Everything fair and even.”
“Not today. I have plans.”
I pass the cups out and put my drink-cooled hand on my mother’s forehead. “Nice, isn’t it?” I ask. She sighs and smiles under my palm. Even though her head heats me back up right away, I want to leave my hand there and let her burn it. Sear it if she wants.
The fire really gets going. It takes over the wood, sucking on it.
“Can I see the pieces?” I want to know. My father takes out another Ziploc bag full of bones and shreds. Both ears are there. There is a leg with a paw attached. A snout and nose.
“We can’t put that right into the fire—we’ll never be able to find it again,” my mother says.
“Find it again?” my father asks.
“The whole point of a cremation is the ashes. We won’t know which are Houdini’s ashes and which are the wood’s ashes. We have to sprinkle the ashes later, as part of the ceremony. To release Houdini into the place he loved best.” My mother goes inside for a pan. Right away, the fur begins to sizzle away and the smell of it is everywhere. The smoke of the fire is turning my whole sky gray. It is closing in. I begin not to be able to see the street. The world is farther and farther away.
My mother goes inside and changes into a bikini.
“You look hot,” my father tells her when she comes back outside. The fire is going and smoke is everywhere.
“I might as well get some color,” she says, smiling. She lies back in her chair, puts a big hat over her eyes. She moves her toes to a beat that I cannot hear. Her fingers wrap around the ends of the armrests like they have been melted there.
“So,” my father says, “your first burial and your first cremation, all in one day.”
“I have never been alive without Houdini.”
He gives Houdini’s bone-pan a little shake. “We are doing the best thing.” The bones have not turned to ash. They have browned a little and they rattle deeper when they hit the sides of the pan.
“The bones are still just bones,” I say.
“We’ll pound them if we have to,” he answers.
My father closes his eyes and listens to the world around him. I listen too, trying to see what he hears. The fire spits and crackles. The bones spit and crackle. The fur has long since sizzled away, and the fleshy bits smell but make no more sound now that all the moisture has left them. There are birds everywhere, as usual. Cars pass in anticipated bursts. There is no danger that they will hit my cat. He is safe here now in his pan.
My mother starts up snoring and my father stands. “Sleeping beauty,” he says, and goes to pee into the rose bushes at the edge of the house. I follow.
“She’d kill us if she saw us,” he tells me, as our twin streams run in arcs and jump when they hit the green, green leaves. “I have a plan,” my father tells me. “We are going to run in the sprinklers.” His eyes are slippery and ready. “It’s hot as shit out here. Let’s cool off.”
“We are in the middle of a cremation,” I tell him.
“I am your father,” he says. “I’m running the ceremony and I know it’s all right to take a break. Houdini doesn’t need us right now. He will do fine without us. Your mother will keep track of him.”
“My mother is asleep.”
“This is your chance to celebrate summer with your father. No one else.”
He turns the spigot on and water pours out in a fan. We strip down to our underwear and hold hands. We wait until the fan comes up over our heads, dropping pieces of itself onto our waiting hair. My father laughs in triumphant stabs. We are wet and wetter.
My mother sleeps her sleep and I do not go to her with a hand outstretched, do not help her open her eyes. This celebration is only for my father and me. She is missing everything and I let her.
“Now this time,” he says, “I want us to high-five in the middle of the jump, right when the water hits us.” When I leap, we smack our palms together. The water comes up and pummels the
“Not today. I have plans.”
I pass the cups out and put my drink-cooled hand on my mother’s forehead. “Nice, isn’t it?” I ask. She sighs and smiles under my palm. Even though her head heats me back up right away, I want to leave my hand there and let her burn it. Sear it if she wants.
The fire really gets going. It takes over the wood, sucking on it.
“Can I see the pieces?” I want to know. My father takes out another Ziploc bag full of bones and shreds. Both ears are there. There is a leg with a paw attached. A snout and nose.
“We can’t put that right into the fire—we’ll never be able to find it again,” my mother says.
“Find it again?” my father asks.
“The whole point of a cremation is the ashes. We won’t know which are Houdini’s ashes and which are the wood’s ashes. We have to sprinkle the ashes later, as part of the ceremony. To release Houdini into the place he loved best.” My mother goes inside for a pan. Right away, the fur begins to sizzle away and the smell of it is everywhere. The smoke of the fire is turning my whole sky gray. It is closing in. I begin not to be able to see the street. The world is farther and farther away.
My mother goes inside and changes into a bikini.
“You look hot,” my father tells her when she comes back outside. The fire is going and smoke is everywhere.
“I might as well get some color,” she says, smiling. She lies back in her chair, puts a big hat over her eyes. She moves her toes to a beat that I cannot hear. Her fingers wrap around the ends of the armrests like they have been melted there.
“So,” my father says, “your first burial and your first cremation, all in one day.”
“I have never been alive without Houdini.”
He gives Houdini’s bone-pan a little shake. “We are doing the best thing.” The bones have not turned to ash. They have browned a little and they rattle deeper when they hit the sides of the pan.
“The bones are still just bones,” I say.
“We’ll pound them if we have to,” he answers.
My father closes his eyes and listens to the world around him. I listen too, trying to see what he hears. The fire spits and crackles. The bones spit and crackle. The fur has long since sizzled away, and the fleshy bits smell but make no more sound now that all the moisture has left them. There are birds everywhere, as usual. Cars pass in anticipated bursts. There is no danger that they will hit my cat. He is safe here now in his pan.
My mother starts up snoring and my father stands. “Sleeping beauty,” he says, and goes to pee into the rose bushes at the edge of the house. I follow.
“She’d kill us if she saw us,” he tells me, as our twin streams run in arcs and jump when they hit the green, green leaves. “I have a plan,” my father tells me. “We are going to run in the sprinklers.” His eyes are slippery and ready. “It’s hot as shit out here. Let’s cool off.”
“We are in the middle of a cremation,” I tell him.
“I am your father,” he says. “I’m running the ceremony and I know it’s all right to take a break. Houdini doesn’t need us right now. He will do fine without us. Your mother will keep track of him.”
“My mother is asleep.”
“This is your chance to celebrate summer with your father. No one else.”
He turns the spigot on and water pours out in a fan. We strip down to our underwear and hold hands. We wait until the fan comes up over our heads, dropping pieces of itself onto our waiting hair. My father laughs in triumphant stabs. We are wet and wetter.
My mother sleeps her sleep and I do not go to her with a hand outstretched, do not help her open her eyes. This celebration is only for my father and me. She is missing everything and I let her.
“Now this time,” he says, “I want us to high-five in the middle of the jump, right when the water hits us.” When I leap, we smack our palms together. The water comes up and pummels the
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