Beatrice Interred
written by: Devonne Brown
@athesaurus1
The undertakers pushed the casket into the drawer of the vault. Millard stood beside his truck and watched. Everyone else left the cemetery. His brother rode in the lead limousine with the kids back to the house. Fanny and Albert, his sister and brother-in-law rode in the second car of the black parade. There were few folks at the funeral because Beatrice outlived or ran off everybody she cared about.
Millard didn’t want to ride in the funeral parade, so he waited for it to pass. The ceremony was over, it was all over. He’d spent the last ten years of his life, of her life, of their fifty year marriage waiting on Beatrice hand and foot. He was seventy, she was seventy-five when they connected her to the tubes and electrodes that measured her last breath. She’d been so kind, so frail, so demanding.
He loosened his tie and a golf ball, dimpled and hard, of bitter bile filled his mouth. It rolled and swished around, unbearable. He vomited. Millard puked until the mass of melancholy brought him to his knees. He put his hands on the ground to hold him steady until it all came out. Years of resentment and guilt heaved from deep within his belly, his sinuses, his brain, and his eyes.
The handkerchief his dad taught him to carry around came in handy again. In some parts of the world, the custom was to save the handkerchief that wiped and held the tears spilled over a loved one. He threw that bitch away.
Millard got his feet under him and faced the sun. It was hot on his face and he smiled. He threw his useless funeral jacket in the back of the truck, the dust could have it. Maybe the wind would lift it and set it free from its earthly bonds as well. There was hope. He climbed in the cab, revved the engine, and tore out through the canyon. He needed a bar with cold beer and loud music.
The folks at the house would just have to mourn without him. He was alive, well, and happy to catch their hell when he decided to go home. What if they just left? Millard liked that idea, and laughed.
The cellphone sang Fanny’s ringtone. “Where are you? Everybody’s here at the house. They want to see you.” She didn’t sound happy, he didn’t expect her to.
“I’m not coming. I’ll be home late tonight or maybe tomorrow. Enjoy the party. I’ve talked about this shit long enough. You can run the festivities without me,” he hung up. The cell sang again, but he didn’t answer it. He’d made his point and was sticking to it.
He laughed when he looked out the rearview mirror in time to watch his funerary fabric carrion fly. He laughed again and it felt good. He was as free as the jacket, cranked up some tunes, and rolled down the windows. His time left on the planet was short, he wanted to feel the wind in his hair every chance he got.
- Beatrice Interred - June 7, 2024
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