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.