“Hey kids! Hiya.”
It was a possibility that might come to you light and magical as a hummingbird whose tiny wings vibrate so rapidly you cannot really see them even as you knew (you had been told) that he was ashes now—bits of bone, ashes.
(You had not seen the ashes. But you knew Gus Voorhees is ashes now.)
The paradox was: he’d always traveled so frequently. So it was logical, if Dad was gone, Dad was elsewhere.
As our mother complained he was gone all the time—and so, Daddy was traveling or was at the new place in Ohio but would certainly come home. Sometime.
With a part of our mind we understood He is dead, he is gone. He is not coming home. He is ashes. But this part of our mind could not always prevail.
It was a terrible thing, our mother had caused our father to be burnt to ashes. Our mother had made this decision without consulting us. She had made this decision because (as she said) Gus had always spoken positively of cremation—or rather, he’d spoken disdainfully of conventional burial.
The funeral service in Ann Arbor, we’d attended. We were dazed, uncertain. We had not seen our father’s body, for by that time, our father’s body had been cremated.
His ashes were in an urn approximately two feet high made of a dark earthen material. No one could seriously believe that Gus Voorhees could fit into that urn! It was fascinating to observe because you knew it could not be so which fed the idea (that thrived in the interstices of adults’ attention when your mind skidded and careened like a runaway vehicle on a steep mountain road) that our father was somewhere else, our father was alive (of course) somewhere else and would return to us when he wished.
Katechay Island—this was where Daddy’s ashes should be scattered.
When we told our mother she seemed scarcely to hear us. She had made plans for our father’s ashes to be buried in an Ann Arbor cemetery—the suggestion had been made to her by friends for whom a specific place, a site, a grave for Gus Voorhees seemed crucial.
Darren protested, “Dad’s ashes should be scattered on Katechay Island because that’s what he wanted. He loved the island and he was happy there. Then we could come visit him anytime.”
Our mother stared at Darren. Her mouth worked as if she meant to smile but could not. In the careful voice we knew to be her “headache voice” (which meant that Jenna was trying very hard to keep a mild throbbing pain from blossoming into migraine) she told him Katechay was not practical at the present time—“It’s a long drive to the island. It would be a very depressing drive. I don’t feel strong enough to attempt it. And no one would ever go there to ‘visit.’”
Stubbornly Darren said, “I would! I would go to visit.”
When our mother did not reply Darren persisted: “The point is, Dad would want his ashes scattered there. In a beautiful place. I think he would.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted it. He wasn’t the type. He hated theatrical gestures.”
Our mother spoke with a sob in her voice, not of grief (Darren thought) but of anger. Prudently, he retreated.
But next morning Darren brought up the subject again and this time our mother interrupted him to say that the matter was “settled”—our father’s ashes were to be buried, in the urn, in the cemetery just two miles from the McMahans’ house where we’d been staying.
“Jesus, Mom! I think—”
“Please. There is nothing more to discuss.”
Our mother moved to slip past Darren but Darren blocked her way. For a tense moment he looked as if he might shove her, or shout into her face, and our mother was frightened, but did not step aside; it was Darren who turned, and ran out of the room cursing her—God damn you, I hate you.
Cautiously Naomi stepped back out of their mother’s range of vision. She’d learned that, since their father’s death, their mother did not seem to see quite so well as she had; it was like her to miss a step descending stairs, and to almost stumble; though her eyes were open, her attention was elsewhere. Naomi was disturbed that her brother had said such terrible things to their mother and yet a childish part of her was satisfied too.
If you had loved Daddy more, he wouldn’t have left us. None of this would have happened. You are to blame, I hate you too.
“NAOMI? WHAT IS IT?”
“What is what?”
“You seem always to be—well, clearing your throat—and your voice has been hoarse for days . . .”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“Do you have a sore throat, or—a cold? . . .”