By Nancy Klann-Moren

It had been quite some time since I talked to Jennifer when she called to say her father had passed away. She said they had a small ceremony and buried him next to his first wife, Jennifer’s mother. 

“What about Ruby?” I asked. 

Even though I didn’t know the woman I had heard my share of disgruntled, ugly-step-mother stories and petty gossip about her. Nothing nice.

“Oh, she died last February,” she said. “She’s in my dad’s closet.”

“Oh?”

“She wanted her ashes spread along her favorite spot in the hills around Mulholland Canyon. Dad had intended to take her there, but wasn’t well enough to see it through.” 

“Why is she in the closet?”

“I don’t know. It’s just where he put her. And, right before he died he asked if I’d lay her to rest. What else could I do but say yes.”

“I’m sorry to hear all this.”

“The landlord’s in a hurry to empty the apartment and get some new renters in, and I have until Sunday to pick her up.” 

I had never been to a ceremony where the ashes were scattered, but had imagined how inspiring it would be for family and friends to gather and watch their loved ones’ remains being lifted by the wind and spread over the horizon. I envisioned a release of the soul into the sky. I must have seen something like that in a movie. 

“That sounds nice. You’ll be with family?”

“No, just me. I don’t know any of her friends. Don’t even know if she had any.”

“You’re going alone?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “Unless you count Ruby. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“I’ll go with you if you want.”

“Really? Great. I could use the company.”  

On the top shelf of the closet, next to the tube and face mask of a CPAP machine, sat the unadorned cardboard box, with the words Cremated Remains stenciled on the side. Jen stood on her tippy toes to teeter the graceless box down from the shelf and wipe the dust off the top. 

Outside, when she put the box on the back seat I thought I heard her say, “Let’s get this over with.” 

“You don’t want to strap her in the seatbelt?” I asked.

Jen shrugged. “She can’t get any more dead.”

The day was clear as we drove up Laurel Canyon toward Mulholland and maneuvered the winding spine of the Santa Monica Mountains. She took the narrow curves and turns too fast for my liking as we passed celebrity homes and spectacular views. 

“Daddy made a big mistake when he married her,” Jennifer said, as if Ruby was out of earshot. My instinct was to tell her to stop speaking ill of the dead, especially when they’re in the same car on a famously dangerous road. Instead, I twisted around to check on the box, and winced at the sight of it balanced on the front edge of the seat, poised to drop to the floorboard. 

Not too long after that, Jennifer slowed as we approached one of the designated overlooks. “This is close enough,” she said and pulled the car off the road near a trail. 

“This isn’t the spot she wanted?”

“She won’t know the difference.” 

I followed as Jen carried the box down a dusty footpath bordered by sagebrush. It veered left, hugging the side of the mountain. She stopped at a spot with a sweeping view of both mountains and ocean. 

The beauty alone felt like heaven was close. I breathed in the fresh air and marveled at a red-tailed hawk gliding above the ravines, and anticipated the magnificence of Ruby’s spiritual flight. 

Jennifer placed the box on the ground and pulled out a vacuum-sealed plastic bag.

“Shit,” she said and handed it to me. “Can you hold her while I go back to the car? I think I have a pair of scissors in the glove compartment.”

It felt heavier than I expected. “Hi Ruby,” I said and introduced myself. “This is a beautiful spot. I hope you’re okay with it.” 

I looked through the plastic and tried to make sense of what I saw. Mixed in with the ashes were visible chunks of bone and jagged pieces that resembled charcoal briquettes. “What happened?” I asked no one. My mind went straight to the old dog food commercial. I’m gonna get me some Kibbles ‘N Bits and Bits and Bits. My romantic notions for the day were dwindling.

When Jennifer returned with the scissors I asked, “How come these aren’t soft and powdery like the ashes in a fireplace?” 

“How would I know? Maybe you have to pay more for those.”

She looked down the side of the cliff. “Does it matter?” 

“I think so,” I said.

Jennifer shrugged, cut the top off the bag, and said, “Good riddance, Ruby,” as she turned it upside down. Stunned, my stomach turned. 

Too heavy to catch what little wind there was, instead of soaring, Ruby’s Kibbles ‘N Bits plummeted down the side of the mountain. The heavier pieces clunked against the boulders. The clatter caused my brain to cloud, and the abrupt hush that followed when they reached their resting place in the abyss of indifference, heightened my bewilderment of how swiftly my expectations for the day had collapsed. 

I walked back to the car feeling unsettled and agitated. And foolish.

As she thoughtlessly tossed the empty Cremated Remains box into the trunk, I said, “I thought it would be nicer than that.”

She looked at me. “Really?”

*   *   *

Nancy Klann-Moren has published a collection of short stories titled, Like The Flies On The Patio, and two novels, The Clock Of Life, and Love and Protest, and has also contributed to several anthologies. She serves on the board of The Southern California Writers Association and teaches a short story workshop each year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. http://www.nancyklann-moren.com.