Scattering Simon
by Harry Buschman
When Beverly Mendel broke the news to Rabbi
Engel, he was very upset.
"Look, Mrs. Mendel, it's your funeral.
I am not personally against it -- but
I'm not personally for it either. However! .... and it's a big however
already, is it asking too much to put your husband in a patch of dirt?"
The
Rabbi was dead set against cremation. "For five thousand years we Jews
have
been on the run. Isn't it about time in this day and age that a Jew can put
his bones in a patch of dirt?"
Beverly took this as a qualified approval.
"My mind is made up, Reb Engel,
after the service, Schachter is driving Simon to the crematory, and I will
have him with me always."
Beverly had no intention of cherishing the
ashes of Simon Mendel any longer
than she had to. Instead, she wanted to eradicate his earthly remains as
quickly as possible. She wanted no trace of him left behind. He was a most
ingenious man, and even if he were interred in a remote corner of the Jewish
Cemetery in the borough of Queens, she could not be sure he would stay
there. For the past twelve years, she and Simon had exchanged no more than a
dozen words, and if it had been she, instead of Simon who had the massive
coronary, she knew he would feel the same.
Even when they were on speaking terms, it was
always "Simon says this," and
"Simon says that." They would go where he wanted to go and eat what
he
wanted to eat. He was the same way down at the business. Sheila, his
secretary, would raise her eyes to the ceiling and shout, "D'yukst aros
de
kishkas!" Which, in choice Yiddish means, "You're rushing my guts
out!" The
outburst would have no effect on Simon, who would stride back and forth in
his seedy office at the back of the shop waving his arms and dictating while
Sheila tried to finish the letter he had just dictated. He went from crisis
to crisis, and it's not surprising that he met a sudden end in his
fifty-sixth year.
It happened during the busy season at Big Boy
Jeans -- early summer when the
stores are stocking up for the fall. Simon was berating Paulo Santos, the
cutter (and the only gentile on the premises).
"Meshuggah! Dumb Filipino! Ve can get
six extra pairs of pants if ve cut on
the bias!"
"We can't cut on the bias -- you know
that, Mr. Mendel. The pants won't hang
right -- besides I am Puerto Rican -- you know that too!" Santos later
said
that Simon had given him a "funny" look and began walking backwards.
He
thought it was strange that he had gotten the last word. "It wasn't like
Senor Mendel to let me have the last word." Simon stumbled backward all
the
way across the shop and through the door of his office, "As though he had
eyes in the back of his head." Santos said. Then he collapsed in a heap
in
front of Sheila, whose only response was, "Oy, gevald."
Big Boy's Jeans carried on, however. Most clothing
manufacturers are owned
by two or more people for reasons of solvency -- but at the same time, to
have someone to blame when things go wrong. Wayne Shatner was Simon's
partner. (or as Simon called him, "Mine potna.") Wayne, who sported
a
mustache similar to that worn by Ronald Coleman, spent no time in the shop.
He was a born road man. Every successful clothing company partnership
consists of a shop man and a road man. Wayne, a bachelor, was a born road
man, every bit as much as Simon was a born shop man.
Now, with Wayne Shatner and Beverly Mendel
as 'potnas', the shop man's
responsibilities fell on the narrow shoulders of Paulo Santos. He was
elevated to foreman status even before Simon Mendel made the trip to the
crematory, and Simon's former secretary, Sheila, was now an office honcho
with greater responsibilities. She had to handle all the correspondence and
day to day office duties that had been one of the causes of Simon Mendel's
coronary. Everyone had something to be thankful for it seemed. If you
discount Simon Mendel.
The only fly in Beverly Mendel's ointment,
so to speak, was the urn
containing the ashes of her husband now sitting on her fireplace mantel.
His living presence had been such a stifling influence on her that she was
determined to eliminate all traces of him.
The Mendel's fourteen room residence in Oyster
Bay Cove was located in the
center of a six acre lot, the northern end of which sloped gently down to
the Cove's private sandy beach. Simon had often sunned himself there on
weekends while working on his shipping schedules and raw material purchasing
records. How simple it would be, thought Beverly, to walk down there some
evening and empty his urn into the outgoing tide, his remains would
certainly be thoroughly diluted in the waters of Long Island Sound.
It was very tempting.
But could she do it in broad daylight? All
the residents of Oyster Bay Cove
had access to the beach, all their patios and sun rooms overlooked the beach
and the broad expanse of Long Island Sound. Nothing passed unnoticed --
binoculars would be quickly trained on a lone figure emptying a suspicious
container in the light of day. The people of Oyster Bay Cove were
ecologically conscious -- they were concerned with the dwindling ozone layer
and the spotted owl. The pollution of their precious shoreline would be a
subject of grave concern to them.
Could she do it in the dead of night? Hardly.
It was early summer, and for
the next few months the singles of Oyster Bay Cove would be partying 'til
all hours. The things that went on down there! From what she'd heard, there
was drinking and bon fires and all sorts of monkeyshines going on in the
dunes. It was much too risky to wander down there in the evening with the
ashes of Simon Mendel.
But there had to be a way. The northern shore
of Long Island is an unending
series of indented bays and inlets. Beverly decided to reconnoiter. She got
out the BMW one lovely early summer afternoon and headed east from Oyster
Bay Cove. Threading her way along the winding back roads of the north shore,
eventually she discovered the quaint little town of Old Field. At the very
end of Old Field Road she pulled up to a sandy beach surrounding the
abandoned Old Field Lighthouse. "This is it!" she exclaimed. To the
north,
the only land she could see was the distant Connecticut shore. The nearest
human beings were too small to be seen in their sailboats out there on the
vast blue expanse of Long Island Sound. On the beach a curious gull or two
were her only companions. She noticed the tide was ebbing,
"Tomorrow," she said to herself,"tomorrow
it is -- same time, same place!"
Yes, by this time tomorrow, it would be 'bon voyage' for Simon.
She turned the BMW around and hurried home.
She wasn't hungry. She was much
too edgy to watch television and too preoccupied to read. Early that
evening, with nothing to do, she looked through the hall closet and found a
Bloomingdales shopping bag and carefully put Simon's urn inside. "How small
it is," she thought, remembering Simon's considerable bulk. "A miracle
they
squeezed all of him in there." She brought it out to the car and put it
in
the trunk. "There," she said, "nothing to do now but wait."
-- later, she
was restless and slept fitfully. "Will the morning ever come?" She
asked
herself again and again as the dark night dragged on. Again and again she
would turn to check on the slow passage of time on the radio alarm.
At the first light of morning, Beverly dragged
herself out of bed and into a
long hot shower. She dressed casually in a sweater and slacks; then,
realizing she hadn't eaten a thing for dinner, decided to make herself a
decent breakfast. She was determined not to start off for Old Field until
ten o'clock, because at noon the tide would turn and the waters off the
sandy shore of Old Field Lighthouse would ebb with the confluence of the sun
and the moon and Simon would become one with the infinite.
She set the kitchen timer and sat down to wait.
A thump at the front door
startled her. The paper boy! -- something to pass the time. She checked the
weather, the tide tables and the local news. Everything was going according
to plan. The weather would be cooler today than yesterday with a freshening
breeze from the south -- the tide indeed would turn to the ebb in the
vicinity of Old Field at twelve noon and the combination of the wind and the
tide would be the impetus for the remains of Simon Mendel. There was no
local news, but there were sales! Sales everywhere! Summer sales that she
couldn't wait to get back to -- the scattering of Simon had taken so much of
her time! She hadn't been to the mall in weeks.
After what seemed an eternity, the kitchen
timer buzzed. "Thank God,"
Beverly muttered to herself. Her purse was by her side -- keys? Yes, there
they were. She took a quick look around her and left by the kitchen door to
the garage. Although she knew knew he would be there, she checked on Simon
in the trunk. She started the BMW and pushed the button for the garage door
opener -- a momentary flash of panic when the door wouldn't open, until she
realized she had pushed the wrong button. Then she backed out ever so
carefully into the almost deserted street.
Beverly had always been a careful driver. Simon
would not agree, he would
ride shotgun at her side and tell her to, "Watch out for this guy!"
or "You
can turn right on red, so why y'waitin'?!" Simon, of course had never driven
a car or operated anything of a mechanical nature in his life. This morning
Beverly was particularly careful, and the trip out to Old Field went slowly.
At every stop sign and every red light, she would look in the rear view
mirror to see if the trunk lid was closed .... she couldn't help it. The BMW
was as troubler as an automobile can be -- the trunk lid had never popped
open on its own, but .... she couldn't help it.
If anything, the little town of Old Field was
more deserted than it had been
yesterday, and the empty beach front by the lighthouse showed no sign of
people. Beverly stopped the car and got out -- it was indeed cooler than
yesterday. The distant Connecticut shore could not be seen and there were no
pleasure boats afloat on the restless waters of the Sound. She was alone
with the fretful gulls that circled tirelessly above her -- their harsh and
caustic voices reminded her to get on with it.
She rolled the cuffs of her slacks up to her
knees and took off her shoes,
then she walked to the rear of the BMW and opened the trunk. There he was,
nestled comfortably in the Bloomingdales shopping bag. This was it -- "So,
how y'doin' Simon?" The ornate light oak plastic laminate urn seemed more
fitting perhaps, to a younger man -- a rock-and-roller cut down in the
flower of his creativity. The contradiction flitted across Beverly's mind
for the briefest of moments, but she quickly returned to the job at hand.
She pulled the urn out of the bag and hefted
its weight. How light it was!
She felt a surge of power within her; as though she were a pitcher on the
mound with a count of two strikes on the batter. "I'm sure I could heave
this thing half way across the Sound," she muttered. But instead, she
unscrewed the top and waded out into the receding tide.
As a cook might sprinkle flour on a batter
board or powdered sugar on a hot
cross bun, Beverly sprinkled Simon on the restless waters of the Sound. They
floated off to the north in the general direction of Connecticut. The gulls
came down to investigate but quickly lost interest as the mortal remains
slowly settled. Beverly upended the urn and rapped it smartly with the cover
to assure herself there was nothing left inside, then she threw the urn and
its lid as far out as she could. They fell with a tiny splash, and they,
too, quickly sank to the bottom. She dusted her hands and rinsed them in the
chilly water. Then she quickly waded back to shore.
How simple it had been! How quickly a living
thing can change its form and
disappear! Like the miracle of water which can be a solid, a liquid, or a
gas depending on the temperature in which it is found. These thoughts
crowded her mind as she dried her feet by the side of the BMW. A final look
and she was convinced that not a sign of Simon remained. It was as though he
had never existed -- and in a way, she thought . . . "Did he ever?"
The BMW
started immediately, erasing her momentary fear that it might strand her
here alone on this remote and lonely stretch of sand.
The drive home was pleasant. The stress was
gone and Beverly was now acutely
aware of her surroundings. Early summer greens, colorful banks of flowers
and the smell of new mown grass -- the sights and smells, the sounds along
the road home were vivid and full of promise. She felt as though she had
just walked out of the dentist's office, and when she finally pulled into
her driveway she couldn't wait to make herself a Martini.
It was in the middle of the making of the Martini
that the telephone rang.
She let it ring until the answering machine took over. Oops! That was
something she had forgotten to do!
"This is 894-3749, the home of Big Boy
Jeans. Simon Mendel speaking. Ve are
not home at the moment, please leaf a message after the blip."
SHIT! She thought, why didn't I take care of
that a week ago? "Well -- get
on with the message, already -- maybe the caller was distracted hearing a
dead man answering the phone. "Er, Mrs. Mendel? .... this is Herman
Schachter? You know, Schachter's Funeral Parlor?" Every word out of the
man's mouth was a question .... "Would you please call me? The number is
620-6390?"
"In my own good time." She replied
confidently. She finished stirring her
pitcher of Martinis and pulled the funeral party tray of last weeks
leftovers out of the refrigerator -- some nice emmenthaler, a little
herring, and the kielbasa that Simon was so fond of.
She walked into the living room and put the
pitcher of Martinis and the
leftovers on the coffee table, then picked up the portable phone. She sat
down, and dialed 620-6390.
"Schachter's."
"Beverly Mendel, is this Mr. Schachter?"
The answer seemed to emerge from a man in pain.
"Mrs. Mendel, thank you for
returning the call -- yes by all means, this is Herman Schachter. Do you
have a moment Mrs. Mendel, there is something I must tell you." A chill,
a
flutter of restless wings, and a coolness like that which precedes the
coming of a summer storm passed through the Mendel's living room. Beverly
took a quick sip of her Martini and put the glass down.
"Mrs. Mendel, this has never -- I repeat
-- NEVER -- happened at Schachter's
before. The remains of your husband -- Mr. Mendel -- were inadvertently
delivered to the Levy's." Herman paused to collect himself. "It is
really
very embarrassing, Mrs. Mendel, you see, you ordered the light oak plastic
laminate urn. By the oddest of coincidences the Levy's ordered the same
thing for their grandmother, Belinda." Beverly reached quickly for her
Martini, and drained the glass. "If you look at the silver plaque on the
bottom of your urn, you will see that we .... inadvertently .... as I said
before, Mrs. Mendel -- delivered Belinda Levy to you." Beverly put the
empty
Martini glass down and picked up the pitcher. "We'll be over immediately,
Mrs. Mendel -- with the loving remains of Mr. Mendel."
©Harry Buschman 2000
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