Juno’s Ashes

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 28/06/10

Viola draped one knee over the other. She lifted the same leg again and set both her shoes flat on the rug. She folded her arms over her chest, then unfolded them. She fingered her gold bracelets and platinum and diamond watch and glared at the Tiffany favrile-glass vase that sat dead center on her cherry and marble mantel.

She rose from the easy chair, her hands hanging like pendulums. She strode to the plump chenille couch to her right. She dropped onto the middle cushion with such force that it emitted a sighing sound, as if weary of this game of musical seats. She half turned and braced herself with her palms on the upholstery. She stared once more at her fireplace and the blue-green vessel resting above it. She studied the vase”s stylized, Art Nouveau peacock-feather design — the single peacock-eye in the middle of it seemed to gaze back at her with equal measures of amazement and amusement.

“Fuck you,” she said to it. “You never had a positive or kind word for me my entire life, you bastard,” she whispered, feeling her face grow hot. She looked down at her bright lime-green sweater, skirt, and matching pumps. She would have scandalized the other mourners, if there had been any other mourners present. But she’d been the only one at the funeral home that morning, collecting her late father’s ashes as they were handed over to her in a metal box.

His instructions, according to his will, had been for his son by his second wife to organize some kind of memorial service, invite a select group of his old friends, and then scatter his ashes in the forest of the mountain where he liked to hunt. But Viola was the one who ended up taking care of him after he had his stroke a year before, and she had her own ideas about how to dispose of his remains. She hadn’t told his son, her half brother Brady who lived a thousand miles to the west, that their father was dead.

“You did nothing but run me down my entire life,” Viola said to the vase. She shot to her feet, paced back and forth in front of the couch a few times, then walked past her gilt and cabriole coffee table, to the two silk-dupioni chairs positioned across from the sofa. From this angle she could see herself in the Venetian mirror that hung behind the Tiffany piece. She shook her fist at her own image. “You have the right to be angry,” she said to her reflection. She lowered herself into the first of the chairs, gripping the arms with her fists, her knuckles whitening. She crossed her right leg over her left; her dangling right foot began to shake.

She uncrossed her legs once more and moved her hands to lie flat on her thighs; she made repeated motions as if smoothing her skirt. “Nothing I did was any good, as far as you were concerned. You always thought the worst of me. No matter what I said, what I did, you always found something to criticize,” she muttered in the direction of the fireplace. “When I was dating, you called me a whore and said I needed to settle down and get married. When I got married, you said I was a loser and an idiot. When I found work, you said it wasn’t good enough for me, I didn’t have any ambition, I was a redneck moron like my mother. When I decided to take the chance, to start a new career — you were the first to tell me I was a ‘stupid, lazy, crazy bitch’ and would end up in a homeless shelter.”

She stood abruptly and marched to the bay window. She stopped and remained standing, peering out through the clear panes at the vast lawn, landscaped grounds and circular driveway below. She twined her arms tightly against her breasts and turned around. “That’s the vase, Daddy, that cost me two-thousand dollars,” she said to the peacock-eye. “I put you in there because if you recall, it was why we had our last big fight, the one where you told me I was ‘uppity shit’ and you never wanted to talk to me again.”

There was a swishing sound in her ears — the sound of her own throbbing pulse. The anger boiled inside her, expanding like lava, filling her to capacity. She started to walk towards the mantel, when she thought she heard the jingling of her phone. She paused, her fury dissipating as if someone had snapped their fingers and broken a spell. She listened. The high-pitched metallic sound continued and Viola pivoted, headed for her kitchen.

In the creamy and pale-yellow kitchen, with the late morning sunlight beaming through the windows overlooking the sink, Viola felt cooler, more in control of her life. She retrieved the receiver from the cradle that sat on the snack-bar counter dividing the kitchen from the family room. “Hello, may I help you,” she asked.

“Mrs. Spurlock, Mrs. Viola Spurlock? This is Lucille Holt form Caper-Kingman Mortuary. Do you have a moment? I’m afraid we’ve made an awful mistake….”

Viola felt a buzzing sensation in the tips of her fingers and her toes. She held her breath for a moment, unable to speak.

“Mrs. Spurlock, are you there?”

She exhaled forcefully. “… Yes, I’m here. What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’m so sorry, but I believe we gave you the wrong ashes this morning.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We are fairly certain that we gave you the remains of a Mrs. Juno Cole, aged 89 years,” Lucille Holt said in a sing-song voice, trying to be upbeat and sweet.

“And who did you give my father to?” Viola asked, surprised at how dispassionate she felt.

“Well, no one, really. The medical examiner’s office, the probate court couldn’t find any of Mrs. Cole’s friends or family. We tried to do a little searching, as well. Here at Caper-Kingman we handle the county’s indigent dead, you see. People who are either unclaimed, or their families can’t afford a funeral, are cremated and….”

“What did you do with my father?”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to explain to you. The indigent dead — the homeless, the unwanted, elderly people who’ve outlived their loved ones, or people whose survivors can’t afford any kind of funeral — are interred in mass graves in a special cemetery outside of the city. We transport the ashes to the burial site in the same metal box that we gave you this morning, so that might explain why….”

Viola blinked several times as it began to dawn on her.

“Mrs. Spurlock, are you there? We’re prepared to refund you completely the cost of your father’s cremation and services. We’ll send one of our associates by your house, to pick up Juno Cole’s remains. We are so sorry for this, for the inconvenience….”

“So,” Viola said, “you can’t retrieve my father’s ashes at all?”

“No ma’am. We really are so sorry….”

“He’s buried forever in a potter’s field? With the homeless and abandoned?”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it like that….”

“And you gave me the ashes of this Juno Cole instead?”

“It really was a ridiculous mistake. After a cremation, the ashes are cooled and then immediately transferred into a plastic bag that is labeled and then inserted in its designated container. Usually a stone, ceramic or wooden urn or small casket. Someone whose family can afford a funeral almost never is deposited in one of our basic tins. But in your case, you instructed us, you specifically requested…. Anyway, one of our employees apparently switched the ash baggies of your father and Mrs. Cole, placing them in each other’s receptacle. It was only after your father’s remains were poured … consigned … to the burial site, did our people catch his name on the inner packet….”

“So, you gave me the ashes of Juno Cole, who died abandoned and alone? Did she have any belongings, nothing to indicate where she might have come from, who her people were?”

“Uh, no, not really. She was cremated in a pair of old slippers and a nightgown. Whatever she owned must have been pilfered long ago, or thrown away by the home that sent her to the hospital. But don’t worry yourself about her … we’ll have someone at your door in an hour, to take her off your hands,” Lucille Holt said in a jolly tone.

Viola breathed deeply. She gazed around her, at her custom kitchen curtains and roman shades, the granite countertop, double oven, and Viking range, and terra-cotta tiles imported from Spain. “That’s okay,” she said into the phone. “I’ll keep her.”

“Excuse me?” Lucille said loudly.

“I said I’ll keep her. No one else wants her,” Viola said. “It’ll save you time and money.”

Viola could discern what seemed like whispering, and then Lucille returned and said, “I don’t think that’s possible, Mrs. Spurlock. I don’t think it’s legal….”

“It’s not legal to mix up remains, either. I’ve got her in a very nice place. I already threw away the tin. I’ll keep her where she is.” She thought a moment and then said, as Lucille started to protest, “How about we do this. I’ll forget all about the entire matter, and you don’t have to refund me anything, if I can keep her.”

Lucille excused herself, putting Viola on hold for what seemed like five minutes. When she came back on the line, she said, “I’ve discussed it with the owners. They’re prepared to forget all about the matter, too, if that’s what you want.” Her tone was flat and had a sour edge to it. She seemed a bit hesitant and confused, unable to depend on her usual routine and patter.

“That’s fine, it’s a deal. Thanks for letting me know. Have a nice day, Lucille,” Viola said, imitating the other woman’s inflection. She ended the call. “Well, well, well….” she whispered as she replaced the receiver in the charger.

Viola ambled back through the family room, and into the dining room of this spacious, two-story home she’d built herself from the money she earned as a real estate agent, her mid-life second career that had finally brought her success. She passed by her expensive and beautiful dining room suite, the one her father had called cheap and ugly. Cheap and ugly like you, he’d said to her at the time.

She entered her elegant living room and turned to face the Tiffany vase that reposed gracefully in front of the Venetian mirror hanging on the wall behind her mantelpiece. She smiled as she studied the peacock feather design fired into the glaze, and the bemused expression of that single peacock-eye that seemed to watch her. “Welcome to my house, Miss Juno,” Viola said, her eyes stinging as she giggled. “I can’t think of a better place for you to spend eternity.”