Departures

by Alexis Wolfe

I didn’t think they’d hand over ashes to a fourteen-year-old.

Luckily no one cared about protocol. My mother was in the parking lot, refusing to come inside. Leave him behind, she’d said. Let someone else work out what to do with him. Once, he’d got lost in the mall and she’d said the same. She never had a lot of patience for his antics.

Our hired truck was packed, possessions sorted into stay or go, fridge already empty. We were hanging on for his ashes and then we were out of here.

The funeral director, Beverley, according to her name-badge, was fetching them. Did a special shelf exist for him, I wondered, separate from the decent folks’ remains?

Funeral attendance, four days earlier, had been woeful: just me and Ma. Another service took place simultaneously, it was a no-brainer. Given the choice, I’d have picked the other funeral too.

Beverley returned, placing a plain-looking wooden barrel on the counter, no engraving, nothing flashy. Easily mistaken for a cookie jar in another context. She slid it gingerly towards me, using only fingertips.

“Sign here,” she rolled a pen across the desk, like I might be contagious.

I signed, then raised the urn with both hands, finding it lighter than expected.

“Thank you… Beverley.”

She glared. I knew she didn’t appreciate me using her name. As I strode to the door, cradling the urn, Beverley’s gaze warmed my back, determined to see me, him, leave the premises. Surely, she’d hold the door open for most customers, murmur condolences.

Nothing.

“I’m not the monster, you know.”

She stared back at me, arms folded, her lips a tight flat line.

* * * *

When he barged through the double doors into Home Economics, he’d already shot eleven people. Including his ex-girlfriend, her new boyfriend, the girl who changed her mind about Prom and the coach who dropped him from the team.

But I didn’t know that yet.

Some people ignored the alarms, just another drill. Most students crouched under tables, but Alice and I fled into Mrs. Mac’s pantry. No one knew why she called it that. It was basically a big cupboard. Mrs. MacClelland was Scottish and insisted we shorten her name. Strict, but in a good way, no nonsense.

She became number twelve after attempting to grab the barrel. Holding our breath, we heard the boom – crack – slump.

Entering the pantry, he lifted the balaclava. My mouth fell open, it was him. Relief flooded me, he wouldn’t hurt me. He nodded, gave a soft grunt, like when passing on the stairs at home. We often communicated wordlessly. What had he done?

He slowly raised the rifle at Alice. She whimpered.

“Why?” I said.

I meant all of it, but he thought I meant Alice. She was still clutching a wooden spoon from mixing dough.

“Isn’t this the bitchy one?” he said.

“No.”

He lowered the gun. That was Abigail, I thought. But said nothing. We watched him swig from a soda bottle in his rucksack. The school alarm blazed on. Pulling the balaclava back down, he slammed the pantry door as he left.

The noise was immediate. I imagined an elaborate firework display, coloured lights exploding across a dark sky.

Later, while being evacuated from the pantry, we were instructed to close our eyes. But I heard our running shoes squeaking, pictured a trail of bloody footprints on linoleum.

Newspapers printed his photo, the headline Monster. Our front door got covered: graffiti and shit; people swore and spat at Ma in the street. But no one hated him more than her.

* * * *

She was revving the engine as I crossed the parking lot, her cigarette dangling ash. When I climbed in, she turned to me crossly.

“Don’t want him in here.”

The urn rested in my lap. As a youngster it’d always been me sitting on his lap.

“Where then?”

“Trash can over there,” she pointed.

“That wasn’t the agreement, Ma.”

“Here we go again,” she snorted. “Throw him in the back.”

I ignored her, standing the urn between my feet.

Two police officers took Ma aside after the single hymn service and made it clear his ashes should not, out of respect for the families, be buried or scattered within our state. Apparently, even the funeral director received threats for providing services to us.

Ma had snapped at the officers, you keep the ashes. I interrupted, promised we’d leave town, go out of state. I had to know where he ended up. He wasn’t always a monster.

Stubbing out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, Ma glared at the urn once last time before cranking the handbrake.

She drove northbound, non-stop, six hours. My bladder ached, but I wouldn’t be the one to suggest stopping. Unexpectedly, she pulled into a deserted rest area after the state border sign welcomed us. Through the dirty windscreen, I couldn’t see any facilities.

“Pass him over.” Her hand darted across my lap, snatching up the urn. She climbed out, leaving the driver door wide open.

I slid out the passenger side, watching her cautious steps down a steep slope into the field. I hung back, wind blowing hair into my eyes; perhaps she wanted a quiet moment. But no, she was wrestling open the lid. Wait, was she scattering them here?

We’d crossed state lines, so strictly speaking, complied with our promise, but weren’t exactly adhering to the spirit of the agreement. If the wind changed direction we might be in breach after all. I scrambled down the grassy bank. But seeing her expression, knew better than to argue.

Ashes tumbled out like grey smoke, dispersing across the grass, some flew further on the breeze. A buzzard circled the field above us. Ma marched to the truck, clanging the empty urn into the back.

In a few moments, we’d continue driving. Onwards, uphill towards the horizon, ignoring the footsteps I imagined following in our wake, unsure what lay ahead.