His Brother-In-Law didn’t offer to help me, so I lugged the box in from the road as he drove away. I opened the door like a crab and shouldered into the kitchen. I put the urn on the table, then pulled out the left-over cold cuts, pigs-in-a-blanket, a Tupperware full of Italian sausage in red sauce, and three pieces of lemon meringue pie. There was plenty of room in the refrigerator, so I stuck it all in there and closed the door. Then I reconsidered and retrieved a piece of pie and sat at the table.

As I took a bite the urn asked me. “Are you glad it’s over?”

“What?…over.” I answered.

“The funeral, Evelyn, what did you think I meant?”

“There were more mourners than some. Not as many as Hadley’s”

“Well, he was the department chair, plus he’s a Rotarian.”

“Miranda and the girls sang Both Sides Now. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. They left right after the service.”

“All but yourself, I venture.”

“I’m not a crier. Never was–you know that.”

“It was your cherished husband’s funeral,” The Urn said. “You could have
played the grieving widow at least.”

“That’s not in my repertoire.”
In my bedroom, I took off His Sister’s dress and put it in the dry cleaning
bag. I tossed the slip in the bottom drawer.

The next morning I looked over His Will and organized the other papers.
Mostly, I found myself staring at the door to His Study. Around noon I went into the kitchen. The pigs-in-a-blanket looked like they had died in their sleep, so I interred them in the trash. I rolled up some cold cuts and took a congealed bottle of Dijon and a sleeve of Saltines to the table.

“Why haven’t you ventured in yet?” The urn asked me.

“I don’t know. Habit I guess.”

“I hid the key in the Big Ugly Vase,” He said.

“I knew that,” I replied.

“I knew you knew that.” He said.

“I know you knew I knew,” I said.

“But, you fore bore from it.”

“Yes, Bernard…I fore bore.”

The Damn Phone rang and, of course, it was Nosy Nellie The Next Door Neighbor.

“How are you today, hon?” She asked.

“Fabulous– other than the Bernard dying thing.” I replied.

“Oh Evie, you know what I mean. I’m just checking on you. That was a nice service for The Professor,” Nellie said.

“He would have enjoyed it. Unitarians always put on a good funeral, but
I’ve never understood why they bother.” I said.

With a snort she replied, “Oh God Evelyn, you always crack me up.”

“Yeah, I’m a laugh a minute.”

“Seriously Evie’. How are you doing? This is a big change for you.”

“It’s been a blur. I’ll make some sense of it all soon. I’m supposed to call His Lawyer and get the estate process going.”

“Won’t you miss him, just a little?” She asked me.

“Oh yes, he was my anchor.”

“That kept you safe in storms or kept you from sailing?”

“Yes.”

“I never know if you’re kidding or not,” Nosy Nellie said.

“Me either– looks like His Sister is driving in. I have to go.”

“Do you have food in the house?” she had the audacity to ask.

“I can manage, Nell,” I said and hung up.

His Sister didn’t knock, and I heard her clumping something down
on the counter…probably groceries. I went to my bedroom to get her dress and met her as she came into the living room.

“You can keep it, Evie. You might need it again.”

“Why? You planning on another funeral?” I asked.

“I’ll let that pass. I know you’re hurting. Now, Evelyn, do you really want the urn on the kitchen table? I mean, what if someone comes to visit?”

“I’ll put it on the mantle.” I said.

“You don’t have a mantle. Must you make a joke of everything?”

“I’ll move it.” I assured His Sister.

“Evie, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant conversations at this time,
however, Robert was quite agitated after he brought you home from the service. You simply must stop insulting my husband. It’s rude, and you’re going to need his help around here now.”

“He has no sense of humor, and his toupee does look like road kill. You know it’s true.”

“He manages the best he can. He’s a fine and gentle man.”

“I’ll be nice.” I assured His Sister.

“I brought you some basics, and the pot pies you like. Even though they’re loaded with sodium. I’ll be checking in. You try to rest.”

“Thank you, dear,” I said. “Don’t forget your dress.”

Three days later, His Sister’s concern was validated, when Nice Young Pastor stood at the door. I looked at the urn and decided he would not be offended. I let him in with an expression of surprised delight.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Nice Young Pastor said. “I like to follow up a few days after the service. Just to see how you are coming along on the mourning journey.”

“I’m still sharpening the edge of my grief, not dulling it. But, soon I want to start the hard work of moving from grief to grieving. Everything looks dark right now, though” I recited.

“It’s helpful to treat the dark not as an enemy, but rather as a place where
something new and valuable can be cultivated.”

“But, what can one cultivate in the dark, except mushrooms?” I asked.

“I…I’m not…it’s a metaphor I’m sure. It’s a process. I see you have the urn
here. I didn’t ask you about internment. Did you want to share that experience with our community?”

“No, thank you. Bernard asked me to scatter his ashes on the lake. Out in
front of the college.”

“That sounds very meaningful. When will you do it?”

“Oh no, I won’t be doing that. I’m taking him to the desert.”

“Why is that?” He asked.

“Because he so hated it there.”

There was a long silence before he replied.

“That is the most spiteful thing I have ever heard.”

“Rrreally.” I said. “Well, you’re young yet.”

I could tell he was quite taken aback. He didn’t even stay for coffee.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” He said. “But here’s my card. Please call if I can help you.”

“You’re doing just fine,” I assured Nice Young Pastor and gave him my
best royal wave as he drove away.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” The urn asked.” You didn’t
mean it.”

“I told you a hundred times. When one of us dies; I’m going back to New
Mexico.”

“At least look at what I left on my desk before you decide,” The urn said.

With that, I resolutely marched to the door of His Study and unlocked the
door. It was ageless: sagging club chair, brandy snifter on the side table, piles of books on the floor, except the desk was clear but for a thick sheaf of paper topped with an official looking letter.

I quickly perused the letter: Pleased…accepted for publication…enclosed…first of three installments of advance…$3,333.33

He had done it. He had sold THE BOOK. After years of rejection notices, re-writes, fired agents, and a ruined marriage.

I turned to the Dedication page

To Evelyn: Your Spirit drove me…

I wondered what he meant by that…to insanity? To drink? To death?

I turned over the first page.

CHAPTER ONE
It was the hot winds of fate that blew me to Taos, New Mexico, but it
was hot lust that kept me there. The vision of her legs held me ensconced on the hard bench of a ratty outdoor theater one spring evening. The production was a forgettable re-make of Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mini-skirts were still scandalous as were gauzy see through blouses, but somehow seemed apropos for her obsessive and love struck character, Helena.

The opening paragraph was all I could take at the moment. I sat down in
His Chair and called His Lawyer and didn’t return to His Study. It was six weeks before His Affairs were settled and I had a new bank account and an Amtrak ticket to Albuquerque.

It was an un-godly hour, but Nellie the Nosy Next Door Neighbor, was all
too glad to take me to the Rochester train station. She was pleased to be
helping me on my Great Adventure, a Quest, she called it.

I splurged on a sleeper and settled in. Somewhere past Cleveland I awoke
and picked up His Book.

CHAPTER THREE
We settled in her tiny adobe. It was mid-way between town and the
communes sprouting in the desert. She was mid-way also, half-future focused and half hippie-live for the day. We basked in the warmth of the evenings and sweated through the nights. Like all young lovers, we believed we were the first to feel such passion, and we lived in total ignorance. I was Adam to her Eve.

I skimmed most of the rest:

blushing breasts….like rose buds…swollen…throbbing…legs
wrapped…as one…cried out in the night…

In the mornings she worked at the theater and took workshops to
hone her craft. I stayed in the warm light of the adobe or went to a coffee shop and worked on my thesis. In the heat of the day we sat in a cool hacienda and talked about acting and literature, but we did not speak of September.

In Chicago I transferred to the Southwest Chief and was escorted to a
luxurious sleeper car. I sat at its little table and watched the landscape go by. It had flattened and the horizon blended with the sky. There was a lovely art deco-
nude statue holding a reading light on the table. I turned it on and opened His Book.

CHAPTER FOUR
But September did come. She had managed to land in a theater troupe touring the West Coast. My sojourn was disrupted by a waiting
graduate assistant position and the final sprint to a Master’s degree at
Yale. Even today, our prolonged and passionate fare-thee-well stirs warmth in my nether regions. Our good bye at the bus station was worthy of any star crossed lovers movie ever made. She with a never ending wave of her out-stretched hand as I strained out the window until she was but a mote in the dusty desert town.

He followed that up with a litany of metaphors of fading autumn and the
coming winter in stodgy and dreary New Haven compared to the wild and free
heat of Taos. Furthermore, the metaphor deepened to include the changing
times. From repressive religious and moral restraints of the past to the free and
natural life of the new age. It was rather tiresome, but in vogue among the literati and publishers these days. Chapter seven did catch my eye.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Oh, how I longed to stick out my thumb and hitch to the far Pacific
and re-join my love. Of course, Mother and Father would not hear of it. So that Thanksgiving I continued my odyssey and returned once again to Ithaca and my pater familias.

Only anticipation of her promised phone call kept me from total despair as I faced pearl encrusted aunts, red nosed uncles, and my mother’s clan from the forests of upper Appalachia. At last, faintly heard among the shouts of barbarians surrounding the TV urging on gladiators in their Colosseum, the phone rang. It was she, her distant voice filled my soul. But, alas, there seemed a hesitance in her soliloquy.

The news struck my like a bolt from Zeus. Despite employing a gross
of condoms over the summer, the unthinkable had befallen us. My formally unsullied vessel of love was with child.

I couldn’t read on as the tale turned to never ending conflict between
Bernard and his father, The Pompous Professor of Medieval Studies. It was full
of the clash of generations so honored by today’s sagging Boomers. I turned off
the nude and her reading light, and as He would say: repaired to my snug bunk
while the rails clacked by.

After breakfast the next morning, I took my carafe of coffee back to
my car. I settled at the table and turned on the reading lamp just for the
ambiance and opened His Book. I could not stomach the endless family drama,
recriminations, and shaming that followed so I skimmed ahead.

CHAPTER NINE
My parents were decent people at heart, but her’s were not, so, of
course, there was no choice. Father paid for her airfare, and after a very
small wedding, we moved to my apartment in New Haven.
We were ecstatic to be re-united, and in what must be an evolutionary
imperative, we were enthralled with the new being growing in her
miraculous womb. This imposed bliss covered the pitfalls of our
relationship like a thick blanket of New England snow.

I rarely allowed myself to reminisce, but I could not help but recall those
ancient days of pregnancy, birth, and infant smell imprinted on my very being.
Nothing since then gave me the single minded focus, the sense of usefulness,
as motherhood did in the early years.

Of course, no story can sell without a great fall of the protagonist. I could
not help but admire how his writing voice took on a perfect mix of braggadocio
and contrition.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the first year of my associate professorship there had only been
one. During my second, there were two the first semester. It always started so innocently. A fresh faced coed wanted to discuss a grade she received on a paper. Or sometimes, a request for further reading because she found my lecture so, so stimulating.
I knew better. The old professors warned me, but what was one to do.
Emboldened by a new found Pill, and with randy rock and roll lyrics racing in their heads; they flattered, and flirted, and flaunted until the deed was done; first there on the office couch and then on to motel trysts. Soon after came the tear-filled break off, guilt, and suspicions at home. Then again and again.

He followed that with the obligatory details that skirted the fine line
between titillation and soft porn that marked all the great literature of the time.

Shock and flouting convention were proof of enlightenment. Bernard, it turned
out, was a master of it, and no doubt the book sold on those merits. Finally, the
hero at his nadir-scene arrived.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Year three was tenure year. I swore off indiscretions and held all
meetings with female students in public spaces. I feared my reputation had been sullied, so I was determined to show the department committee I was Professor material and worthy of the proud alma mater. I assiduously attended their meetings and cocktail parties. I completed all my grades and reports a head of schedule.
I was assigned a left over graduate assistant. She was stately,
approaching statuesque, but plain of face with long auburn hair that only occasionally escaped from a tight bun. She was efficient, quiet, and apparently in need of a father figure.
The afternoon in question started well enough, Angelica, her name
was Angelica, and I were reviewing her grading of student essays. I
complimented her insightful comments and germane suggestions. We took a break, and I made tea; I in the club chair, she on the couch. I noticed her china cup was trembling as she raised it to her full, naturally pink lips.
There was the slightest heave of her Junoesque breasts against her
peasant blouse. It was then I noted tears shining in her demure and dark eyes. I reached out my hand in comfort, and she grasped it with slender fingers.
“No one has ever been so nice to help me before, ever… ever,” she said.
“I want you to know that. You’re the first one.”
Her tears warmed as they flowed down her face that blushed like a
dew speckled rose. I feared her parted and quavering lips portended a full melt down. I reached to dry her tears with gentle strokes of my thumbs as my fingers cupped the hot nape of her long neck. She leaned in and offered up a guileless kiss; then with a graceful, approaching elegant motion, she loosened her hair. It fell like an autumn sunset over her shoulders and décolletage. I moved to the couch. My passion addled brain erased the Dean of Students’ scheduled visit. She arrived un-announced and found us in flagrante delicto.
I was offered a quiet separation for personal reasons, and thus ended
my Ivy League career.

As I closed the book, the lovely nude woman holding the lamp asked.

“Won’t you let him out, my dear?”

“Why should I?” I replied.

“I should think you would so awfully want to know why he couldn’t
behave. You know, stay true to you.”

“It’s the nature of the beast,” I said.

“Which beast is that?” The nude woman inquired.

“You must know, or you wouldn’t ask.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Still, you could ask him.”

I dug to the bottom of my suitcase and retrieved the urn in it’s paper bag.
I had duct taped the lid on so there would be no premature spilling of the
contents. I carried it to the table and sat down.

“Who’s your friend?” It asked.

“Could you for once look at me?” I asked, but added. “It was her idea to
let you out.”

“Insightful woman,” It said. “Where are we?”

“Looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore. We’ll be in Albuquerque before
dinner.”

“I see you’re reading my book. How do you like it?”

“Do you mean how do I like having my life exposed to every cretin that
buys modern novels?”

“I didn’t mean it quite like that. I meant do you think it’s any good?”

“No, it’s not good in the true meaning of the word; it’s tawdry. But, yes
it’s good as far as what’s marketable and possibly even profitable these days.
I’m hoping so.”

“Always the pragmatist. Are we not?”

“Our young lady here wants to know why you could not keep your
wedding promise to me. Answer that, or I’ll put you back in the dark.”

“If you’re looking for excuses; I don’t have any. Situations arose, two
people connected, it’s as natural as breathing. Monogamy is not our disposition.
Promises last as long as the circumstances in which they are made. People
change; that’s what they do. However, those people never changed how I felt
about you.”

“I’ll admit it takes guts to blaspheme when you’re facing eternity. You’re
saving your post-modern soul to the end. Congratulations.”

“I only hope you’ll finish the book. You’ll see. I believe you will see.”

I left the two of them together and went to lunch. I returned with my afternoon tea and sat back down in front of the urn and the nude woman. I was relieved that they didn’t speak to me again. I sipped my tea and opened His Book.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EXILE.
Mother and Father were mortified. I was a leper to my former
colleagues and friends. They had sympathy, but dared not come in contact.
Poor little Miranda, now five years old, suddenly was not welcomed to
birthday parties. The money dried up. With no where to turn, I acquiesced to my wife’s entreaties to return to our genesis in the purity of the New Mexico desert. We would find jobs. Her one un-estranged sister still lived in Santa Fe and could help with Miranda. She promised me a return to the bliss we had those yeas ago.
And she delivered in one way. Her unfathomable forgiveness
provided tinder for an ever growing flame of passion. It started slow, and halting, but soon grew to a longing for the night that transformed our connubial bed to a pyre of love.

Having my body described down to the pores did nothing for me. I’m
sure, in his mind, his feats of sexual prowess were plausible, but I have different
recollections of those times.

I was working at a women’s clothing store, but also after we settled in, I
found my way to the community theater. Bernard discovered inspiration and
started writing most evenings after teaching at a small college outside of town.
On rehearsal evenings, I would pick Miranda up from my sister’s, get her
settled for bed, then wash the dishes, and do laundry. But it was worth it
because I was back on stage.

I read on, wondering how he would handle what I knew was to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As much as I had dreaded leaving the green lawns and ivy walls of
eastern academia, the reality of the desert was worse than I envisioned. To my wife it was a return to an idyll in her mind. The reality to me was a dry wind kicking dust in my face. A rust and mold colored landscape of grotesque rock formations stretched to the distant horizon. It left me exposed and vulnerable; no cloistered oak groves, no brick walled gardens, no gentle hills protecting a bounty of water in slender lakes and rivers.
Almost as bad as the arid landscape was the arid culture. Most
galleries were infatuated with Georgia O’Keefe and her fawning acolytes. I found the “paintings” to be cartoonish and devoid of any coherent theme.
The literary scene consisted of insufferable “western themes” of sorrow for the vanishing wilderness and celebration of “rugged individualism” and the dying cowboy culture. There was a disdain for refined literature, or anything that smacked of true intellect.
As for music, the only violins to be heard were mercilessly raped by
boot-stomping cowboys accompanied by twanging guitars. I felt as if I’d
been thrown into the my third ring of Hell.
The theater scene was similarly bereft of sophistication, as
evidenced by the adaptation of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof to a setting on a cattle ranch; complete with Big Daddy as a land baron. Evelyn won the role of Maggie, opposite a hulking Paul Newman-wanna-be, Brick. The production was a smash among the Santa Fe intelligentsia. The final night even brought a few Beverly Hills gliteratti out of their adobe compounds. It was a triumph for Evelyn and the Newman-wanna-be.
Looking back, what bothered me most was how so vulgar it was. It
was cliche’,and I abhor cliches’. After spending weeks intimately living
their roles, the leading lady and leading man couldn’t leave it behind. They wanted to write their own ending, so they did.
Of course, her infidelity stung, but on what leg did I have to stand?
The following weeks of arguments were vulgar as well. Yelling, slammed doors, even some thrown table ware, a frightened child.
It all ended with a letter from Father. He had called in a chit and
found me a position at a small college near my home town of Ithaca.
I informed Evelyn. I record this verbatim:
“Keuka College?” She said incredulously. “That’s a girls school. What
is he thinking?”
“I’m over all that. I’m going to live like a monk. I have my writing. I
will teach, and I will write.”
“What about Miranda and me?” She asked.
“You are welcome to come. You are welcome to stay.”
“You’re a bastard,” She said.

It was time to pack and prepare to de-train. I caught a late bus out of Albuquerque and stopped over in Santa Fe, it being the point, just about half-
way. The next morning, after a breakfast of huevos rancheros, I boarded for Taos. The local Inn was close by and had an open room. It was thick walled and
cool. The saltillo floor was worn and interrupted by Navajo rugs. The bed was
small with a polished log head board. Above was a crucifix, too large and
gruesome for my taste.

I stopped at the front desk and inquired about a driver for tomorrow
morning. The señorita said her brother could take me wherever I wanted.
Back in my room I couldn’t sleep. I was getting tired of this whole thing
and wanted to get it over with. I opened His Book. I couldn’t stomach the sordid
third act demanded of the genre, so I skipped to the end, beyond the end.

EPILOUGE
Dear Reader,
I spent a goodly portion of my life writing this book. The story is
true, mostly, it’s as true as life is true. It is true that life is what happens to us while we’re waiting to do something else. I now know I might have waited too long. My request of the cosmos, my prayer if you wish, is that it is not too late. I locked my real world out and lived in this one far too long. I will now dedicate that same energy to living with and loving the only true one I have ever known. She knows who she is.

I closed the book, exhausted, and fell into deep sleep, how I do not know.
In the morning I took the urn out of the suitcase. I sat on the bedside and held it
in my hands.

“Do you remember me?” The Crucifix asked.

“I do,” I replied, “you’re like a school girl crush, so long ago. It seems
frivolous now.”

“It wasn’t a crush. I loved you too, but you moved away. I never got over
you, though. You look afraid. Why?”

“I’m afraid I’ve gone insane. I keep talking to inanimate objects, and they
talk back.”

“You have up until now. I’m alive, as alive as you. And, I’ve been with you
through everything.”

“It must have been embarrassing for you to watch.”

“Not really, I know how it is.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ve been there; the temptation and all.”

“You’re perfect. How hard could it be?”

“Well, there was Martha and her sister. Don’t forget Mary Maggie; people
still spread rumors about her and me. Then there were the groupies everyplace I
went. It’s true, I had the whole God thing going for me, but that’s the point. Now,
I know how it is.”

“That’s nice, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still going to do this.”

“I’m with you either way. I have all the time in the world.”

I had breakfast while I waited for my driver. He appeared to be about
fourteen, but had honest callouses on his hands, and he wore his hat like he was
born with it on. I stepped up into his pick up and put the shopping bag on the
floor. I told him to take me out Dry Creek Road, north of the pueblo. We came
into Taos Pueblo and soon we were on Dry Creek Road well beyond any houses
except for an occasional broken down hogan. I remembered every inch we
passed. I pointed to a side track heading west. He slowed slightly and veered into the ruts. We came to a dry arroyo, where I motioned for him to stop. He
looked at me quizzically as I got out and retrieved the shopping bag.

“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll be a half hour or so.”

I walked up the arroyo then over the bank to a group of jagged rocks
ringing a slight depression in the sage covered ground. I looked around at the
expanse of dusky red and green landscape. Tumble weeds rested on the
windward side of the boulders, and a spiny cactus skeleton stood with arms out
to the four directions. I sat on a rock shelf and took the urn out of the bag. I
worked at the duct tape holding the lid. It was sticky and left residue around the
rim. I sat still and slowed my breathing. It was as quiet as a tomb. I sat in that
quiet until I heard a scurrying in amongst the red gravel at my feet. I looked
down to see a large rattle snake make his S shaped way from between two
rocks.

The Snake rose up erect and stared at me. I saw eons of hate shining
back from the depths of his hooded eyes.

“Are you here to tempt me?” I asked.

“No, Evie, that job is done. I’m here to watch.”

He continued to stare a me until suddenly he lifted his head slightly and
looked over my shoulder. He flickered his blood red tongue, and broke off his
gaze, went down on his belly, and slithered away without looking back.

I put the urn in the bag and went back to the truck.

“Where now?” The boy asked.

“Back to the Inn and then to the airport.”

As soon as I got home, I called Miranda.

“Are you still in New Mexico? Did you dump him in the desert?” She
asked.

“No, I brought him home. I’m going to scatter your Dad’s ashes on the
lake as he asked. Would you come with me… please?”

“What changed your mind?” She asked.

“Let’s just say I ran into a couple of old friends. They got me to thinking, I
guess.”