What do you do with the ashes?
Contributor
Written by
Susanne Dunlap
July 2009
Contributor
Written by
Susanne Dunlap
July 2009
When I found out what I would have to do I wished, by some miracle, that when I picked up my brother's ashes from his late widow's apartment, I would open up the cardboard box containing the plastic bag, then open the bag where his ashes have been since his cremation a little over three years ago, and he would rise up and say, "Hi Sis! What you been up to lately?" And then we would have a long chat like we used to, about life, and writing and music, and our parents and two other brothers. Shortly after that fantasy, the ridiculous kicked in. I was getting myself together to take the subway uptown from Brooklyn to Broadway and 134th street to meet my late sister-in-law's brother and two sons so they could hand over the ashes—which they found when going through Mary's apartment after her death from alcohol-induced gastric bleeding—and I just couldn't help myself. I had to think, What sort of bag should I carry the box in? Should it be black? But the one that was waterproof was effusively decorated with black and white flowers. How heavy will it be? And then, I'll have to get on the subway back. I wonder if Bruce, before he became unconscious for the last two weeks of his life, would have laughed at the idea of me carrying him around in a bag on the subway. And I couldn't help thinking as well, what would happen if I dropped my bag? Or if the box broke? Should I go somewhere to find a more dignified container for what remains of my beloved brother? If I do, what would I say to the salesperson after the dreaded, "May I help you?" Would I say, "I'm looking for a secure container for my dead brother?" Of course, it happened nothing like that, really. I took the 3 train to what I thought would be a stop near the address on Broadway Mary's brother had given me, only to discover it let me off near Harlem Hospital, basically on the other side of Harlem. I started to walk to Broadway, but since the day was cloudy and rainy I went the wrong way. I didn't realize my mistake until I got to Madison Avenue. But if you know New York, you know it's a very long way across town at that point. So I hailed a gypsy cab, who fortunately was on the up and up. Perhaps it was Betty—I guess I haven't mentioned that I took my little white dog with me, a rare breed with big, appealing brown eyes who provokes smiles wherever she goes—so he took pity on me and only charged me $7 for what was a rather roundabout trip because of intervening railroad tracks. I found the building in the end. It was huge, impersonal, like a miniature city within a city, on an oddly uncongenial corner near 135th street. I went in and talked to a shady seeming security guard while residents streamed past me in both directions going about their business. I couldn't help thinking, "Mary lived here. What was it like? Would Bruce have wanted to live in this place?" And then the mundane: "There's laundry in the building. And it looks like a decent courtyard." I made my way to the elevator in the east wing and bumped into Jack, one of Mary's sons, getting on at the same time. He looked a little shell-shocked but recognized me. I felt rather awkward. The last time I'd seen him—or anyone in her family, really—was when Bruce was on his deathbed. I hardly knew what to say to him and wondered how much he knew. Her family had been in a state of denial. All of them except her older sister Diane, who was in AA herself. Then, into Mary's apartment, which was in an understandable state of upheaval. And who do I see first, but Diane. The very same. We'd bonded at the time of Bruce's last illness, but I never kept up with her because she didn't have email. There's something comforting about her. She's a hospice nurse, and faces death on a daily basis. She took me right into the room where they'd separated out a few things that they thought were Bruce's. First she showed me some old photographs that weren't anyone from either of our families, and so I consigned them to the thrift shop or the trash. Then she handed me two things that looked like miniature golf clubs with covers on them. I'm sure I appeared puzzled, because I was. She said, "They're Bruce's canes." Of course. And a memory came flooding back to me of meeting him and Mary at the Metropolitan Museum about four years ago, when I saw as I stood on the steps what looked like an old man in a black cape leaning heavily on a walking stick, with a young blond woman at his side, crossing fifth avenue toward the museum. I gasped when I realized it was my brother. I hadn't seen him for some months.I think somehow I knew then that he didn't have long, although he was putting on a brave face. He was only 48 at the time. And now I held that silver-handled cane. Then there was a picture, a poster really, framed, of Bruce and his band 20 Matches. It was Bruce at his most joyful. He was an excellent ophthalmologist, but his passion was rock and roll, and he played a mean lead guitar. I had hoped Mary had kept at least one of his guitars, but she'd sold them all. So far I'd held it together. Then Diane said, "Oh, and of course, there's himself," and lifted the remarkably small but heavy box that held Bruce's ashes. After that she did something that broke down all my resolve to be strong. She kissed the box. I let her put it into my bag, and then sobbed. I didn't stay. They had grieving and ghosts of their own to face. And once I realized how laden I was with things I gave up any notion of stopping to buy an urn. Right outside the building was a bus stop. As if on command a bus came as I walked up, the M4. It went to Penn Station. Without bothering to ask the route I climbed aboard and settled in. I assumed the bus would take me straight down Broadway, but I was very wrong. It turned on 110th, going all the way down to 5th Avenue and along the east side of Central Park. This would have been of little account except for the amount of time, if it weren't for the fact that it took me past the exit of Mount Sinai Hospital, where I had wandered out in a daze in the middle of the day on Monday, May 15, 2006, having just seen my brother die within two hours of being taken off life support. I'll never forget it was a Monday, because the museum—where I had hoped to stop and gather my thoughts—was closed. Betty, of course, didn't know any of this. She was doing her job by making people smile, even occasionally persuading them to strike up conversations about their dogs, or dogs in general. And every once in a while she'd lift her eyes to me, as if to say, "Don't worry. I love you. That's my job too." No mishaps. No ridiculous awkwardnesses—although when I was getting on the 3 train at Penn Station and fumbling toward a seat, a nice woman lifted the bag out of the way I'd deposited where I wanted to sit and that contained Bruce's ashes. I couldn't help wondering what she'd think if she knew what she was holding. Now Bruce is about three feet away from me, on top of the wooden box that holds our family daguerrotypes. His box has a label that reads: "This temporary receptacle contains the cremated remains of Bruce E. Dunlap, cremated on 5/17/06. A permanent urn and memorial niche should be provided." Maybe that's what being in limbo is. So, I guess I'll have to go shopping for that urn after all.

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