that satisfactory?"
"I spent almost three times that for Vera's service," mused Charlie.
"Yes, it's a very good package. The price is quite reasonable for what you get."
"The price is good," agreed Charlie. "But...I don't know."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm-- I'm not comfortable with it," confessed Charlie. "I bought Vera a deluxe casket, printed memorial cards, and everything. This poor man, whom nobody apparently cares about, is going to be incinerated, naked, in a cardboard box. It's not much better than what the county was going to do with him. I want to do better than this."
"Charlie," urged Tim, "while normally I would be encouraging you to add on as many bells and whistles as you want to this, I don't think you want to go all out here."
"So you're comfortable overcharging me for my aunt, but not for this man?"
Tim winced. "It's not quite like that. Your aunt was family. You do the bells and whistles for her because she was your aunt. This man, on the other hand? He's a stranger. You're so kind to make sure that he gets a proper send-off, but--"
"As far as that man is concerned," interjected Charlie, "I'm the only family he has."
"Charlie, this is going to cost you a lot of money."
"Tim, do me a favor. Pretend this man was my father." Charlie gestured at Tim's mortuary guidebooks and catalogues on the desk. "And proceed accordingly."
Tim regarded Charlie for a moment, then smiled.
"Very well, then. Let's start"-- and Tim opened the thick binder to display several models of caskets-- "by choosing this."
The only thing he didn't forget was Aunt Vera. She had been an old curmudgeon, but she had been the only family he had left, and he mourned the loss of her muttering, frowning little mouth and watery coffee.
He returned one day from work to the message light on his answering machine, flashing on and off in a oddly celebratory manner.
Mr. Wentzl, this is the coroner's office? Please call us back at your earliest convenience at 484 646 9903. Thank you!
Charlie's eyes flew wide. He grabbed a pen, replayed the message, and jotted down the number. As it was after 5 pm, it was too late to call that day, but he resolved to call first thing the next morning.
And he did.
"Coroner."
"Hello, this is Charlie Wentzl. Your office called me yesterday?"
"Oh, yes. You had contacted us some time back about the John Doe from Miller Furnace?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, nobody's claimed him. Do you still want to take him?"
"Absolutely." Charlie grabbed his pen and notepad again. "What do I need to do?"
"Just pick him up."
"Pick him up?" Charlie quailed. "Like, come put him in the trunk of the car or something?"
"Sure," replied the coroner, "although you need to arrange for a legal method of disposal. You can't take him home and bury him in your backyard or anything like that. You need to get a licensed mortician lined up. I have some names and numbers of funeral homes that can help you."
"No, that's okay. I have one. I'll arrange for them to come get him." He made a mental note to call the Hoffmans; they had done a good job for Vera.
"Who will you be sending?"
"Hoffman Brothers in Weisstown."
"Oh yeah, I know Tim. Just have him call me with his pick-up time."
It felt eerily like he was arranging for the purchase and delivery of a piece of furniture. "Will do."
He hung up the phone, jogged his memory for the Hoffmans' phone number, and failing to recall it completely, caved and looked it up in the phone book.
"Hoffman Brothers Funeral Home," said the gentle yet assertive voice. "How may I help you?"
"Yes, this is Charlie Wentzl. You handled the arrangements for my aunt, Vera Wentzl?"
"Oh, yes, Charlie. How are you doing?"
"Fine. Look"-- and suddenly, he realized just how bizarre he was going to sound, and he stumbled. "Um...um."
"Is everything all right?" Tim prompted.
"Um...yes. I'm sorry. I need--I need to have a body picked up from the county morgue?"
"Of course." Tim's businesslike demeanor betrayed no alarm, but then again, he did this for a living. "What name?"
"Um...well, I don't know. John Doe."
"John Doe?" Now Tim sounded a bit surprised.
"Yes. I--I don't know his real name."
"Well, Charlie," Tim said gently, "I'm not sure that I can claim somebody without a name--"
"No," Charlie interrupted. "They'll know who you're looking for. They don't know who he is, either. Do you remember the bit in the paper some time back about a dead man in Miller Furnace Park?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, that's this guy."
"Is he a relative of yours? Friend?"
"No."
"Can I ask, then, why you want me to pick him up?"
"I'm going to have him buried," explained Charlie. "Otherwise they'll donate him to science, so-- they're letting me take him and handle his arrangements."
"Charlie, that's so kind of you," exclaimed Tim.
"It's nothing," dismissed Charlie.
"No, it is," insisted Tim, "but-- well, even a basic funeral isn't cheap. You know that."
"No, I know. It's okay."
"You'd do that?" Tim sounded awed. "You'd do that for this man you don't know?"
"Like I said, it's nothing."
"It's very kind." Charlie could hear Tim ruffling through some papers. "I'll call them and arrange a pick up time, and then I'll call you back to schedule a time for us to meet and make the arrangements." He paused. "I can't make any concrete promises right now, but I'll talk to Tom and see if there's something we can't donate to the cause. I can't do the whole thing for free, but I'm sure we can give a few things."
"You don't have to do that."
"It would be our pleasure. What a wonderful thing you're doing here, Charlie."
***
It felt weird to be seated, once again, in the exquisitely-upholstered leather chair opposite Tim Hoffman's mahogany desk, answering the same questions he had just answered months earlier, with the added oddity of making such sensitive decisions for a total stranger.
"Now," said Tim, his manner much more matter-of-fact this time around (he wasn't dealing with the dead man's relatives, after all), "do you want a burial or cremation?"
Charlie hadn't even considered cremation. "Um...I'm not sure. What do you recommend?"
"Well, considering how long this man has been...deceased, I would suggest cremation. Plus, it's a much more economical choice." Tim peered up over his frameless glasses. "If that is a consideration, of course."
"Obviously, I don't want to spend a fortune on this," Charlie pondered aloud. "But I don't want to be cheap, either."
"Cremation is a very respectful choice, Charlie. A lot of families are electing it these days."
"But..." Charlie sighed. "I'm worried about doing something this man wouldn't've wanted."
"There's no way to know one way or the other," Tim reassured him.
"True."
"Plus then we can forego consideration of an outfit, purchase of a burial plot..." Tim scanned his worksheet. "The only issue would be scattering of the ashes. Or you could inter them in our memorial garden here."
"How much would cremation be?"
Tim methodically punched some figures into his computer and clicked the mouse with a bit of flourish. "$3,155. That includes our basic service fee, cremation in the fiberboard container that we used for transit, and the fee for pickup and transit from the morgue."
Charlie didn't say anything.
Tim glanced up at him. "Is that satisfactory?"
"I spent almost three times that for Vera's service," mused Charlie.
"Yes, it's a very good package. The price is quite reasonable for what you get."
"The price is good," agreed Charlie. "But...I don't know."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm-- I'm not comfortable with it," confessed Charlie. "I bought Vera a deluxe casket, printed memorial cards, and everything. This poor man, whom nobody apparently cares about, is going to be incinerated, naked, in a cardboard box. It's not much better than what the county was going to do with him. I want to do better than this."
"Charlie," urged Tim, "while normally I would be encouraging you to add on as many bells and whistles as you want to this, I don't think you want to go all out here."
"So you're comfortable overcharging me for my aunt, but not for this man?"
Tim winced. "It's not quite like that. Your aunt was family. You do the bells and whistles for her because she was your aunt. This man, on the other hand? He's a stranger. You're so kind to make sure that he gets a proper send-off, but--"
"As far as that man is concerned," interjected Charlie, "I'm the only family he has."
"Charlie, this is going to cost you a lot of money."
"Tim, do me a favor. Pretend this man was my father." Charlie gestured at Tim's mortuary guidebooks and catalogues on the desk. "And proceed accordingly."
Tim regarded Charlie for a moment, then smiled.
"Very well, then. Let's start"-- and Tim opened the thick binder to display several models of caskets-- "by choosing this."
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Remains-- Chapter One
Vera Wentzl spent the last day of her life driving her fifteen-year-old Chevrolet sedan to and from the grocery store, where she had purchased $43 worth of groceries-- everything, of course, on special-- using $19 in coupons.
She died in her sleep in her one-hundred year old, two-bedroom Cape Cod, wearing a faded polyester nightgown she had owned since 1991.
Charlie Wentzl had chalked up his aunt's frugality to the parsimony characteristic of the Pennsylvania Dutch, as opposed to any actual poverty. Therefore, he wasn't terribly surprised to discover that she had left behind a lot more than a old nightgown and a beat-up car. She had been a careful, hawkish investor, he remembered, closely examining the statements that arrived monthly from her broker with her rheumy, yet sharp, eyes.
When he was appointed executor of her estate, he gathered the statements and reviewed them, startled to find that she had several mutual funds in her name. She had also been receiving the survivor benefit from her late husband's pension; Charlie knew that Uncle Bill had worked for the big corporate employer in town for decades, but he never knew just how high Bill had risen in the ranks. Vera had invested every penny of his significant pension in the markets and had withdrawn most of it before the bottom-out.
He had her Cape Cod appraised and discovered that, while the house itself was worthless, its location was zoned for mixed residential and commercial and close to a major thoroughfare, so the land it sat on (a much larger lot than the house's footprint would lead you to believe) was quite valuable, even in a down market.
Charlie figured Vera was much wealthier than her lifestyle suggested, but even he was breathless when he arrived at the final value for her estate. It was in the millions.
And, under the terms of her will, it was all his.
The only debt he had to settle was her funeral expenses. As her sole surviving relative, heir, and executor, Charlie was responsible for organizing her service and burial. She would often return from a friend's service tut-tuttering about the poor dear's ungrateful children giving the deceased such a cheap, disrespectful send-off. He took pains to ensure that her own service lacked nothing.
He thought it odd, though, that somebody so stingy with money would take issue with minimizing funeral expenses.
"Aunt Vera," he once remarked, "maybe they're just being careful with their money."
"Nonsense," sputtered Vera. "Her son drove up in a new car. Delores hadn't even been buried yet and they're already acting like they're the Rockefellers or something."
"Maybe he bought the car before she died?"
"Mmm. Counting on her money to pay for it!" Vera shook her head disapprovingly. "I'm not saying funerals should be vulgar or anything, but it's one of the last things you do for a person, and everybody should at least have a proper funeral. Poor Delores. The minister rushed through the service and you could tell he had never met her when she was alive, and he said a bunch of meaningless drivel that could apply to anybody."
"Maybe her church just had a change at the top and he's the new guy."
Vera snorted derisively. "The whole thing was just crass. They served heat-and-eat pizza bagels-- pizza bagels! Her son would have held the service in a drive-thru if he could."
Vera had a weird thing about funerals. She would always cluck her tongue sadly while reading the local section of the paper, remarking on the tragedy of the occasional notice where police were searching for a decedent's next-of-kin or trying to identify a body they had found. Her greatest alarm was at a story about what the local coroner's offices did with unclaimed corpses-- one donated them to science, another provided a no-frills burial in an unmrked grave. Her stoic eyes had even betrayed tears at that one, and she shook her head, saying over and over, "I can't imagine, I can't imagine."
He kept both simple, as she would have wanted, but he made sure to choose a good-quality casket with a pretty lining, and ordered sprays of her favorite cream-colored roses, and served her friends a hearty repast in the fire hall where she used to play bingo with them. The one thing she would have disapproved of was her outfit; not wanting to lay her out in one of her fraying old dresses, he purchased her a new suit for her burial. But all else was in order: her longtime pastor, beautiful hymns, heartfelt eulogies by friends, and a final resting place in the cemetary plot next to Uncle Bill, the headstone freshly engraved with her year of death.
The judge's final order and the cashier's check in hand, Charlie deposited his late aunt's assets into his account, his head spinning when the teller handed him a receipt showing his astronomical balance. He celebrated by taking himself out for a pizza dinner, something he rarely did on his own meager salary, remembering to toast his aunt silently with his plastic tumbler of Coke.
Then he returned to his job as a quality-control specialist at a local manufacturing concern, and his life went back to normal. He considered quitting, and living on his inheritance, or using the funds to buy a new car or take an exotic vacation, but he could not in good conscience spend Vera's carefully-cultivated wealth on such extravagances. He didn't want to just let the money sit, unused, however; he had no children or other heirs to leave the wealth to.
Then, one morning, he was reading the paper and spotted a small news brief:
Police are still trying to identify a 62-year-old man they found in Miller Furnace Dam Park early last week. A department spokesman says that no missing persons matching the man's description have been reported, and efforts to match the man with dental and DNA records have been unsuccessful.
He noticed that the dead man had been found in the jurisdiction where unclaimed bodies were donated to science. Remembering Vera's horror at this fate, he suddenly had an idea.
He flipped through the phone book, located the number for that coroner's office, and dialed it.
"Yes," he said when they answered. "I'm calling about the man in Miller Furnace Park?"
"Oh, really?" replied the coroner. "Do you have any information about him?"
"No," said Charlie. "But if you don't find a relative for him, are you going to donate him?"
"It would be a while, but yes, that's our policy if nobody claims him."
"Well, if it gets to that point, I'd like to claim him," said Charlie.
"Um, okay," said the coroner, puzzled. "Can I ask why?"
"Yes," said Charlie. "I'd like to give him a proper funeral. At my expense, of course."
She died in her sleep in her one-hundred year old, two-bedroom Cape Cod, wearing a faded polyester nightgown she had owned since 1991.
Charlie Wentzl had chalked up his aunt's frugality to the parsimony characteristic of the Pennsylvania Dutch, as opposed to any actual poverty. Therefore, he wasn't terribly surprised to discover that she had left behind a lot more than a old nightgown and a beat-up car. She had been a careful, hawkish investor, he remembered, closely examining the statements that arrived monthly from her broker with her rheumy, yet sharp, eyes.
When he was appointed executor of her estate, he gathered the statements and reviewed them, startled to find that she had several mutual funds in her name. She had also been receiving the survivor benefit from her late husband's pension; Charlie knew that Uncle Bill had worked for the big corporate employer in town for decades, but he never knew just how high Bill had risen in the ranks. Vera had invested every penny of his significant pension in the markets and had withdrawn most of it before the bottom-out.
He had her Cape Cod appraised and discovered that, while the house itself was worthless, its location was zoned for mixed residential and commercial and close to a major thoroughfare, so the land it sat on (a much larger lot than the house's footprint would lead you to believe) was quite valuable, even in a down market.
Charlie figured Vera was much wealthier than her lifestyle suggested, but even he was breathless when he arrived at the final value for her estate. It was in the millions.
And, under the terms of her will, it was all his.
The only debt he had to settle was her funeral expenses. As her sole surviving relative, heir, and executor, Charlie was responsible for organizing her service and burial. She would often return from a friend's service tut-tuttering about the poor dear's ungrateful children giving the deceased such a cheap, disrespectful send-off. He took pains to ensure that her own service lacked nothing.
He thought it odd, though, that somebody so stingy with money would take issue with minimizing funeral expenses.
"Aunt Vera," he once remarked, "maybe they're just being careful with their money."
"Nonsense," sputtered Vera. "Her son drove up in a new car. Delores hadn't even been buried yet and they're already acting like they're the Rockefellers or something."
"Maybe he bought the car before she died?"
"Mmm. Counting on her money to pay for it!" Vera shook her head disapprovingly. "I'm not saying funerals should be vulgar or anything, but it's one of the last things you do for a person, and everybody should at least have a proper funeral. Poor Delores. The minister rushed through the service and you could tell he had never met her when she was alive, and he said a bunch of meaningless drivel that could apply to anybody."
"Maybe her church just had a change at the top and he's the new guy."
Vera snorted derisively. "The whole thing was just crass. They served heat-and-eat pizza bagels-- pizza bagels! Her son would have held the service in a drive-thru if he could."
Vera had a weird thing about funerals. She would always cluck her tongue sadly while reading the local section of the paper, remarking on the tragedy of the occasional notice where police were searching for a decedent's next-of-kin or trying to identify a body they had found. Her greatest alarm was at a story about what the local coroner's offices did with unclaimed corpses-- one donated them to science, another provided a no-frills burial in an unmrked grave. Her stoic eyes had even betrayed tears at that one, and she shook her head, saying over and over, "I can't imagine, I can't imagine."
He kept both simple, as she would have wanted, but he made sure to choose a good-quality casket with a pretty lining, and ordered sprays of her favorite cream-colored roses, and served her friends a hearty repast in the fire hall where she used to play bingo with them. The one thing she would have disapproved of was her outfit; not wanting to lay her out in one of her fraying old dresses, he purchased her a new suit for her burial. But all else was in order: her longtime pastor, beautiful hymns, heartfelt eulogies by friends, and a final resting place in the cemetary plot next to Uncle Bill, the headstone freshly engraved with her year of death.
The judge's final order and the cashier's check in hand, Charlie deposited his late aunt's assets into his account, his head spinning when the teller handed him a receipt showing his astronomical balance. He celebrated by taking himself out for a pizza dinner, something he rarely did on his own meager salary, remembering to toast his aunt silently with his plastic tumbler of Coke.
Then he returned to his job as a quality-control specialist at a local manufacturing concern, and his life went back to normal. He considered quitting, and living on his inheritance, or using the funds to buy a new car or take an exotic vacation, but he could not in good conscience spend Vera's carefully-cultivated wealth on such extravagances. He didn't want to just let the money sit, unused, however; he had no children or other heirs to leave the wealth to.
Then, one morning, he was reading the paper and spotted a small news brief:
Police are still trying to identify a 62-year-old man they found in Miller Furnace Dam Park early last week. A department spokesman says that no missing persons matching the man's description have been reported, and efforts to match the man with dental and DNA records have been unsuccessful.
He noticed that the dead man had been found in the jurisdiction where unclaimed bodies were donated to science. Remembering Vera's horror at this fate, he suddenly had an idea.
He flipped through the phone book, located the number for that coroner's office, and dialed it.
"Yes," he said when they answered. "I'm calling about the man in Miller Furnace Park?"
"Oh, really?" replied the coroner. "Do you have any information about him?"
"No," said Charlie. "But if you don't find a relative for him, are you going to donate him?"
"It would be a while, but yes, that's our policy if nobody claims him."
"Well, if it gets to that point, I'd like to claim him," said Charlie.
"Um, okay," said the coroner, puzzled. "Can I ask why?"
"Yes," said Charlie. "I'd like to give him a proper funeral. At my expense, of course."
Thursday, November 12, 2009
So now what?
First off, thanks again for reading Megan's Bath-- the feedback and support you guys gave me was amazing and really inspiring! I'm glad you enjoyed it, and if you have any suggestions or issues, I'd love to hear them. I may clean that up (the prose is still pretty wonky, in my opinion) and get it off to an agent after all, but I'm going to let it marinate for a while first. That may be a post-Christmas head-off-the-blahs project.
I have two grants in the pipeline due at the beginning of December, so that's where most of my writing efforts are going for now.
I have another story that I'll start soon, but it won't be updated as regularly as Megan, at least not until I get these grants done.
It's a tale that will provide an excellent anecdote to holiday cheer: The Remains. Stand by!
I have two grants in the pipeline due at the beginning of December, so that's where most of my writing efforts are going for now.
I have another story that I'll start soon, but it won't be updated as regularly as Megan, at least not until I get these grants done.
It's a tale that will provide an excellent anecdote to holiday cheer: The Remains. Stand by!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Megan's Bath-- Chapter 9 (cont'd and concluded)
"What?" whispered Helen. Everything in the room suddenly came into insistent focus.
"She's dead?" whimpered Megan.
Donna nodded. "I'm so sorry. I hate that you had to hear this from me."
"Oh God." Helen's confused hand scrambled and felt the arm of a nearby chair; she lowered herself into it. "Oh God." Across the room, she could hear Megan start to cry.
"We don't know why she did it." Donna sounded apologetic. "Like I said, it wasn't like something she would do."
Helen closed her eyes tightly.
"Can I get you anything?" asked Donna anxiously. "A glass of water? A Kleenex?"
Helen shook her head.
Donna searched the office for some hint of what she should do next. Her eyes fell upon her message pad. "Here," she said, suddenly determined, striding over to her desk. She flipped through the old message pages until she found Tuesday's records. "This is the number for the sheriff's office. You should give them a call." As she spoke, she copied the number to a slip of paper. Then she glanced up at Helen. "Where are y'all staying tonight?"
Helen shrugged.
Donna flipped open her reservation calendar and scanned it with her lavender index nail. "I have a unit open for the next couple of days. Y'all are welcome to use it if you'd like."
Helen looked up at her.
"Free of charge," added Donna.
Helen smiled weakly at her. "Thank you," she said quietly. "That's very kind of you."
"It's the least we can do." Donna went into her back room again, emerging this time with a key. "Number 224." She handed the key, along with the phone number, to Helen.
"Thank you." Helen set the key and paper aside and rubbed her eyes. I'm too late, she thought.
"Really, it's nothing." Donna sat down heavily at her desk, shaking her head. "I can't believe they didn't contact you."
"I'm not sure they would have known to," admitted Helen. Then she glanced around, suddenly realizing that she and Donna were alone. She sat up sharply. "Megan?"
Donna looked up, startled. "Your daughter?" She looked around. "Where did she go?"
Helen was up and out of her chair, searching frantically. "Megan?" She pushed open the office door and stepped back out into the hot afternoon, her eyes scanning the parking lot. Megan was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did she go?" fretted Donna.
Helen heard the gentle roar of the nearby surf in the air and immediately figured out where Megan had gone. "Oh God," she cried. "How do you get to the beach from here?"
Donna pointed towards a small wooden walkway. "That's the access ramp."
Helen took off across the lot, Donna jogging behind her, and flew onto the ramp. Her feet pounded on the bleached boards as she ran up and over the sea wall and down towards the sand. When she saw Megan on the beach, standing stock-still and facing towards the ocean, she slowed.
"There she is," Helen called, relieved. She turned back to Donna, who was huffing slightly as she still hurried up the ramp. "I see her. She's on the beach."
Donna stopped and grabbed the hand rail, breathing heavily.
"Are you okay?" called Helen, suddenly concerned, but Donna held up a hand.
"I'm fine, honey," Donna gasped. "Go check on your little girl."
Helen walked down the ramp and out onto the beach. Megan stood several yards away, on the part of the beach washed by only every seventh or eighth wave, where the sand glowed, soft as velvet. Quietly Helen made her way to her daughter's side. She glanced down and saw that Megan's feet were black.
"You okay?" asked Helen softly.
Megan shook her head and blurted out, "I don't want to go."
"What are you talking about?" asked Helen, studying her child's face; Megan's eyes, full of fear, remained fixed on the horizon.
"I don't want to go," Megan repeated.
Helen turned to look out to the surf. "Then don't," she said simply.
"What if I don't have a choice?"
"Why do you think you don't have a choice?"
"Ali didn't have a choice."
"Perhaps not," said Helen. "But you're not Ali."
"But what if I am? What if he was like me, once?" Megan wrapped her arms around herself. "What if he was once a kid on the land? What if he had to finally leave it behind?"
Helen felt a pang. "I don't know, sweetheart."
"I don't want to go," Megan said again. She looked at her mother, panicked. "I don't want to leave you."
"I don't want you to leave me, either." Helen smiled sadly at Megan.
"So what do I do?"
"What do you need to do?"
Megan looked back out at the surf, and suddenly Helen perceived how hungry the girl's eyes were. "I don't want to go, but I need to go."
Helen put her face in her hands for a long time.
This is where my father washed ashore, she thought, where my mother drowned, and where my daughter will swim away from me.
Then, resolved, she looked up.
"Here's what I'm going to do," she said evenly. "I'm going to go up and get some towels. And maybe a deck chair. And perhaps, even, a good book."
"And what am I going to do?" pleaded Megan.
"You're going to do what you need to do," answered Helen. "Go."
"Really?" Megan was taken aback. "But-- but what are you going to do then?"
Helen grasped her daughter's shoulders and peered intently into her eyes. "I'm going to wait for you."
Megan looked bewildered. "But it-- it might be a while."
"Hence the chair and the book."
"But--" Megan floundered. "But what if I can't come back?"
"I'll help you. I'll get every towel I can find. We'll do what we did last time."
"But--" Megan looked on the verge of tears again. "But what if I-- don't come back?"
"Then I will call your father," said Helen, "and tell him to sell the house and buy a boat, one that can go out to the open ocean, and we will learn how to pilot it, and we will come find you, and we will live on it, anchored wherever you are, as long as you want us to."
"You would?" asked Megan.
"Of course I would. I'll learn how to scuba dive if I have to. Nothing is impossible here." Helen pulled the hair gently back from Megan's face. "Do you remember that book I used to read you? The Runaway Bunny?"
Megan nodded, tears leaving blackened track marks on her cheeks.
"Remember what the mother said, when the little bunny wanted to run away, and when he threatened to turn into a trout and swim away?"
Megan smiled. " 'I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.' "
"Exactly," nodded Helen, pulling the girl into a tender embrace. " 'I will be a tree that you come home to.' " She pulled back and smiled at her. "Or a deck chair."
"Or a boat." Megan grinned.
"Right."
Megan hesitated. "So-- should I go? Now?"
"If you're ready."
Suddenly Megan looked crestfallen. "I can't," she blurted out.
"Why not?"
"I can't swim," she groaned. "I never had a reason to learn."
Helen laughed. "All you do," she explained, demonstrating, "is paddle your arms like this, and kick your feet."
"That's it?" said Megan dubiously.
"That's it," affirmed Helen. "The hard part is the breathing." She smiled. "You don't have to worry about that."
Megan looked around anxiously. "I'm going to have to change over. I don't want anybody to see."
"There's nobody around here," Helen reassured her, scanning the beach. "Do you want me to help you?"
Megan flashed a surprised smile. "Would you?"
"Of course." Helen put her arms around her child. "Are you ready?"
After a moment's hesitation, Megan finally nodded. Helen could feel the girl's limbs trembling and held her closer to reassure her.
Mother and daughter walked cautiously forward, the waves breaking against their shins, then their knees. When the water lapped around their waists, Megan suddenly began to twitch and take sharp breaths. Here it comes, thought Helen, the change.
"Put your face in, Megan," Helen commanded her.
Megan leaned over and submerged her body in the water. There were a few more spasms, but soon all was calm, and Helen loosened her grip as the girl adjusted to her new form.
"Paddle," urged Helen. "Kick. That's right."
She walked Megan in a few more feet, then realized that before long, she would not be able to stand. The waves were rising gently around her chest, occasionally washing over her face.
"I'm going to let go now," she called.
Megan reached a scaly hand out of the water and waved.
Helen let go. The girl pulled away, a dark shadow under the greenish water, and soon disappeared into the depths, paddling and kicking as she had just been taught.
Helen backed slowly towards the shore, a mix of grief and triumph churning inside her. Eventually she emerged, dripping, from the shallows, and stood contemplatively on the beach for a moment.
Then she wrung out her hair, wiped the water from her face, then went to ask Donna about towels and a beach chair.
***
Megan swam. Once she was past the gentle rise and fall of the shore tides, the water grew deeper and colder, but nothing she couldn't tolerate. Before long she was joined by schools of small gray fish, the occasional bobbing jellyfish, and below, on the sea floor, little crabs scuttered sideways.
She soon came upon a trio of bull sharks, and at first she faltered, but the instant they detected her presence, they flicked away back into the shadows. It suddenly occurred to her that they were frightened of her, and she was awed.
Her mother was right; swimming was pretty easy, and she delighted in the newfound strength her limbs displayed, pulling her confidently through the water. She caught a glimpse of her forearm, caught in the faint rays of light from the faraway sun that danced beneath the sea.
In the ocean water, in the faint light, her skin had iridescent flecks of purple and pink and blue.
She swam for a while more, confidently testing out a few somersaults, marveling at the reefs of branching and tubular corals that sprang up beneath her-- I thought those were in the Caribbean, not here!-- and exploring the wreck of a small sailboat, now nearly encased in barnacles and soft, waving algae.
She wondered if there were any others like her out wandering the reef. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out. Certainly, there would be more time to explore these waters, but right now, she was growing tired, and it was getting late. She turned and headed back to shore, eager to report what she had just seen and done.
My mother is waiting for me.
THE END
"She's dead?" whimpered Megan.
Donna nodded. "I'm so sorry. I hate that you had to hear this from me."
"Oh God." Helen's confused hand scrambled and felt the arm of a nearby chair; she lowered herself into it. "Oh God." Across the room, she could hear Megan start to cry.
"We don't know why she did it." Donna sounded apologetic. "Like I said, it wasn't like something she would do."
Helen closed her eyes tightly.
"Can I get you anything?" asked Donna anxiously. "A glass of water? A Kleenex?"
Helen shook her head.
Donna searched the office for some hint of what she should do next. Her eyes fell upon her message pad. "Here," she said, suddenly determined, striding over to her desk. She flipped through the old message pages until she found Tuesday's records. "This is the number for the sheriff's office. You should give them a call." As she spoke, she copied the number to a slip of paper. Then she glanced up at Helen. "Where are y'all staying tonight?"
Helen shrugged.
Donna flipped open her reservation calendar and scanned it with her lavender index nail. "I have a unit open for the next couple of days. Y'all are welcome to use it if you'd like."
Helen looked up at her.
"Free of charge," added Donna.
Helen smiled weakly at her. "Thank you," she said quietly. "That's very kind of you."
"It's the least we can do." Donna went into her back room again, emerging this time with a key. "Number 224." She handed the key, along with the phone number, to Helen.
"Thank you." Helen set the key and paper aside and rubbed her eyes. I'm too late, she thought.
"Really, it's nothing." Donna sat down heavily at her desk, shaking her head. "I can't believe they didn't contact you."
"I'm not sure they would have known to," admitted Helen. Then she glanced around, suddenly realizing that she and Donna were alone. She sat up sharply. "Megan?"
Donna looked up, startled. "Your daughter?" She looked around. "Where did she go?"
Helen was up and out of her chair, searching frantically. "Megan?" She pushed open the office door and stepped back out into the hot afternoon, her eyes scanning the parking lot. Megan was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did she go?" fretted Donna.
Helen heard the gentle roar of the nearby surf in the air and immediately figured out where Megan had gone. "Oh God," she cried. "How do you get to the beach from here?"
Donna pointed towards a small wooden walkway. "That's the access ramp."
Helen took off across the lot, Donna jogging behind her, and flew onto the ramp. Her feet pounded on the bleached boards as she ran up and over the sea wall and down towards the sand. When she saw Megan on the beach, standing stock-still and facing towards the ocean, she slowed.
"There she is," Helen called, relieved. She turned back to Donna, who was huffing slightly as she still hurried up the ramp. "I see her. She's on the beach."
Donna stopped and grabbed the hand rail, breathing heavily.
"Are you okay?" called Helen, suddenly concerned, but Donna held up a hand.
"I'm fine, honey," Donna gasped. "Go check on your little girl."
Helen walked down the ramp and out onto the beach. Megan stood several yards away, on the part of the beach washed by only every seventh or eighth wave, where the sand glowed, soft as velvet. Quietly Helen made her way to her daughter's side. She glanced down and saw that Megan's feet were black.
"You okay?" asked Helen softly.
Megan shook her head and blurted out, "I don't want to go."
"What are you talking about?" asked Helen, studying her child's face; Megan's eyes, full of fear, remained fixed on the horizon.
"I don't want to go," Megan repeated.
Helen turned to look out to the surf. "Then don't," she said simply.
"What if I don't have a choice?"
"Why do you think you don't have a choice?"
"Ali didn't have a choice."
"Perhaps not," said Helen. "But you're not Ali."
"But what if I am? What if he was like me, once?" Megan wrapped her arms around herself. "What if he was once a kid on the land? What if he had to finally leave it behind?"
Helen felt a pang. "I don't know, sweetheart."
"I don't want to go," Megan said again. She looked at her mother, panicked. "I don't want to leave you."
"I don't want you to leave me, either." Helen smiled sadly at Megan.
"So what do I do?"
"What do you need to do?"
Megan looked back out at the surf, and suddenly Helen perceived how hungry the girl's eyes were. "I don't want to go, but I need to go."
Helen put her face in her hands for a long time.
This is where my father washed ashore, she thought, where my mother drowned, and where my daughter will swim away from me.
Then, resolved, she looked up.
"Here's what I'm going to do," she said evenly. "I'm going to go up and get some towels. And maybe a deck chair. And perhaps, even, a good book."
"And what am I going to do?" pleaded Megan.
"You're going to do what you need to do," answered Helen. "Go."
"Really?" Megan was taken aback. "But-- but what are you going to do then?"
Helen grasped her daughter's shoulders and peered intently into her eyes. "I'm going to wait for you."
Megan looked bewildered. "But it-- it might be a while."
"Hence the chair and the book."
"But--" Megan floundered. "But what if I can't come back?"
"I'll help you. I'll get every towel I can find. We'll do what we did last time."
"But--" Megan looked on the verge of tears again. "But what if I-- don't come back?"
"Then I will call your father," said Helen, "and tell him to sell the house and buy a boat, one that can go out to the open ocean, and we will learn how to pilot it, and we will come find you, and we will live on it, anchored wherever you are, as long as you want us to."
"You would?" asked Megan.
"Of course I would. I'll learn how to scuba dive if I have to. Nothing is impossible here." Helen pulled the hair gently back from Megan's face. "Do you remember that book I used to read you? The Runaway Bunny?"
Megan nodded, tears leaving blackened track marks on her cheeks.
"Remember what the mother said, when the little bunny wanted to run away, and when he threatened to turn into a trout and swim away?"
Megan smiled. " 'I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.' "
"Exactly," nodded Helen, pulling the girl into a tender embrace. " 'I will be a tree that you come home to.' " She pulled back and smiled at her. "Or a deck chair."
"Or a boat." Megan grinned.
"Right."
Megan hesitated. "So-- should I go? Now?"
"If you're ready."
Suddenly Megan looked crestfallen. "I can't," she blurted out.
"Why not?"
"I can't swim," she groaned. "I never had a reason to learn."
Helen laughed. "All you do," she explained, demonstrating, "is paddle your arms like this, and kick your feet."
"That's it?" said Megan dubiously.
"That's it," affirmed Helen. "The hard part is the breathing." She smiled. "You don't have to worry about that."
Megan looked around anxiously. "I'm going to have to change over. I don't want anybody to see."
"There's nobody around here," Helen reassured her, scanning the beach. "Do you want me to help you?"
Megan flashed a surprised smile. "Would you?"
"Of course." Helen put her arms around her child. "Are you ready?"
After a moment's hesitation, Megan finally nodded. Helen could feel the girl's limbs trembling and held her closer to reassure her.
Mother and daughter walked cautiously forward, the waves breaking against their shins, then their knees. When the water lapped around their waists, Megan suddenly began to twitch and take sharp breaths. Here it comes, thought Helen, the change.
"Put your face in, Megan," Helen commanded her.
Megan leaned over and submerged her body in the water. There were a few more spasms, but soon all was calm, and Helen loosened her grip as the girl adjusted to her new form.
"Paddle," urged Helen. "Kick. That's right."
She walked Megan in a few more feet, then realized that before long, she would not be able to stand. The waves were rising gently around her chest, occasionally washing over her face.
"I'm going to let go now," she called.
Megan reached a scaly hand out of the water and waved.
Helen let go. The girl pulled away, a dark shadow under the greenish water, and soon disappeared into the depths, paddling and kicking as she had just been taught.
Helen backed slowly towards the shore, a mix of grief and triumph churning inside her. Eventually she emerged, dripping, from the shallows, and stood contemplatively on the beach for a moment.
Then she wrung out her hair, wiped the water from her face, then went to ask Donna about towels and a beach chair.
***
Megan swam. Once she was past the gentle rise and fall of the shore tides, the water grew deeper and colder, but nothing she couldn't tolerate. Before long she was joined by schools of small gray fish, the occasional bobbing jellyfish, and below, on the sea floor, little crabs scuttered sideways.
She soon came upon a trio of bull sharks, and at first she faltered, but the instant they detected her presence, they flicked away back into the shadows. It suddenly occurred to her that they were frightened of her, and she was awed.
Her mother was right; swimming was pretty easy, and she delighted in the newfound strength her limbs displayed, pulling her confidently through the water. She caught a glimpse of her forearm, caught in the faint rays of light from the faraway sun that danced beneath the sea.
In the ocean water, in the faint light, her skin had iridescent flecks of purple and pink and blue.
She swam for a while more, confidently testing out a few somersaults, marveling at the reefs of branching and tubular corals that sprang up beneath her-- I thought those were in the Caribbean, not here!-- and exploring the wreck of a small sailboat, now nearly encased in barnacles and soft, waving algae.
She wondered if there were any others like her out wandering the reef. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out. Certainly, there would be more time to explore these waters, but right now, she was growing tired, and it was getting late. She turned and headed back to shore, eager to report what she had just seen and done.
My mother is waiting for me.
THE END
Megan's Bath-- Chapter 9
A nagging question haunted Helen.
She refrained from asking it during the flight to Orlando (crowded, as it usually was, with Disney families). Even ensconced in the privacy of their rental car, she held her tongue throughout the clutter of the city well into the scrub brush and pine groves that were the hallmarks of the Space Coast. But once they merged safely onto the anonymity of I-95, Helen finally dared to ask.
"Megan?"
"Mm-hm?" The girl was gazing out the window. Her father, unable to take more time from work, had remained back in Virginia, so it was just the two of them in the car.
"Did you"-- Helen faltered-- "were you-- when you climbed in the tub?"
This got Megan's attention; she looked at Helen fearfully.
"Were you trying to kill yourself?" asked Helen finally.
Megan considered the question, then shook her head. "No," she said. "Well, not really."
"What do you mean, 'not really'?"
The girl shrugged. "I mean, I wasn't planning on dying, but I didn't really care if I did."
"Why did you do it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't care if you die?"
"Honestly? My life kinda sucks, Mom." Megan returned her gaze to the window.
Helen frowned. "Well, what can we do to fix that?"
"Other than make me into a normal girl? I don't know."
"Can I do anything?"
Megan looked at her mother and gave her an apologetic smile. "You're already doing it."
They drove on in silence for a while, then Helen spotted the sign up ahead:
RT. 328
TARPON BEACH
POWAHATCHEE
NEXT EXIT
Her heart plummeted into her shoes and she felt a rush of cold, but she steeled herself and moved into the right lane.
"Is this it?" asked Megan, sitting up eagerly.
"Yeah," nodded Helen, her eyes locked on the highway ahead that would lead them to the coast.
"How long has it been since you've been here?"
"Since I was eighteen years old."
"Wow. And you've never come back? Not once?"
"No reason to." There was the service station where she had last bought gas on her way out of town. She had sworn then that she would never come back.
"But your mom is here," protested Megan.
"For a long time, that didn't really mean anything to me."
"What did she do that was so awful? Was it really just about your dad?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"But that wasn't her fault."
Helen sighed. "I thought she was a doormat. She was-- is-- this really bright woman. She was a professional in her home country. I couldn't comprehend how somebody like her would just settle for so many things. She settled for her job. She settled for this town. And she settled for him."
"So she's not ambitious enough for you."
"It's not like that," retorted Helen. "I thought she was putting up with all of this stuff for his sake. She was stuck in this crappy town, scrubbing toilets, hoping that he'd turn up eventually." She eyed Megan knowingly. "Even long after she supposedly threw him out for good."
"You think so?"
"I don't know. I mean she's still here, for God's sake. Same place and everything. I wonder if she's stayed where she is all this time just in case he wanted to find her again." Helen shook her head. "I didn't want to be like that, and I certainly didn't want you to see that and think it was okay, or how women were supposed to be. I wanted you to be independent." I thought I did, anyway, she added silently.
Megan was quiet for a mile or so, then spoke. "If Daddy went away, would you take him back?"
"Daddy wouldn't do that."
"But what if he did?" Megan pressed.
"It would depend," Helen admitted.
"On what?"
"Why he left."
"What about me? What if I left? Would you let me come back?"
"Of course," Helen said irritably.
"Would it depend?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's different with parents and kids. Parents will always wait for their kids. It wouldn't matter."
Megan thought about this for a moment.
"Maybe," ventured Megan, "that's why she's still here."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe she's not waiting for him. Maybe she's waiting for you."
Taken aback, Helen looked at her daughter, who had turned her gaze back out to the highway.
"Maybe," Helen said quietly, suddenly realizing where she was. "Wait." The stores in the shopping plaza had changed, and the storefronts had been facelifted, but here it was. She slowed down and, when the traffic had cleared, she made the left turn onto Osceola Street. There, not far off the main highway, was the little cluster of garden apartments. She pulled over to the curb and parked. They got out of the car and walked uncertainly up the cracked narrow sidewalk to building 2558, then under the overhang to number 4.
There was a doorbell, which Helen pressed with a trembling finger. Then they waited.
After a few moments, Helen pressed the bell again.
"Maybe it's not working," suggested Megan.
"Maybe," agreed Helen. She knocked, but after a few more minutes it became clear that nobody was home.
"You told her we were coming, didn't you?"
"I sent a note." All these damn notes! The tension broken, Helen stared at the nondescript green door. "I couldn't find a phone number for her."
"Maybe she's out."
"Maybe," said Helen. "There's another place we can check." She turned back to the car. "C'mon."
"Where?"
"The condo."
They got back into the car. "Why would she be there?" asked Megan. "She's not still working, is she?"
"She might be."
"God, isn't she retired by now? How old is she?"
"Housekeepers don't always get to retire." Helen gripped the wheel and steered the car away from the curb and back towards the highway.
They drove over the intracoastal waterway bridge and into the resort area of Tarpon Beach. Ahead, Helen could see the gray concrete outline of Sea Coast Villa IV, the fifth one down on the oceanfront.
She pulled into the parking lot, observing that unlike the shopping center, the condo clearly had not had a facelift. It looked almost the same, the only difference was that now, it was even more run down.
They left the car in a visitor space and walked into the rental office. Its cheap wood paneling reeked of decades of cigarette smoke.
A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, flipping through a calendar as she talked on the phone. Megan was immediately mesmerized by the woman's long lavender fingernails; she would periodically stop flipping to tap her fill-ins on a particular date.
"Uh-huh," said the woman in a thick and syrupy accent. "I can do March 3rd, but not the 10th...uh-huh...yeah. Okay, let me see"-- she flipped more calendar pages-- "I have the 17th , but you'd have to share one unit rather than two...two bedrooms, yes." She glanced up and smiled at Helen, then held up one finger to indicate she'd be right with them. "Do you want to think about it and give me a call back?...No, I don't think they'd be taken before tomorrow...okay then...yes, that's fine, I'll be here. Thank you, and you have a good one now...bye bye." She hung up the phone and looked expectantly at Helen and Megan. "Yes, can I help you?"
"Yes," said Helen, suddenly awkward. "I was looking for Maria Beltran?"
The woman's eyes widened. "Maria?"
"Yes, she was on the housekeeping staff?" explained Helen.
"Oh yes," said the woman, "I know Maria." She narrowed her eyes. "Are you family?"
Helen was taken aback. "Why, yes. How did you know?"
The woman smiled sadly. "You look just like her. The eyes." She stood up. "I'm Donna McPhee. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Helen grasped the woman's heavily-ringed hand uncertainly. "Helen Ursis. This is my daughter, Megan."
"Hi," said Megan.
"Hello, dear." Donna smiled at Megan, but there was a hint of pity. She turned back to Helen. "They told me you might come by...it's in the back. Let me go get it for you." Before Helen could ask what she was talking about, Donna bustled through a door and disappeared.
"Get what?" whispered Megan.
"I'm not sure," Helen replied.
In a few moments Donna re-appeared, a cardboard box in her arms. She set it down on a coffee table near her desk. "Here...I think this is everything."
Helen walked over and peered inside. The box held an old, cracked leather purse that strained at the seams, a plastic grocery bag with a soda and a few butter containers inside, and a worn cotton cardigan.
"What is this?" asked Helen.
Now Donna was confused. "What do you mean?"
"Why-- why are you giving me this?"
"These are her things," said Donna.
"Why are you giving them to me?"
Donna's face became ashen. "Oh no," she said quietly. "They didn't call you?"
"Who?"
"The police," Donna answered gently.
"Why would they?"
"Oh, no," said Donna again. "Oh, no." She covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry, really, I am, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be the one to tell you."
"Tell me what?" Helen demanded. "What happened?"
"Nobody's quite sure," began Donna. "She went swimming that morning. Tuesday. It was the strangest thing-- she still had her uniform on."
Helen shot an alarmed look at Megan.
"She never did that," Donna continued. "She never did anything like that."
"What happened?" interrupted Megan, practically hollering.
For a moment, Donna stared at Megan, her eyes full of pity. Then she finally answered.
"I'm sorry, honey," said Donna sadly. "She drowned."
She refrained from asking it during the flight to Orlando (crowded, as it usually was, with Disney families). Even ensconced in the privacy of their rental car, she held her tongue throughout the clutter of the city well into the scrub brush and pine groves that were the hallmarks of the Space Coast. But once they merged safely onto the anonymity of I-95, Helen finally dared to ask.
"Megan?"
"Mm-hm?" The girl was gazing out the window. Her father, unable to take more time from work, had remained back in Virginia, so it was just the two of them in the car.
"Did you"-- Helen faltered-- "were you-- when you climbed in the tub?"
This got Megan's attention; she looked at Helen fearfully.
"Were you trying to kill yourself?" asked Helen finally.
Megan considered the question, then shook her head. "No," she said. "Well, not really."
"What do you mean, 'not really'?"
The girl shrugged. "I mean, I wasn't planning on dying, but I didn't really care if I did."
"Why did you do it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't care if you die?"
"Honestly? My life kinda sucks, Mom." Megan returned her gaze to the window.
Helen frowned. "Well, what can we do to fix that?"
"Other than make me into a normal girl? I don't know."
"Can I do anything?"
Megan looked at her mother and gave her an apologetic smile. "You're already doing it."
They drove on in silence for a while, then Helen spotted the sign up ahead:
RT. 328
TARPON BEACH
POWAHATCHEE
NEXT EXIT
Her heart plummeted into her shoes and she felt a rush of cold, but she steeled herself and moved into the right lane.
"Is this it?" asked Megan, sitting up eagerly.
"Yeah," nodded Helen, her eyes locked on the highway ahead that would lead them to the coast.
"How long has it been since you've been here?"
"Since I was eighteen years old."
"Wow. And you've never come back? Not once?"
"No reason to." There was the service station where she had last bought gas on her way out of town. She had sworn then that she would never come back.
"But your mom is here," protested Megan.
"For a long time, that didn't really mean anything to me."
"What did she do that was so awful? Was it really just about your dad?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"But that wasn't her fault."
Helen sighed. "I thought she was a doormat. She was-- is-- this really bright woman. She was a professional in her home country. I couldn't comprehend how somebody like her would just settle for so many things. She settled for her job. She settled for this town. And she settled for him."
"So she's not ambitious enough for you."
"It's not like that," retorted Helen. "I thought she was putting up with all of this stuff for his sake. She was stuck in this crappy town, scrubbing toilets, hoping that he'd turn up eventually." She eyed Megan knowingly. "Even long after she supposedly threw him out for good."
"You think so?"
"I don't know. I mean she's still here, for God's sake. Same place and everything. I wonder if she's stayed where she is all this time just in case he wanted to find her again." Helen shook her head. "I didn't want to be like that, and I certainly didn't want you to see that and think it was okay, or how women were supposed to be. I wanted you to be independent." I thought I did, anyway, she added silently.
Megan was quiet for a mile or so, then spoke. "If Daddy went away, would you take him back?"
"Daddy wouldn't do that."
"But what if he did?" Megan pressed.
"It would depend," Helen admitted.
"On what?"
"Why he left."
"What about me? What if I left? Would you let me come back?"
"Of course," Helen said irritably.
"Would it depend?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's different with parents and kids. Parents will always wait for their kids. It wouldn't matter."
Megan thought about this for a moment.
"Maybe," ventured Megan, "that's why she's still here."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe she's not waiting for him. Maybe she's waiting for you."
Taken aback, Helen looked at her daughter, who had turned her gaze back out to the highway.
"Maybe," Helen said quietly, suddenly realizing where she was. "Wait." The stores in the shopping plaza had changed, and the storefronts had been facelifted, but here it was. She slowed down and, when the traffic had cleared, she made the left turn onto Osceola Street. There, not far off the main highway, was the little cluster of garden apartments. She pulled over to the curb and parked. They got out of the car and walked uncertainly up the cracked narrow sidewalk to building 2558, then under the overhang to number 4.
There was a doorbell, which Helen pressed with a trembling finger. Then they waited.
After a few moments, Helen pressed the bell again.
"Maybe it's not working," suggested Megan.
"Maybe," agreed Helen. She knocked, but after a few more minutes it became clear that nobody was home.
"You told her we were coming, didn't you?"
"I sent a note." All these damn notes! The tension broken, Helen stared at the nondescript green door. "I couldn't find a phone number for her."
"Maybe she's out."
"Maybe," said Helen. "There's another place we can check." She turned back to the car. "C'mon."
"Where?"
"The condo."
They got back into the car. "Why would she be there?" asked Megan. "She's not still working, is she?"
"She might be."
"God, isn't she retired by now? How old is she?"
"Housekeepers don't always get to retire." Helen gripped the wheel and steered the car away from the curb and back towards the highway.
They drove over the intracoastal waterway bridge and into the resort area of Tarpon Beach. Ahead, Helen could see the gray concrete outline of Sea Coast Villa IV, the fifth one down on the oceanfront.
She pulled into the parking lot, observing that unlike the shopping center, the condo clearly had not had a facelift. It looked almost the same, the only difference was that now, it was even more run down.
They left the car in a visitor space and walked into the rental office. Its cheap wood paneling reeked of decades of cigarette smoke.
A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, flipping through a calendar as she talked on the phone. Megan was immediately mesmerized by the woman's long lavender fingernails; she would periodically stop flipping to tap her fill-ins on a particular date.
"Uh-huh," said the woman in a thick and syrupy accent. "I can do March 3rd, but not the 10th...uh-huh...yeah. Okay, let me see"-- she flipped more calendar pages-- "I have the 17th , but you'd have to share one unit rather than two...two bedrooms, yes." She glanced up and smiled at Helen, then held up one finger to indicate she'd be right with them. "Do you want to think about it and give me a call back?...No, I don't think they'd be taken before tomorrow...okay then...yes, that's fine, I'll be here. Thank you, and you have a good one now...bye bye." She hung up the phone and looked expectantly at Helen and Megan. "Yes, can I help you?"
"Yes," said Helen, suddenly awkward. "I was looking for Maria Beltran?"
The woman's eyes widened. "Maria?"
"Yes, she was on the housekeeping staff?" explained Helen.
"Oh yes," said the woman, "I know Maria." She narrowed her eyes. "Are you family?"
Helen was taken aback. "Why, yes. How did you know?"
The woman smiled sadly. "You look just like her. The eyes." She stood up. "I'm Donna McPhee. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Helen grasped the woman's heavily-ringed hand uncertainly. "Helen Ursis. This is my daughter, Megan."
"Hi," said Megan.
"Hello, dear." Donna smiled at Megan, but there was a hint of pity. She turned back to Helen. "They told me you might come by...it's in the back. Let me go get it for you." Before Helen could ask what she was talking about, Donna bustled through a door and disappeared.
"Get what?" whispered Megan.
"I'm not sure," Helen replied.
In a few moments Donna re-appeared, a cardboard box in her arms. She set it down on a coffee table near her desk. "Here...I think this is everything."
Helen walked over and peered inside. The box held an old, cracked leather purse that strained at the seams, a plastic grocery bag with a soda and a few butter containers inside, and a worn cotton cardigan.
"What is this?" asked Helen.
Now Donna was confused. "What do you mean?"
"Why-- why are you giving me this?"
"These are her things," said Donna.
"Why are you giving them to me?"
Donna's face became ashen. "Oh no," she said quietly. "They didn't call you?"
"Who?"
"The police," Donna answered gently.
"Why would they?"
"Oh, no," said Donna again. "Oh, no." She covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry, really, I am, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be the one to tell you."
"Tell me what?" Helen demanded. "What happened?"
"Nobody's quite sure," began Donna. "She went swimming that morning. Tuesday. It was the strangest thing-- she still had her uniform on."
Helen shot an alarmed look at Megan.
"She never did that," Donna continued. "She never did anything like that."
"What happened?" interrupted Megan, practically hollering.
For a moment, Donna stared at Megan, her eyes full of pity. Then she finally answered.
"I'm sorry, honey," said Donna sadly. "She drowned."
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