Bertha in the Basement

Untitled Part 1

"We shouldn't be keeping Bertha in the basement," Bill says over Saturday-night supper. "It's been—what, four years? Five?"

"Five," Lauretta answers. "Where else would I put her?"

May places two slices of toast on a plate and says, "It's so dark down there."

______________________________________________________________________________

"Dark, but not damp," Lauretta thinks when she is in her bed Monday night. The rain is falling relentlessly and all she can think is, "What have I done? She never would have expected this!"

Shivering beneath the afghan, Lauretta rolls onto her right side, facing the cushions of the couch. Maybe if she were in her bed she could sleep better. The old resistance rises in her throat. Her bed is strewn with the things Bertha loved: a basket of artificial tulips, a shoe box full of fridge magnets, warm jackets collected at thrift stores, enough shoes to last Lauretta several lifetimes. "What's the point of keeping them now that I have made the ultimate betrayal?" she wonders. Perhaps she should throw them to the crows at the garbage dump like she threw Bertha to the wind.

In the morning she is washing her spoon and bowl when the phone rings. It is Bill. "Do you want to come with us to the Farmers' Market?" he asks. Lauretta does not yell; members of her family never do, but she can see them—Bill and Milaya—strolling through the lines of tables, Milaya suddenly getting excited over the Hutterites' squash. And if Bertha knew...

"No," she answers, her voice heavy, like a low hanging rain cloud. "I still feel so awful," she adds.

"What's done is done; what's past is past," says the voice on the other line, her brother's voice, but the words could also be May's and she must push against them as against an oncoming wave. Bill and May have always been like that—big and chilling.

Even as she thinks it, she knows it is not true. She knows eight-year-old May was in charge of cooking for the whole family when their mother was in the hospital with Bertha. She remembers Bill's sheepish smile Christmas morning as she opened a card and examined a check that would buy her all that year's books for nursing school. Women, of course, found the curly hair and bashful grin attractive. She never hid a box of love letters from various people in May's basement; she never built May a house too expensive for her budget, forcing her to sell and move. And yet Bill and May are always together on these decisions. She, Lauretta, and Bertha were always together before, and now... The park is too far for her to drive to now that she drives so little, but that's not all. She's treated Bertha like the detritus from garden harvesting days. Again, her eyes become artesian wells of regret.

So it is that Lauretta finds herself reversing an act of dubious legality with the help of Joy, her niece, and Joy's husband Doug. The park is damp, unwelcoming, with mosquitoes rising and horse feces under foot. Doug leads the way through the gate that reads: "Hours of Operation 7 am-10 pm." A coyote calls to the early bird stars and Lauretta shudders, thinking of Bertha out here. Nobody deserves to be dumped out with the coyotes. "It's a nice night," Joy says, trying to make small talk. Lauretta merely nods, the bundle of horror in her throat threatening to erupt in a great sob.

"Oh, no!" she exclaims. "I didn't bring anything to pick her up with."

"I'll find something in the car—wait here," Doug says. A warm breeze blows by and her mind jumps back five days to the horrible 20 minute car ride, holding the jam-jar in her lap.

"We can read something. I brought a Bible. Bill, maybe you can read Revelation 21 when we get there," May suggests.

When they reach the park, they emerge from the car. Her not-quite-yet-octogenarian bones are thankful that Bill and Milaya have traded in their truck for a silver Toyota. Milaya supports May, leaving Bill and her to shuffle behind. Lauretta remembers the days when she used to walk two kilometers up the hill, turning around when the trucks sped by, sending clouds of gravel dust in thick clouds. Once in the park, she would follow a random trail, singing, trying to forget her most recent disagreement with May about the collection of pots, papers, vitamin supplements and unfolded tea-towels lining—"disordering," May would say—her side of the kitchen. Her walks had ended six years ago when she had driven down to California to get Bertha and nurse her back to health. She had failed. Failed as a sister, and failed as a nurse.

"You know, this may not be legal," Bill says, interrupting her thoughts.

"But it's beautiful out here," says Milaya. "You know, last time we visited my family in the Philippines, we went to the National Museum. There was this 'jar', they called it, but so well carved. It had two little figures in a boat on the top, and the steersman had no paddle. It was meant to be the journey to the afterlife. It was really beautiful, and preserved for almost 3,000 years.

"But we can't bury—"

Doug is back, and she is startled back from the moment she is trying to reverse. He is holding a bag and something that glints in the light of his flashlight. Lauretta feels an upwelling of gratitude for him. For years, May's son-in-law had been like the son she never had. The walk seems farther in the half dark. Finally they reach The Place (already she capitalizes it in her mind)—an expansive birch tree on a little hill. It's here," Lauretta hears her own voice say. The ground is uneven and disturbed where Milaya, the only member of their group under 75, had dug a shallow trench five days before. Doug kneels and with a soup spoon begins to separate the brown from the grey—the dust from the ashes. Already they have mingled. She cannot bring all of Bertha safely back.

"Maybe you would like to get a little urn," Joy suggests. "It might feel more complete than keeping Bertha's ashes in a jam jar. And I think you would be happier if you kept them upstairs rather than in the basement."

She nods and reaches for the plastic bag that Doug holds out to her. She has her little sister back... mostly. 

Manunggul Jar. Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manunggul_Jar