For St. Patty's Day, a dirge

Arthur died a couple weeks ago. I drove Eric in my old Jeep Wrangler to pick up his remains. It was a sunny day and the cab was beginning to feel like a greenhouse. "We could take the top off," Eric suggested. That was when I noticed that the soft top was taking itself off beginning with the corner above the windshield on the passenger side. "Don't worry about it," he said. "The air feels good." Eric thought I was feeling self-conscious about my car falling to pieces around us. But I was thinking of the weather forecast for the day: sunny and warm in the morning with heavy rains in the afternoon.

"I'm going to fix the roof when we get there," I told him. "We're picking up ashes. I don't want us to end up with Arthur soup." That got Eric thinking about the ashes.

"What will they do with his teeth?" Eric asked.

"His teeth?"

"They don't burn up, so what will they do with them?"

"They will be in with the rest of his remains," I said.

"His teeth will be in there? Are you sure?"

"They don't filter out teeth and dispose of them separately. They wouldn't give the family some remains and throw away others. I mean, they don't throw away anything. Just whatever's left, that's what's in the box."

"Did they cremate his clothes along with him?"

"I don't think so." I thought for a minute. "Well, maybe. Some people are embalmed and made up and have a full viewing before, so they might be cremated in their Sunday best. But Arthur didn't do that. You can ask the funeral director when we get there." Eric did not want to ask.

"The whole idea of cremation is disgusting to me," he said.

"Really?" I had never heard this sentiment before. "Everyone in my family is cremated. The idea of rotting in the ground is disgusting to me."

He enlightened me. "In the Jewish tradition, strictly speaking, no one should be cremated. When the Messiah arrives he will call the dead to rise up from their graves. We will need our bodies for this to happen."

"And anyone who has been cremated is SOL?"

"Exactly."

I thought about this for a few minutes and asked him, "So you're not an organ donor?"

"No. I'm going to need that liver."

By the time we arrived at the funeral home the soft top was flapping around pretty good, and I was worried it might fly off. I climbed up on the doorjamb and pressed the roof back into its channel along the top of the windshield. Then I forced one of the rear stretcher bars back into place. Both stretcher bars are broken which is why the roof keeps misbehaving. I hopped down from the back tire and wiped my blackened hands on my jeans. "Okay ready."

Eric chuckled at me and then confessed, "I keep thinking about the teeth."

"You need to get that out of your system before we go inside," I scolded. I completely lack talent for treating an elder like an elder. I always have. It flows naturally from growing up as an only child surrounded by adults. I followed my parents' example of treating their peers as peers, and I treated grownups as peers. Eric is a little more than twice my age.

We walked up the ramp and into the funeral home. Eric signed the receipt, and the funeral director held out the brown cardboard box containing Arthur's remains toward Eric. He did not lift his hands in response to receive it. Eric is blind--but not that blind. I took the box from the funeral director. We thanked him and walked outside.

"You could hold Arthur on your lap on the drive home," I said and paused. "Or, if it is all right with you, we could place him in the center console of my Jeep."

He looked relieved. "I think the center console is fine."

As we headed down the road, Eric began a little conversation with Arthur. He patted the armrest and said, "Well, Arthur, we never thought we'd be driving around like this, did we, old buddy? No sirree." He pointed out Arthur-related places on the way home. "There is a restaurant in the shopping center over there with a dinner buffet that Arthur loved. Isn't that right," he said to the box.

About halfway home it began to rain hard. I was glad I was able to fix the roof. Eric wanted to stop at a Chinese restaurant for lunch. I parked the car and asked if he wanted to bring Arthur into the restaurant with us. "No, I think he'll be okay in the car. Sorry, we can't take you in with us, buddy," he told Arthur. Then Eric looked at me and asked, "What if somebody steals the box while we're inside?"

Without hesitation I told him, "We will drive directly to my mom's house, clean out her fireplace, and never tell a soul."

Eric laughed and shook his head. Although I never lock the doors the Jeep's greatest theft deterrent is the fact it's in such rough shape. It does not look like it contains anything of value, so no one messes with it. Eric knows this. I did not mention to him that were we forced to carry out the fireplace plan, the box would be noticeably lighter. Human "cremains" are dense and weighty, significantly heavier than fireplace ash. Anyone who had handled them before would know the difference.

When we arrived at Arthur's house, Eric got out and headed up the sidewalk. I retrieved the brown cardboard box and carried it up the front steps. His sister waited for us in the doorway misty-eyed. I said to her, "We've brought him home again." She hugged me but did not offer to take the box from me. Eric visited with her while I looked for the red box.

Arthur had been seriously ill once before. But his health improved, and he enjoyed several years in remission. Because of that earlier illness Arthur had detailed plans for after his death. In his files were lists of hymns and readings, readers and pallbearers. He wrote out his obituary and prepaid the funeral home costs. And he had a carpenter friend build him a box for his ashes. It had a hinged top and was painted red. Sitting on the coffee table the box looked like a good place to store television remotes.

Eric was too uncomfortable and Arthur's sister was too upset, so it fell to me to lay Arthur to rest. I began to narrate out loud, so they would know what I was doing. "The red box is large enough that I think the brown box will fit. I am setting Arthur inside the red box. No, the lid will not close. Maybe it will fit this way--I am turning the brown box on its side. No, it does not close that way either." I took a deep breath.

"If it is all right with you, I am going to take Arthur out of the brown box and transfer his remains into the red box. I have done this before." They nodded at me to go ahead. When you speak with confidence and authority people believe you know what you are doing. I have done this before but only once. And it was my father.

"Arthur's remains will not be loose inside of the brown box. They will be in a heavy plastic bag. I am removing the tape from the top of the box now." A terrible thought flashed into my mind: what if I was wrong? I had a momentary fit of nerves and peeled the tape more slowly. "The tape is off of the box." I slowly opened the flaps. I saw a clear plastic bag, the top banded tight with crimped metal. "Arthur is in a bag."

Eric can never see clearly what I am doing, but I waited until Arthur's sister turned away. She was pointing out a pile of Arthur's clothing to be picked up by the thrift shop. I took that moment to reach my hands into the cardboard box, scoop up the bag, deposit it into the red box, and fasten the lid. All one fluid motion. Arthur's sister looked back to the now empty cardboard box. I said, "Arthur has been transferred." She tilted her head to one side and gave me a grateful smile.

I think I need a raise.