July 11, 2007

Travelers Rest, SC

Chance stood in the smoldering heat of a South Carolina July afternoon. His shirt stuck to his back. The sweat tickled as it slowly seeped down his sides. The sun stood high in a cloudless pale sky, blinding Chance’s eyes, even through the viewfinder. The camera was new, and made no sound as he repeatedly pressed the shutter.

His older brother stood next to him under the canopy of a massive oak tree. Paul’s tan was deep from years of working outdoors in Texas and Mexico. The dazzling sunshine seemed to have no impact on the rugged face and deep blue eyes of a man accustomed to much worse.

The steamy odor of fresh cut grass drifted lazily in the damp air. About twenty feet away, a gravedigger was busy removing a flattened marker from the ground.

It was a modern cemetery. No headstones protruded above ground level. Instead, there were thousands of nearly identical flat rectangles: brown or black or grey against the thick green carpet. Occasionally, an errant flower vase or wreath interrupted the perfect symmetry of the grid laid out precisely on the gentle slope.

With an engineer’s appreciation for efficiency, Chance noted the cut patterns that allowed giant mowers to keep the grass at bay without dodging around protruding pillars of rock and cement. But, his mood more closely resembled the somber colors of the markers.

Perhaps it was not the teutonic-like efficiency of the grid that turned his thoughts sour, but the duty he was here to perform. It had taken far too long, but Paul and he had finally arranged to be here together. Mother had died almost four years ago; far away from the family plot here in Travelers Rest. Neither son lived anywhere within two thousand miles of the place. Today, finally, her ashes would be put in their final resting place.

Chance remembered the last time he had been in this very spot. A quarter century ago, they had placed Pop’s ashes under a dark brown rectangle. At the time, only Grandpa resided here. Grandma joined two years after Pop. Chance had missed Grandma’s service, being stuck on board a navy ship at the time.

Finally, after so long, Mother would again be placed between her parents and her husband. Perhaps the squabbling would stop now.

A sound, like tearing a thick cloth erupted from the ground as the gravedigger heaved the marker away from the Earth. The sound came from dozens of green grass crawlers, clinging to the edge of the marker, desperately refusing to let go.

An expert swipe of a crowbar along the edges, and the green tendrils fell to the ground. The brown rectangle teetered briefly on its edge, then slowly fell upside down with a weary thud.

The camera caught the whole sequence, in a rapid series of exposures. Chance stooped low to catch a better angle.

“I swear, you’ll find a way to take pictures at your own funeral!” The tone was gentle, and a smile creased Paul’s face as he said it. Chance grinned in turn, and regretfully placed the camera into its bag.

A sharp bright light flickered in the distance. Both men looked up and saw a large black car driving carefully up the narrow asphalt lane. It stopped behind Paul’s rental, about fifty yards away. A very old man got out, and marched toward the oak tree. He wore green pants, a yellow shirt and a blue hat. His skin was mottled pink and white. The bright riot of colors and the mass of wrinkles made him look like a wilted tropical flower.

“Paul! Chance!” Despite his aged appearance, the old man walked briskly up the slope. He looked at the overturned marker, his expression becoming serious. “I’m glad to see I didn’t miss this.”

Paul smiled, “It’s great to see you, Uncle Andy.”

“Absolutely,” Chance added with his own grin. He marveled how different Uncle Andy looked without his priest’s habit. Perhaps the bright colors were in retaliation to a lifetime of interminable dull black.

The gravedigger stood up straight, his face grimaced at the effort. “OK, there it is, folks. You got the other urn?” He asked, looking at Chance.

“Just a minute, we have to do something,” Chance called back. Stooping, he picked up the damp paper grocery bag and walked out from under the tree. The full force of the South Carolina summer sunshine seared him on all exposed surfaces, burning his eyes again.

Behind him, Paul and Uncle Andy followed leisurely behind.

Chance walked up to the edge of the perfect rectangle cut into the hill and looked down, blinking his eyes trying to reduce the dazzle. Inside, three urns sat near each other in the dark damp soil. Well, two urns and one tin can. That one would be Pop. The cloying aroma of clammy dirt mingled with dust wafted straight up in the already thick, still air.

Chance sighed, bent to his knees reaching below the ground, and pulled “Pop” out of the hole. Then he felt around his belt for the ever-present utility tool. Mother had been very definite about this for a long time.

“What are you doing?”, asked the gravedigger. He reached around and pulled out a red bandanna, and started wiping the copious sweat from his face and neck. Then he pulled off his battered “Gamecocks” ball cap, and scratched his head with the brim.

Chance looked up, “My mother had very specific instructions. She wanted us to mix her ashes with her husband’s ashes. Then put them together into a bigger urn.”

“Oohee!”, exclaimed the worker, flashing a dazzling smile with two golden teeth. “Don’t that beat all. I don’t get that everyday.”

Paul spoke up, “There’s not a problem with that, is there? We don’t have to do it, if there’s a problem.” Paul had been openly skeptical about these instructions, ever since Chance had mentioned them. Chance rolled his eyes at Paul’s pacifying tone.

“Oh no. We get stuff like that from time to time, though it ain’t been my pleasure before. That explains why you wanted to be here right now. Normally, you know, most people just pay for it, and leave some flowers, and that’s it.” He wiped his neck and face down again, and looked longingly toward the caretaker shack, with its roof top air conditioner.

A profound baritone voice, “I must say, this is a resplendent location. An absolutely magnificent view!” Uncle Andy had his hands crossed in front of him, and was looking at the scenery. He took off his own hat, and pulled a pink handkerchief out of his pocket, and carefully patted his head.

His normally pale gray eyes were almost white in the blinding light of the sun, and his chronic skin problem seemed to be worse than usual. Probably a byproduct of getting quite old. Another careful rub of the scalp, then he replaced the hat.

Chance lifted Mom out of the bag. Her urn was a black plastic square box, with a snap lid – also black. Tupperware for the dead. Chance squeezed his eyes, trying to eject the unbidden stray thought. The only indication that the black box didn’t contain leftovers was the small metal tag taped to the top.

Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out the large brass urn. It had a complicated design which included cherubs and animals of some sort. To Chance, it looked more like a hunting scene than whatever an urn’s design should look like. Not that he knew that should be in the first place.

He grabbed Pop’s can tightly, and was surprisingly cool to the touch. It was basically a small silver paint can, about quart size. There were no markings of any kind on the outside. To get at the ashes, one had to get a screwdriver or something under the rim, and lever it up.

Using the tool, Chance pried off the lid and looked inside, involuntarily tilting it back and forth. Just a gritty dirty white dust was all that was left. Wonder where his gold teeth went? Chance shook his head to rid himself of another spurious thought. He set the lid down on the grass next to the bag.

He froze.

A small plastic bag was taped to underside of the lid. Inside was a folded sheet of yellow paper. Though the sun was still bright and reducing contrast, Chance could clearly read the two words, carefully written on the sheet: “Please Read.”

He recognized the script. It had the perfect penmanship of a school teacher. His mother’s writing.

He blinked several times, paused in mid-move; his arm still hovered next to the bag.

He glanced up and saw Paul and Uncle Andy walking closer. They were chatting about something, not paying attention to him. Without conscious thought, Chance plucked up the lid, and tossed it inside the bag.

He hesitated briefly, then continued with his mission. He lifted the top of the large urn, and lay it on the grass. Then, he opened up Mom’s black box, and discovered a plastic bag, tied with a twist tie. Like a loaf of bread. Weird. He opened the bag, and poured Mother into the larger urn.  A little cloud of fine dust drifted away from the main stream. Just like pouring cat litter. That was appropriate. Mom had a thing about cats.

Now it was Pop’s turn. Chance proceeded to pour Pop into the urn with Mother. He tapped the bottom with his finger to ensure it emptied completely. Another tiny cloud. Nothing chunky that would denote gold fillings, though.

He tossed the tin can, and plastic tupperware into the bag.

At last, he replaced the top of the new urn, and placed it carefully into the hole next to Grandma and Grandpa. Looking at the worker he said, “Thank you, I think we’re done here now.”

“You’re welcome, I’m sure.” The man started kicking at the edges of the rectangle, apparently to dislodge the tendrils and crawlers. Chance saw no signs of a shovel, or backhoe, and idly wondered if “gravedigger” was the correct term or not.

A cough. “I think that it’s important that we say a few words of farewell.”

Uncle Andy pulled out a small black book from a green pocket and removed his hat. Then he gestured toward Paul and Chance to stand nearby.

“I have said goodbye to many people in my long life. Friends. Family. Colleagues. All of them brought me joy and all taught me how to live and appreciate being alive. I miss each and every one of them.”

“However, Beth, you are one of a very few to whom I can truly say: ‘I thought of you every day’.”

“I take solace in the fact that you came back to the Lord these recent years. You are now with God, and, with everlasting grace, with Bruce again. Your fine sons will continue your legacy, and make you even prouder than they have already.”

The words continued, but Chance couldn’t pay attention. His mind’s eye kept focusing on a sliver of yellow on the bottom of Pop’s lid. It was probably nothing. But why had he automatically hidden it in the bag? Several thoughts and explanations flitted through Chance’s head, none staying long enough to stick.

In spite of himself, Chance discovered that some very intense emotions were welling up from within. Mother had died four years ago. Yet something about this act felt like an unfinished chapter was finally closing. A book he thought had already been completed, long ago. It was disconcerting.

Dimly he noticed that Uncle Andy was finished, and had bowed his head. Paul’s head was likewise. All he heard was the final, “Amen.”

The three lifted their heads. Reverend Brier crossed himself, and put his hat back on. A sad smile slowly formed on his wrinkled pink face.

The gravedigger had been an accidental participant of the mini-service. He said, “AMEN!” in response. He put his own ball cap back on, and watched carefully to see if more was coming.

Chance reached into his pants, and pulled out a $20 bill, and handed it discreetly to the sweat soaked laborer.

The man bowed elaborately. “Thank you. I do appreciate it. I do, indeed.” He flashed his golden smile, and bent to pick up the marker.

Chance glanced once more into the ground. The three urns would be here for a long, long time. He silently said farewell to two generations of parentage. Paul was already walking back towards the rental where it was sitting in the sun, preparing to fry future occupants.

Uncle Andy drifted over toward Chance’s oak tree. The old man paused and looked at the laborer manhandling the heavy marker back into place. The pockmarked and lined faced betrayed no expression that Chance could discern. The eyes, however, were bright in the reflected sunlight. As he watched, the hairless eyebrows raised, turning the face into a creased question mark.

Chance automatically reached into his bag, and pulled out the camera. A few shots of the laborer, then a swift circling to catch the old man, staring at the ground.

Paul returned to the tree after starting the rental. Chance joined them. The shade afforded just enough relative comfort to enable them to bear the suffocating stillness.

Brier looked at each boy in turn. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

The three of them stood there until the gravedigger had finished reattaching the marker to the earth. They watched as the man straightened the grass and the dirt that had been dislodged. He did this with tenderness and deliberateness, almost caressing the earth and grass with his hands.

Then, the three men walked slowly to the waiting cars.