Mary Coin Read Online Free Page B

tape.
    “What’s that?” Isaac says.
    “It’s Grandpa,” Walker says.
    “Jesus fucking Christ,” Alice yells.
    “No. Just my father.”
    “Ha, ha,” she says wryly. She comes closer, her horror turning to a shy curiosity that he finds touching. Walker pulls a plastic baggie filled with his father’s ashes from the box.
    None of his siblings seemed eager to participate in any kind of ritual, but Walker feels that his father’s final, unexpected wish to be cremated will not be completely honored until his ashes are spread. He can still bring to mind the furiously energized look in his father’s eyes when George made his last request. At the time, Walker wondered if there was some psychotic aspect to the drugs he was being given. George could hardly have been called a spiritual man, and he was too discreet to have visions of his body feeding the next round of orange trees. It occurs to Walker that George’s decision not to be buried in the Dodge plot at the edge of the original orchard was a choice against the family, that some part of his dying wish, for whatever reason, was to be finally released.
    “It’s so little for a whole person,” Alice says, cupping her hands as if she were holding the bag.
    “I thought we’d spread him here,” Walker says.
    “Is that against the law?” Isaac says.
    “Probably.” Alice’s eyes flash at the idea of subversion, and Walker looks around for dopey dramatic effect. “I don’t see anyone.”
    “Me neither,” she says, forgetting to belittle him.
    Both children are quiet as he unknots the closure and shakes some of the ashes onto the forest floor.
    “We should do it around,” Alice says. “Like not dump it all in one place.”
    Walker and Isaac and Alice roam the forest, sprinkling ashes in the spots each one feels are particularly beautiful or quiet, or where a bird trills or a butterfly has landed. It is a half hour of extravagant closeness that makes Walker feel his separation from his children more acutely.
    When they are finished, he holds the empty baggie.
    “It looks like a used condom,” Alice says, returning to form.
    “Thank you for that enduring image,” he says.
    They walk back through the woods toward the parking lot.
    “We never really knew him,” Isaac says.
    “Some people don’t want to be known,” Walker says.
    “That’s stupid,” Alice says. “Everyone wants to be known. Otherwise it’s just fucking depressing.”
    Of course she is right. Everyone wants to be known. Perhaps the ones who conceal themselves most of all. The question is: Who is foolhardy enough to go in search of them?
    •   •   •
     
    T he following days are a struggle. There is intermittent rain and it is cold. The cabin Walker rented is small and damp. After an initial burst of excitement about fishing, Alice gives up and spends long hours sitting on rocks by the edge of the Trinity with a blanket wrapped around her or lying in the infrequently appearing splashes of sun. Isaac is a valiant fisherman, but Walker has the feeling his son is summoning interest for his sake. Walker gives in to an emergency trip to the nearest mall and movie theater and an unnecessarily expensive sweater purchase meant to endear him to Alice. When the weekend is finally over, he drives the children back to Petaluma. The rigors of so much concentrated time together sap all three of them, and the quiet in the car has the quality of surrender. Isaac gives Walker a tight hug before dragging his backpack and fishing gear to the house. Alice’s kiss is as frictionless as a bug’s wing. As he watches her walk away, Walker remembers when she was thirteen. He had casually tickled her back only to feel her unexpectedly stiffen. It turned out that she had been wearing her first bra. He supposes the complications of the moment—Alice taking on the habits of womanhood while he tried to drag her back to her childish, sexless self—were too much for her, but the removal stung him just