STOLEN OR RESCUED?
by
M.D McCade
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
M.D McCade on Smashwords
Stolen or Rescued?
Copyright © 2009 by M.D McCade
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STOLEN OR RESCUED
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Once a parent dies and is cremated, you’d think that would be the end of it.
While visiting Mom several months after Dad passed away I found his ashes behind the wastebasket in my old bedroom! A burgundy velvet bag, on the bottom shelf of a built-in unit, behind the garbage can... jeez!
Mom was pissed when Dad died. How could he inconvenience her like that? She had schedules to maintain, countertops to scour, and judgments to pass. Mom is disguised as a petite elderly woman and everyone assumes “petite elderly woman” translates into “sweet little old lady.” Truthfully, she is self-centered; bitter, constantly disappointed and critical of everyone and everything.
Growing up, my sister and I thought of her as an emotion’s terrorist, as she constantly made us feel we were never good enough. It was shameful that we didn’t stand up straight, keep our rooms spotless and get straight A’s in school. There were many times she didn’t even say anything; she confirmed her disappointment with deep pitiful sighs, accompanied by disappointed shakes of her head, and pursed lips.
On the other hand, Dad was a wonderful and generous man. He lavished us with hugs and plenty of praise. He loved to laugh at his own corny jokes; that had my sister and I doing major eye rolls. He would always tell us how proud he was of us, even if it was for a ‘C’ in math. How he ended up married to my Mom has mystified my sister and me for as long as we can remember.
My old bedroom with its daffodil yellow walls has not changed since I lived there in the 70’s. Even my “flower power” yellow, orange and lime-green bedspread is still on my old twin bed. Shelves that once held my childhood memorabilia were now used to hold things Mom didn’t know what to do with but couldn’t justify throwing away. Hardback books she had received as Christmas presents that had never been read; boxes full of candles that were either too nice, or too fragrant to burn; and my Dad.
When I found Dad behind the wastebasket I was upset, but not entirely surprised. Dad had asked for his ashes to be spread over the land where he used to hunt, a place he loved to go. (I’m sure he’d go there, even in the off-season, just to get away from Mom). When I asked Mom why Dad’s ashes were in my old room and not scattered by the river, her face grew red and pinched. “Because I didn’t want them scattered, I want his ashes mixed with mine when I die,” and she huffed off in search of something to clean.
I don’t know what made me madder, the fact that she didn’t honor Dad’s last request or the fact she shoved him behind the wastebasket; both were unacceptable and made me furious. After discussing this at great length with my sister, we concluded we had no other choice than to rescue Dad.
Mom’s schedule has not varied in thirty years so we chose to strike during her weekly hair appointment. Since we now live in different cities other than the one in which we grew up, we decided to meet at the home of my sister’s lifelong school friend Hub. He had the unfortunate luck to live a few blocks from Mom’s house, so by default, we drafted him, along with my husband into our mission. Hub was assigned to keep an eye on the beauty parlor in the event of an unanticipated early departure; then park at the entrance to the road to let us know if any suspicious vehicles were headed our way. My husband would drive the get-away car.
We met in the parking lot of a carpet store as it is located directly across from the entrance to our old street. Since we thought no one would recognize Hub’s truck, we coaxed him to drive by Mom’s house. He gave us the “thumbs up” as he pulled back into the parking lot, so we drove down the street and pulled into the neighbor’s circular driveway. This placed us on the side of our former home. We walked across the yard and onto the front porch. Looking through the window of the exterior door, I could see that the Dutch-door leading to the kitchen was closed. Being a creature of extreme habit, this door was never closed when she was home; so that was confirmation enough. We had been debating whether it was considered breaking and entering if you had a key to your own childhood home; arrived unannounced, when we knew Mom wouldn’t be there, and went in anyway. The discussion soon became moot as we used my key to unlock the door.
My sister had brought latex gloves, something she probably picked up from watching CSI shows on television. We slipped them on as we didn’t want to leave fingerprint evidence. Mom is obsessively tidy and the living room’s avocado green carpet had her signature fresh vacuum-marks; we hoped she wouldn’t notice the extra footprints.
In my old bedroom, we got Dad from behind the wastebasket, and placed him on the bed. I undid the drawstring on the burgundy velvet bag and lifted out the cheap plastic box containing his ashes. Inside the box we were surprised to find a plastic bag closed with a twist tie! The sand-like contents had once been a living human, someone we loved very much. (However, this was not the time for philosophical reflection.) I substituted a Ziploc bag filled with wood ashes and sand for the twist-tied version. (Would anyone question a Ziploc bag as opposed to a twist-tied bag when looking at remains?)
My sister picked up “Dad.” “Let’s go” she said and RAN! I couldn’t believe it! I stood there with my mouth hanging open as she disappeared out the door. I couldn’t leave the bedroom, with the box still sitting on the bed! Mom would know instantly someone had breached her tidiness! My heart was pounding in my chest; I couldn’t believe my sister had deserted me!
I put the box back in the velvet bag and hastily replaced it on the shelf behind the wastebasket. I smoothed the bedspread, ran back through the living room, into the kitchen, closing the Dutch-door and straightening the throw rug on my way out. I tugged the front door shut; making sure it was locked behind me and bolted for the car. Actual elapsed time, a matter of minutes, probably seconds, but my adrenalin-induced heart rate had probably shortened my life by six months!
My sister was already in the back seat; clutching Dad in her still gloved hands. I slammed the door on the passenger side as my husband put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway as fast as he could, without drawing attention from the neighbors. When we were in the clear my husband grinned and said, “You should have seen your sister; she came around the corner holding the bag and running like Sasquatch!” He demonstrated by putting his lips tightly together, opening his eyes wide and moving his arms in a high straight pumping swing. Now I’m not sure how Sasquatch runs, but we all laughed at the image my husband had created. Taking off my gloves I blurted out to no one and everyone “She left me!” I turned and narrowed my eyes at my sister, “You left me!” My sister snapped off her gloves “I didn’t leave you, you were right behind me” she said dismissively. Obviously she was in denial. (I’m sure she did look like Sasquatch too!)
My husband drove us up to the front of Hub’s house. Having had enough adventure for the day, he left us and went in search of a sporting goods store. Hub had followed us back to unlock the door to his house. He waved goodbye from his truck and headed back to work, leaving my sister and me to figure out what to do next.
We took Dad out to the back patio and placed him on the picnic table. My sister disappeared into the house, and moments later came back out the sliding glass doors onto the patio carrying measuring cups from Hub’s kitchen. Staring at each other we started to laugh, almost to the point of tears. Using Hub’s measuring cups would most certainly creep him out, let alone obligate us to buy him a new set so we swore a ‘secret-sister-to-the-death’ oath, that we just would never tell him.
My sister had taken her role of being prepared seriously. Not only had she provided the bag of “fake Dad,” she brought Ziploc bags for all of us; including my unsuspecting brother and Mom. Using Hub’s measuring cups we set about our task as if it was completely normal to be out on the patio, dividing up ashes on a sunny spring day. If my brother or Mom ever figured out that it was “fake Dad” in my old bedroom, we portioned out an extra bag of “real Dad” to mix in if necessary. The majority we left in the twist-tied bag for immediate release.
My husband returned from his adventure to drive us down the familiar dirt road to Dad’s favorite hunting spot and his old trailer. The trailer sat by the river and bordered the local Indian reservation and leased farm land. Dad had it furnished with an assortment of old cast off furniture that he found at the dump, or that he picked up from friends who were just going to throw it away. Dad had laughed and loved the camouflage curtains I had made for all the trailer windows.
When it got too difficult physically for him to hunt, he appointed himself the camp cook. His specialty was homemade bread and “mystery meat” stew. Hunters that came to hunt with Dad joked that he used road kill or skunk to make the stew. However it didn’t stop them from eating it or appreciating a hot meal at the end of the day.
Now, after several untended years and the end of the leasing agreement with the local farmers, the land had been returned to natural habitat by the Indian tribe. The trailer was neglected and what vandals hadn’t stolen, the earth was reclaiming. The trailer was nothing more than a shell with some broken windows, a sink and an old handrail for the porch. This scene saddened me, but it was somehow appropriate now that Dad was no longer here to take care of it. In silence my sister and I scattered some of his ashes around the trailer.
Next we drove a short distance to a place along the river where there was a well-used unofficial picnic and swimming area. The dirt trails that ran along the riverbank into the woods, had become overgrown with weeds and brambles, but it was quiet and peaceful. My sister and I waded into the river where there was a gentle current flowing directly in front of us. My husband who had been such a comfort for us, said a nice prayer, and together, my sister and I released Dad one final time into the current. He would flow by the old duck blinds he had built and spent so many hours behind waiting for unsuspecting birds; the way only hunters could truly appreciate. Like the rivers current, tears flowed down our cheeks. We held hands as we walked back to the car, feeling that Dad was smiling on us and enjoying the grand irony of the whole plan.
When we reached the car, my sister held up a small Ziploc bag of ashes and with a smile that radiated into her eyes said; “I have planned a trip to Africa next year for my birthday. One thing Dad always wanted to do was go on a big game safari.” Dad had heard stories, told in great detail about the grandeur of the land, the animals and the people from his friend Ed, a medical missionary. Bad hips, big mosquitoes and my Mother had prevented him from ever following his dream of seeing it in person. Still smiling and gently swinging the bag of ashes she said; “Dad will finally get to see Africa.”
We miss you Dad!
Authors Note: The measuring cups have been replaced.