You Can’t Leave Him Like That.

A short story about relationships and procrastination.

“I’d rather be ashes than dust.” Jack London

Moors was in the kitchen, scraping ash from under his fingernails. He was using a ballpoint pen. It was snowing outside, something he wasn’t expecting this early in November. He also wasn’t expecting to have his father’s ashes under his fingernails. It was a strange day, all in all.

That afternoon, he’d been outside racking leaves. Clouds were rolling in from the west, heavy and greenish and ugly. Then the wind picked up and a light snow started falling.

Next to the garden bags was another bag, this one made of red velvet with a gold-tasseled drawstring.

He’d gone to the garage to get garden bags for the leaves. Next to the garden bags was another bag, this one made of red velvet with a gold-tasseled drawstring.

Bringing it down off the shelf, he noticed the gold crest representing the funeral home on the side. Stanford & Sons.

He remembered the day of his father’s funeral, and how only a small handful of people were there, and one of the Stanfords had handed him the bag and said, “I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate place to put this.”

Moors hadn’t found a place. He thought of where his father had lived, the small house, then later the old age home. His father didn’t like either, so Moors left the bag on the shelf in the garage.

As Marsha — his ex-wife — used to say, “You always leave things, Moors.” Even she called him by his last name.

Marsha left him, much as his father had, with little warning. She’d come downstairs with her suitcase and said, “I’m going, Moors.” Maybe she’d said other things. Moors couldn’t think what they were. He remembered her hair being jammed up under a toque and too much eyeshadow.

There was no point in arguing at this point. They were past that — or Marsha was, anyway.

“I’m staying with my mother until I get things sorted,” she’d said, putting down her bag. She wrote something on a pad by the phone desk. There was no point in arguing at this point. They were past that — or Marsha was, anyway.

“I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff when I can,” she’d said on the way out. “I’ll let you know.”

They’d been married for four years. During that time, she’d been promoted, she’d moved up in the world. His job wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t even a job, really.

He was a freelancer, a writer of brochures. Trouble was, clients were replacing brochures with websites. They didn’t need him much anymore. He’d go weeks without any work.

When they’d meet up with friends, Marsha did the talking. She always had something to tell people. Moors didn’t — or he couldn’t think of anything. Soon, people stopped asking how he was doing. Even Marsha stopped asking.

One day she told him they were on a different trajectory. That’s the word she used. He didn’t realize they were breaking up. But that’s what different trajectories meant.

She’d left, moving in with her mother for a while, then word got back she’d met someone. “She’s with Jerry,” one mutual friend had said. “Judy used to bring him to a few parties.” Moors hardly remembered Judy, let alone some guy named Jerry. “That’s who Marsha’s living with,” the friend added. “They’re a couple. Judy’s a bit pissed.”

Moors kept thinking of the day Marsha came downstairs with her suitcase. “Remember to feed the cat,” she’d said. “Don’t let her starve. You’re always forgetting stuff.”

Moors thought he saw her one day on the street, in a baby carriage, wearing a bonnet.

She couldn’t take Fuzzy, for reasons she didn’t give, although it turned out Jerry — this guy she was seeing already — was allergic to cats. It didn’t matter. Fuzzy took off the second week. Moors thought he saw her one day on the street, in a baby carriage, wearing a bonnet. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe he was seeing things. He needed new glasses.

Anyway, that was months ago now, before his father died, before Marsha and her lover, Jerry, got settled. Marsha kept remembering things she’d left behind. One time, she called up about the Tupperware. She hadn’t asked about his father’s funeral until he mentioned it.

“My god, I completely forgot,” she’d said. “How was it?”

“Fine,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Moors. I would’ve sent flowers.”

“It’s okay.”

“Who came?”

“Just people from the home.”

“So sad.”

“Dying usually is.”

“Look, maybe this isn’t the time but I’m seeing someone.”

“I know,” he said. “Jerry.”

“Who told you?”

“Judy.”

She hadn’t, but she was pissed with Marsha, anyway. What difference did it make? He was thinking about that when he took the velvet bag down off the shelf in the garage.

Inside was a thick black plastic box, no tag, no label to indicate it was his father. Looking around for something to pry open the box, he found an old screwdriver. He took the box, the screwdriver, and went out to the garden.

The wind was blowing hard now. All the leaves he’d raked were scattered. At the back of the property, in the garden, was a lilac bush. When it was in bloom, it formed sort of a canopy. Maybe that made it an “appropriate place.” His father hadn’t mentioned anything about dispersing of ashes in the will. He hadn’t said much period except how he wished he wasn’t such a coward. “I’d shoot myself if I was braver,” he’d said.

Maybe it wasn’t meant to come off, he thought, but then something popped, something gave way, and his father’s ashes came bursting out, covering his coat and hands.

Out in the garden, Moors tried prying the lid off the plastic box with the screwdriver. It wouldn’t come off. Maybe it wasn’t meant to come off, he thought, but then something popped, something gave way, and his father’s ashes came bursting out, covering his coat and hands.

He dropped the box, kicked it, and then went inside.

He wiped down his coat with a damp cloth, washed his hands, then sat at the kitchen table cleaning his nails.

The phone started ringing. He let the machine to pick up.

“Moors, are you there?” he heard Marsha say. “Get back to me.” The light on the machine started blinking. He stared at it, then called back. Marsha answered on the second ring.

“Why didn’t you pick up?” she asked.

“I was cleaning my nails,” he said.

“Your nails?”

“Long story,” he said.

“It always is with you,” she said. “Are you going to be around for a while? I need to pick up the bedroom dresser. We agreed I could take it.”

“When were you thinking?” he asked.

“Now, if it’s okay,” she said. “We’re going to Jerry’s mom’s house for dinner afterwards.”

“The place is a mess, Marsha.”

“We’ll be in and out in like five minutes. Oh, and can you help Jerry bring it downstairs? His back isn’t the greatest.”

“Yeah, okay,” Moor said. “See you in a bit.”

Marsha came up the steps and opened the door without knocking.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up in the driveway. They were in an old mini-van. Marsha got out of the passenger side first. Then Jerry got out and opened the van’s back doors. The wind kept blowing them closed again. Marsha came up the steps and opened the door without knocking.

“Hello?” she said.

Moors came out of the kitchen. He was still holding the ballpoint pen. He nodded to Marsha, then Jerry. That’s when he remembered Jerry from some function. Judy had introduced him. He was bearded, not in the best shape. Judy told everyone he was a journalist. He looked like a journalist.

“How heavy’s this dresser?” Jerry asked now, his coat buttoned up to his neck, a cap pushed back on his head.

“I haven’t lifted it in a while,” Moors said.

“Well, let’s get it downstairs.”

“I’m going to look through the kitchen cabinets,” Marsha called up. “I know I left a few pots and pans.”

“Some are in the drawer under the oven,” Moors said.

“That’s not a drawer,” she said. “It’s a warming tray.”

“Okay, warming tray,” Moors said.

He and Jerry went up to the bedroom. The dresser was empty. Moors never put anything in it after Marsha left. He’d even left a framed picture of her next to the clock radio. It was an old picture. She looked a bit like Stevie Nicks.

Jerry picked it up, then put it on the bed.

“Let’s get this thing to the stairs,” he said.

They lifted it up, moving it over to the door. At the stairs, Moors got down a few steps, letting the dresser rest against his back. “Just keep it from crashing into me,” Moors said.

“The kids have probably ripped the hell out of my leather seats by now,” Jerry said. “I hate the law.”

They took the dresser downstairs and out to the mini-van. Jerry got in the back, spreading out blankets, being careful. That seemed strange to Moors. It was an old mini-van, full of dents. Jerry had lost his BMW to his wife in their divorce.

“The kids have probably ripped the hell out of my leather seats by now,” Jerry said. “I hate the law.”

He went around to the side doors and pulled it up against the front seats. “Now I’ve got to get it upstairs at our place,” he said. Moors didn’t say anything. He wasn’t offering to help. That was for Jerry and Marsha to figure out.

When they came back inside, Marsha was wrapping some glasses up in newspaper. She was looking out the kitchen window. There was no sign of snow now. The grass was green, the leaves were brown, the sky was blue.

“What’s that white stuff on the lawn back there?” she said.

“I had a little accident earlier,” Moors said.

“What is it?”

“My father,” he said. “Those are his ashes.”

“Why did you dump them on the lawn?”

“I was trying to spread them under the lilac,” he said. “I couldn’t get the top off the container. Then it came off suddenly and blew all over me.”

“You can’t just leave him like that,” Marsha said.

Jerry was standing at the kitchen window now.

“You can’t just leave him like that,” Marsha said.

“He’ll be hard as rock in the spring,” Jerry said.

“I’ll worry about it tomorrow,” Moors said.

“For heaven’s sake, Moors,” Marsha said.

“Ash makes good fertilizer if it’s mixed with the soil,” Jerry went on. “Otherwise, it’s a bonding agent. They used to mix it with mud and straw in medieval times. Maybe not human ashes, but ashes just the same.”

“Can’t you rake it over into the garden?” Marsha asked.

“I was going to do that,” Moors said.

They kept staring at the ashes out there on the lawn. Then Marsha was looking at her watch. “We’d better get over to your mother’s place,” she said. “Do you want to call her and say we’re on our way?”

“Sure,” Jerry said, taking out his phone.

He went to the living room, Marsha kept staring out the kitchen window at the white smear on the lawn.

“Moors, please don’t leave your father like that,” Marsha said. “It’s disrespectful.”

“I’ll go out in a bit,” he said.

Jerry came back.

“Mom’s got a headache,” he said to Marsha. “She wants to know if we can make it next weekend. Maybe Saturday?”

“Up to you,” Marsha said. “She’s your mother.”

“Okay, Mom,” Jerry said over the phone. “We’ll come next Saturday. Take care.”

He put the phone back in his pocket.

“What now?” he asked.

“Let’s get the dresser back to the house,” she said.

Moors knew what was coming next

“Moors,” she asked, “can you help Jerry? It’ll only take fifteen minutes. We’ll drive you there and back.”

“I’ll take my car,” he said. “Let me find my keys.”

“Okay,” she said, “We’re at 125 Sackville. Third house from the corner of Mortimer on the left.”

Everything was laid out on the bed, all of Marsha’s things set out in neat piles.

Moors grabbed his car keys, locked the door, got in his car. Marsha and Jerry were already down the street. Ten minutes later, he was helping Jerry take the dresser upstairs to their bedroom. Everything was laid out on the bed, all of Marsha’s things set out in neat piles.

“Thanks for helping,” she said to Moors.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jerry said. “You want a beer?”

“Why not?” Moors said.

When he got home later, he looked out the kitchen window. It was too dark to do anything with the ashes. They weren’t going anywhere. He fell asleep on the couch.

It snowed overnight, then the next day as well. Moors forgot about the ashes. It wasn’t until the following spring that he remembered them again. His father’s ashes were still on the lawn. He went out and touched them with his foot.

They were hard as a rock, just like Jerry said.

He got a shovel and tried breaking the ashes up. All it did was send white bits all over the lawn. He tossed the bigger pieces under the lilac bush. He kept chipping away, until he heard something behind him. He turned, and there was Marsha and Jerry holding a cardboard box. It was the pots and pans she’d taken the previous fall.

“Looks like we don’t need these,” Marsha said. “Jerry bought a whole new set. What are you doing, Moors?”

“Breaking up Dad’s ashes,” Moors said.

Jerry looked at the chunks and chips, then shook his head.

“Just like I figured,” he said. “Hard as rock.”

Moors kept hitting the frozen ashes with the shovel.

“My god,” Marsha said. “Stop it. Stop doing that.”

Moors looked at her. He wiped the back of his neck.

“What?” he said.

“That’s your father, for godssake,” she said.

“What do you want me to do?”

Moors kicked more of the frozen ashes under the lilac.

She flopped her hands at her side, then turned and walked off. Jerry shrugged and followed her. Moors kicked more of the frozen ashes under the lilac. Then he went inside and washed his hands. He sat down at the kitchen table.

He wasn’t sure what to do next. The box of pots and pans were still out on the lawn. He started to get up. Then changed his mind. It could wait, he thought. Everything could wait.

He started cleaning his nails again. He cleaned them until there wasn’t any trace of his father at all. He even started doing his cuticles.

It was easy once he got the hang of it.