Friday, January 14, 2011

The Vase

It all began with a short story.

THE VASE
By Del Boland

“Honey, I think I have a solution to our problem!” I yell up the stairs. “What problem?” my wife’s voice responds. “The problem with Gimmer Dean!” I yell back.

It was under a work table for almost two years. A wooden vase with a matching lid. It seems heavy as I lift it from its resting place. I wipe the dust away to partially restore the natural mahogany sheen to the outer surface.

“Ok, tonight is the big night”, I mumble to myself.

My wife gives me a suspicious look from the kitchen table as I emerge from the basement. “And where do you think you’re going with that?” she asks.

“We’re taking it to the party.”

“Absolutely not!”

“You know, she would have wanted it this way.”

“Yes, but it’s not fair to the others!” she snaps.

I feel I’m losing ground so I try a slightly different approach. “It’s really a nice vase and the story is intriguing.”

My wife looks at me over her glasses. “You cannot be serious?”

“Well, this is a group of writers and writers love good stories.”

“Yes dear, but they don't want to be burdened with the responsibility. Can’t we just forget about it?” she presses. “I don’t think anyone can blame us for not complying with such an odd request.”

I think about it for a minute. Deep down, I agree with her. It is very odd. I suppose it was my aunt’s final act of desperation. I manage to come back to the task at hand which is cleaning the vase and finding a box to wrap it.

“You know, this could be a lot of fun,” I offer. “We can give it a try and see what happens.”

“I think you’re asking for trouble. There is no way you’ll pull it off.”

“Just leave it to me. I’ll take the heat.”

I look at my watch and announce, “It’s almost six o’clock. We only have one hour.”

She goes upstairs as I fasten a bow onto the box.


My wife wraps her hair in a towel as I make my way into the master bathroom. She smirks at me in the large mirror. I smirk back while undressing. I step into the shower and allow the hot water to run through my hair and down my face. It feels good. I think about my Aunt Gimmer Dean.

She was a small woman with severe osteoporosis. The muscles in her neck were atrophied from supporting her head at such an awkward angle for so long her head drooped below the peak of her humped back. Her facial features were contorted by several strokes with her mouth up on one side and down on the other. Because her head was naturally cast downward, she always looked to the side which gave her the odd appearance of a character from a Picasso painting. It was difficult to look at her without tilting your head.

“This really is the best opportunity that we have,” I say as I step out of the shower, drying my hair with a towel.

“Maybe so, but I still think it’s a bad idea. That is, after what happened last year.”

“You don’t really believe in the curse, do you?”

“I believe it now.”

I signed for it before the calamity began. At first, I didn’t know what was in the package. I hoped for money, jewelry or stock certificates. But no, easy money was not in alignment with the other events of my life. I received a vase containing my aunt’s ashes along with some documents.

There was the bio and the story, but there was also the letter to be signed upon receipt. The letter had instructions for passing the contents of the vase along. It also provided a manifest sheet that would forever accompany the contents of the vase.

We did not follow through the first year after receiving the bequest. We talked about it, but forgot about it until beset by a series of unfortunate events.

We dismissed the everyday annoyances for a while as the maintenance items seemed quite normal. After 6 months, the problems were following a pattern of increased frequency and impact on our family. In one week the ice maker pan overflowed into the freezer, we collected a dent in the door of our new car in a parking lot, and our television stopped working. Soon thereafter, the hot water heater leaked water into the basement ruining the carpet, a tree fell on our house and my mother-in-law broke her hip. Then.....we lost our son, Josh. Something was very wrong.

“Should I wear a tie?” I ask.

“I don’t think so, I’m just wearing a nice Christmas sweater”

I button my shirt and place the envelope on the wrapped box.


“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out”, my wife says to me as we back out of the driveway.

I glance over at her, sitting in the passenger seat of our car. She looks very tired after a long week at work.

“Hang in there, it’ll be a lot of fun.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You know everybody and you're unloading the curse.”

“It’s not a curse if people follow through. It'll be fine.”


We drive into Tommy Nevin’s Pub parking lot.

“What if no one will take it?” she asks as we get out of the car.

“I don’t know, we’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

A nice lady stands next to a table. I recognize her from the writer’s group.

“You can just put your gift here,” says the lady while pointing at the table. There’s a sign with “White Elephant Gift Exchange” written in large letters.

I place the package containing Aunt Gimmer Dean on the table and hand the envelope to the lady.

“I know it’s an odd request, but it should be a lot of fun. Please have the recipient of the gift sign the document inside the envelope and then deliver it back to me.”

We turn and walk toward a table with a few empty chairs. I feel relieved. I have fulfilled my duty.

2 comments:

  1. To the Next Recipient of the Urn

    Gimmer Dean: An Enchanting House Guest

    Gimmer Dean (GD) Barfoot has rested peacefully in a prominent place in our family room, on a bookshelf peopled with dead poets to keep her company. She has been no problem to us. She was content to sit up there in her urn, quietly observing the workings of our little family: my wife Lynne, our two teenage kids, Ryan and Brianna, and our dogs, Daisy and Dylan. When she arrived here last December, we read Gimmer Dean’s story to the kids and they enjoyed it. We’ve taught them to be open-minded and adventurous, so they accepted Gimmer Dean with open arms. We are mostly a peaceful family except when we yell at the kids to pick up their stuff and do their chores and homework. Also, when we play with the dogs every morning -- a ritual in our house -- things get a little raucous. The kids give each of the dogs a toy and chase them from room to room. When they catch the dogs, they tickle them silly. The kids love it, the dogs love it, and now GD loves it too.

    GD, as she has come to be known among us, seems to enjoy everything about being here, because she hasn’t caused us a bit of mischief. Daisy and Dylan were restless for the first few nights after her arrival here. I know it sounds strange, but I’m pretty sure her spirit remains with her ashes and wanders about the house while we’re all sleeping, peeking into our stuff, not maliciously mind you, she just seems to be curious, as if she might be looking for something. I’ve seen vague traces of her presence all over the house. The dogs have gotten used to her wanderings, and it doesn’t bother me or anyone else in the house.

    The only precaution I’ve taken is to hide the letter from GD’s previous keepers for fear that she might stumble across the awful physical description that accompanied her ashes. The letter compared her to Quasimodo and a character from a Picasso painting, and vividly painted a picture of her humped back, her decaying teeth, and her straggly hair. Hurtful stuff, especially coming from a family member. Del should be ashamed.

    Fortunately, GD has found a home with people who accept her without reservations. I’ve hidden Del’s letter in a desk drawer among some old letters and paid bills. I hope she never finds it. I can’t bear to think about what GD might do if she learns exactly what Del thinks of her. I was afraid that if she discovered the envelope, she might continue the curse and make his entire life miserable just as she did before Del finally released her from his basement prison and devised this scheme to get someone to take her off his hands.

    I’ve done what I can to protect him, but now it’s up to someone else to look after Gimmer Dean. Her wish, or so Del claims, was for her ashes to travel around the country to make Nancy Snodgrass remember how she done GD wrong by dancing with her boyfriend, Jefferson Davis Black, at the high school before he went off to war and got killed. I don’t know what she’ll do if she ever runs into Nancy Snodgrass or if her ashes are ever returned to Del. But I’ll tell you this, if you treat her with respect, she’ll do right by you. And next year at this time, you can pass her on to someone else.

    I have done my best to uphold Gimmer Dean’s request and she has resided with us peacefully for this past year. Now it’s your turn.

    Joe Larkin 12/10/10

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  2. Well now, Joe, I don't think I've been a bit disrespectful to Gimmer Dean. I followed her wishes and she couldn't help her looks much.

    Either way, I'm glad that you and your family accepted her with open arms. I know she is now visiting a new family and I hope she brings them as much joy and luck as she brought to you.

    Cheers,

    Del

    ReplyDelete