She hadn't thought about the ashes until the brochures started coming to her mailbox.
"Ashes to Ashes," one violet glossy exclaimed in gilded script, "Announces new services to devoted but busy friends of the dearly departed. For a minimal fee, our agents of mercy will scatter the cremains of your loved one anywhere in the world; however harried your schedule, you now may rest in peace knowing that that the departed lies in the place of his or her destiny. Our agents have carried ashes to the Himalayas, the Carribean, the canals of Venice; no destination is too far or too inconvenient for our hand picked, dedicated couriers".
Claire tossed the brochure in the trash. Now, even morticians were in the junk mail business. Everyone died; everyone should be prepared, know of the options in advance. Burial insurance, guaranteeing anyone a gala funeral with teak casket and Broadway trained minister for a mere monthly premium of $6.99, sold well in this age of insecurity; now it was time to market ash removal services to those obsessed with efficiency.
"Dust in the wind?", a shiny pine-green fold-out asked, "Doesn't the dearly departed deserve to be more than dust scattered to the indifferent wind? Doesn't the deceased deserve a home of her own? At Pax Eternis Mortuary, we understand how the pressures of modern life can keep the bereaved from tending adequately to the needs of the deceased. Does a shareholders' meeting, a business deadline, a family emergency keep you from taking those ashes to where they've always wanted to go? If so, our cremain caretakers can help you; our hand-picked specialists will personally deliver the cremains to the place of her choice. Confidentiality and discretion are guaranteed; our elite caretakers wear black and have been carefully chosen for their solemn faces and trustworthiness. Remember, although the body has died, the soul lives eternal."
The brochures were coming more and more often - at first, once per month, then once per week, now several each day; entrepreneurial morticians were clogging her mailbox with their ads. Claire tossed the ad in the trash, then opened the cellar door.
The sealed white box, which had stood on a pantry shelf behind hardware and brillo pads until she'd needed the space for a new cordless drill, now slanted against the side of a plastic milk crate in her basement. A two by three inch label, bordered in blue and red and reading "Cremation Society of Pennsylvania", told of its contents; under this, a red rimmed Registered Mail sticker pronounced that this was parcel R779 212 561. The heft of the box and the round postmarks stamped liberaly over front, sides and back, told her that Mother now weighed as much as a soup can and could travel anywhere for $13.75. Someday, before basement mold infiltrated the box, she'd take the ashes somewhere. Now they rested in peace beside a cintronella candle wih charred wick, strips of discolored lace that she might use someday in a collage, plastic planters with perforated sides and a short copper pipe salvaged from the dump for its dusky gleam.
Then the phone calls started to come.
"Remains R Us offers a full line of post cremation services," the tinny recorded monotone rambled, " Including packaging of cremation products in a variety of stylish, hermetically sealed urns bound to impress the deceased with their tastefullness and personalized disposal of the products at the place of one's choosing...." Claire knew that the computer telemarketer wouldn't be offended by her own answering machine's abrupt announcement that "The machine will now hang up".
The next day, she fidgetted as she listened to a new message. "Claire Monteroy, we at Gravemart Enterprises feel that our services fit your needs exactly. How long can ashes endure a dank, dusty basement? How long can the dearly departed mother endure imprisonment in an ugly cardboard box? Is three years merely a convenience for you, or also undeserved punishment for all that remains? Gravemart can release you from responsibility for those ashes, and release the beloved's soul into the ocean which is its home."
This sales pitch had become personal. Someone knew too many vital statistics. Despite governmental claims to honor privacy, the social security department, census bureau and IRS probably sold millions of names to mortuary mailing lists. But how had he known that Mother sometimes mused about returning to the sea, said "If I'm near the end, just wheel me to the edge of the ocean and leave me there; let the tides wash me clean, embrace me and pull me into the sea. Let me rejoin the waves, dissolve and become part of the water again. Return me to the ocean, my first and truest home"?; the social security department couldn't supply such information. When the next call came, Claire was ready to challenge the intruder with verbal karate.
"Hello, may I speak to Ms. Claire Monteroy, daughter of the deceased Jacqueline Elouise MacPherson Monteroy?," the fudge-rich baritone implored.
"You got her."
"Good. Ms. Monteroy, I apologize for any tresspasses on your time. But, in your years of continuing sorrow, are you familar with Bones Begone's newest services for those nearest and dearest to the cremated? Such as our easy-pay ash disposal service, chargable on any major credit card or billable through a low interest, 10 month installment plan?"
"Disposal service!", Claire shrieked into the phone. "Mister, you must have read my mind! In my line of work, I really need a disposal service but, to quote the romantic movies, a good van is hard to find -"
"Yes, yes," the burnished baritone explained, "But we're not talking of garbage disposal here; we're speaking of something more sacred than trash, the proper disposal of cremains _
"Yeah, sure I know what you mean," Claire barked, "Ashes. And, like I say Mister, I'm in the market for an ash disposal service. One that comes regular, like every Tuesday at dawn, and hauls away what's gotta be dumped".
Silence.
"Mister Smooth Mouth, you seem like someone who might keep a secret; can you keep those slicked-up lips shut? The truth is I'm in the serial killer business, have been for years. It's interesting work, surprise prey and each one goes 'poof!, lights out!' in different way. But after I've eighty sixed them, after the termination, I have to do something with what's left over. Those corpses get pulpy, start stinking. And that's when the cats do a Cheshire act - here one instant, then poof! gone at the first whiff, with only a memory of their sly smiles lingering behind them. So Mister, if I'm gonna keep any cats, I've gotta make a deal with a pick-up man."
The chocolate voice hung up.
------
During the next 3 weeks, Claire received no calls from morticians. Recounting her experiences as a serial killer had been a smart move, she thought; she'd become Number One on the morticians' black list, and word had spread quickly to avoid the crazy lady who wants to spare her cats the stink of a corpse. Claire forgot about the telemarketers, the heaps of glossy ads, and the ashes in her basement. Four times, her answering machine's red light blinked urgently, but she heard only five minutes of silence. "Prankster kids," she thought, "Home alone and bored, so they dial random numbers, then are afraid to breathe".
At 3:26 Am on March 11th, the ringing phone jolted her awake and she groped for the receiver.
"Claire?", a contralto, course as sandpaper, croaked.
"Yes?"
"You know me. Claire."
"Uh, your voice sounds familiar," she mumbled, while arcing her back and stretching her left arm towards the light switch. "It's 3 in the morning. Who is this?"
"Think. Think hard. You should remember."
"Uh, it's the middle of the night," Claire squinted against the harsh incandescent light, at the crimson and green paisley quilts which should have remained featureless dark lumps or invisible. "Just *tell* me who you are; I don't have time for games in the middle of the night"
"The ashes, remember the ashes? Remember all those ads reminding you to dispose of them well. They shouldn't stay in the basement, Claire; that's an insult, even if you never loved the person"
The husky contralto echoed out of a thousand memories. Mother enthroned at the formica table, inhaling until the butt glowed orange and scolding her in a voice as hot as dragon fire. Mother enshrined in the hostess seat, pronouncing political and ethical truths in a voice which could have been a man's or the rumbling of a disapproving god. Mother in the driver's seat, gazing past the horizon and sermonizing in a voice of basement undertones and shadows. The fumbling falsetto of a nurse, calling before dawn on an earlier March 11th, to inform her of a death.
"This is a dream!" Claire protested. "People always have dreams like this. I can't really be talking to you; you're dead."
"Try pinching yourself then," Mother intoned. "Or slap your self in the face. Or pour cold water over your head. Or sniff the cat shit and see if you puke. Or dunk your face in the toilet and see if you want to gasp for air. Try any one of those time tested proofs of dreaming. I guarantee, I'll hear the yelps and gasps."
"I feel awake, "Claire sighed. "But how can I be talking to you?"
"How can you be talking to a pile of ashes which sit in your cellar? Which are absorbing moisture everyday and soon will grow mold?"
"Well, you aren't just ashes - " Claire stammered.
"As all those ads and calls from funeral parlors were trying to tell you. I know about every ad and call you got. Do you think such a company as Bones BeGone exists? Or Gravemart? Or Remains R Us? Call information and ask for the phone number; if the operator doesn't laugh, she'll call the butterfly net squad to save you. Did you notice that none of those ads showed an address, a phone number or a web site? Or were you too busy feeling irritated to see that Mortuary Mama didn't come with a street number, didn't sit in a solemn brick building beside weeping willows?"
"OK, OK. But how can I be talking to you like this? Ghosts don't use phones."
"You've watched too many obsolete horror movies, little girl. Just like I always said, no sense of the practical. Ghosts didn't use phones in 1800 but ghosts use phones now. And email. And Federal Express. Ghosts have to be efficiency experts, if they want to get their messages through. We even take lessons in modern communication. If all else fails, crash their compuers, our teachers told us; ever heard of the ghost in the machine?"
"You mean, you have ghost schools?," Claire exclaimed. "What do they teach you? And what do you want, now, at 3 AM?"
"Patience, little girl, patience. I've been stuck in a cardboard box that stinks of mildew and measures 6 by 9 by 4 inches. For 4 years, I've listened to that same pipe drip, the same archaic furnace belch as it starts and cough as it stops. I've listened to the front door bang shut every day at 7:05 AM. I've listened to the machinery of your house groan as it slowly dies and, from the black insides of my box, I've followed your footsteps, your bored opening and closing of the refrigerator door; I've wondered when you'd modernize your plumbing and take me away to the eternity of the tides. So patience, little girl; I've waited through drips and creaks and claustrophobic darkness.
"And, let me tell you, dearie, about those ashes. You went to Carter's, didn't you, the cheapest mortician in town, the discount crematory? You know what that slob Carter did? Fell asleep, or drank one too many when he stoked the fires. And mixed some ashes from Mrs. DiMarco's Welsh Corgi in with mine. So how do you think I react when I'm feeling for my body and rub against a chip of dog bone? And how do I feel when I think of how parts of me are stuck beside dog intestine? Second rate, 4th class, like a box of cigarette ashes which no one's bothered to dump in the trash."
"I'm sorry about the dog ashes," Claire muttered.
"So, girlie, I think you know what to do?"
"Yes, the sea's where you want to be", Claire intoned.
"And when you're done at the ocean, you can give Carter hell - a sample of hell, the whole place called hell. Kick his scruffy butt until he rolls all the way to an AA meeting. If he protests, knock him out with a sucker punch, and threaten him with a haunting when he awakes. You hear me?"
"Yes"
"And, little girl, change that message on your answering machine. You still mumble. Makes you sound like a retard; you never could catch on to diction. And check your grammar; do I still have to tell you when to use 'me' and 'I'? And, I know you always were dumb in charm school but, by golly ghouls, try, just *try*, to make your voice smile, to make people feel yellow and chipper when they hear you. Maybe you'll get somewhere then, and I won't have to feel ashamed when the other ghosts brag."
"OK," Claire whispered. "Farewell"
"I'd better fare well...or you'll hear from me". A dial tone followed the click.
Claire spooned grounds into the coffee maker, brushed her teeth, sniffed the underarms of the suit she'd wear to work, brushed her teeth again, and watched for the first bluing of the eastern sky.
