Yours Always

by Rhonda Dennis

  “Eventually.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “About three months and a black eye.”

  Fletcher laughs. “Which of you had the shiner?”

  “Both of us.”

  “What?”

  “I was walking home from school, and of course, Lizzy was right on my heels yapping about some boy she liked or something. I’d finally had enough, so I popped her in the eye.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She hit me back. I invited her inside for a cold pack, and as we sat there icing down our faces, we became friends.”

  “Did you ever ask her why she was so persistent? It seems to me like a lot of others would’ve given up way before she did.”

  “I did. She said it was because she knew I needed her. It was a strong feeling she had whenever she was around me.”

  “Was she right?”

  I contemplate it for a few seconds. “I suppose she was.”

  Fletcher nods. “She sounds like she’s a perfect match for Ben.”

  “I hope it works out for them.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I start to pick up the empty cartons around us, and Fletcher follows me into the kitchen with the ones I couldn’t carry. After everything is put in its place, I glance at the microwave clock, and I’m shocked to see that it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Time always seems to fly when Fletcher’s around.

  “I suppose I should let you get some rest,” he announces, taking his cue from my yawn.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty worn out. Uh… I want to… Uhm…”

  “No thanks necessary,” Fletcher says with a grin.

  “Fletcher?” I ask, my arm propped against the open door frame leading into the hallway.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask this since yesterday, what did my Grampy say when he called you over to his bedside?”

  Fletcher runs his hand over his beard. “I was going to talk about that tomorrow. He said you should expect a letter, and he wanted me to make sure that you read it. He told me that you’d likely toss it to the side, so my job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  My face scrunches. “A letter? Did he mention anything else?”

  “Nope. That was it. He said what he had to say, and then he thanked me for being there. That’s it.”

  “Okay, I guess I’ll keep an eye out for this mysterious letter. Thanks again. Good night, Fletcher. Be careful going home.”

  “I will. Good night, Savannah. I’ll be in touch.”

  I give a slight wave while closing the door. After making sure the apartment is locked up tightly, I head to the bedroom. I briefly touch base with Lizzy via text before cuddling with my pillow and going to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  My legs nervously pulse in rapid fire succession as I wait in the plush office of the funeral home director. Lizzy wanted to come along, but I assured her that I could handle it, and that I was sure it would go well. I should’ve taken her up on her offer because I’m completely creeping myself out.

  I think the part that’s most bothersome is my knowing that Grampy is in the building. Is he behind the wall I’m facing? Down the hallway? Across from the kitchenette? Is it like the TV shows where his bloated, cyanotic corpse, draped in nothing but a simple white towel across his groin, is stiffly lying on some ice cold steel table? Or worse, maybe he’s tucked in the refrigeration unit, his body being preserved like a hunk of meat until it finds its final resting place.

  A deep shiver runs through me, and I’m seriously about to bolt from the room when an extremely thin, balding man with a hook nose and glasses three times too big for his face enters the room. “Are you okay?” he asks. I hate that damn question so much! It’s almost certain that according to the asker, you do NOT look okay in the least, so why ask the obvious? Why not just come out with what he or she really wants to know, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, praying that the panic I’m feeling doesn’t turn into a full blown attack. Oh, my God! Please hurry this along. Please, please, hurry this along.

  Almost as if he’s read my mind, he says, “I won’t keep you long,” while pulling out the massive brown leather chair behind his desk so he can take a seat. Albeit a small one, a wave of relief washes over me. “Can I get you some coffee? A soft drink? Water?”

  I shake my head. You can get this over with so I can get the hell out of here.

  “Very well. First, let me offer my deepest sympathy for your loss.” His hands are clasped in front of him in that professional I’m-going-to-pretend-to-give-a-crap-because-it’s-my- job-and-I-have-to pose.

  “Thank you.” Yeah, I’m sure you’re absolutely heartbroken that my Grampy died. Do you think I suddenly forgot how you make your money? Wow, this guy looks just like the nasty old man from The Simpsons. What was his name? Oh, jeez! Any other time I’d know it! Come on. I can hear his voice, see his character… Mr. Burns! That’s it! This guy looks just like Mr. Burns.

  “…so moving on to the other issue.”

  What other issue? Oh, what was the first issue? Pay attention, Savannah! “I’m sorry. I was slightly distracted. Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

  He works to clone a sincere smile. “Of course. Your grandfather has taken care of all the arrangements. He asked that there be no service of any kind and that his remains be cremated. He specified that you’re the only remaining family member, and it was very important to him that you not be burdened with any decisions related to his final arrangements.”

  I nod.

  “The second issue that I was referring to is this.” He opens the top desk drawer to hand me a thick envelope. Ah, here it comes. The bill. I wonder how much this is going to cost me? Good thing I didn’t ask for a cup of coffee. I’ll bet it would have been tacked on for sure.

  I take the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Do you make payment arrangements?” I ask.

  “We do, but it’s not necessary here. Your grandfather has already paid for everything.”

  “He did?” I say with more surprise than I intend. I’ve been paying for everything that his retirement and his social security didn’t cover. Where in the hell did he get the money to pay for his cremation?

  “Yes, ma’am, he did. He also paid for the custom urn that holds his ashes.”

  “Custom urn?”

  He picks up the headset of his phone, pushes a button, and softly speaks, “Melanie, we’re ready for Mr. Bernard, please.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. Grampy is here, but he’s nothing but a pile of ashes. When I arrived, I honestly thought I’d be picking out coffins and hymns today, not actually taking Grampy home with me.

  I tuck the envelope into my purse while waiting for Melanie, and an awkward silence ensues. Mr. Burns and I fake smile at each other, as he gently rocks back and forth in his chair. I’m just about to fake a coughing spell just to break the stare down we have going on when Melanie finally enters the room with a bronze fishing pole in one hand, and a large bronze bass in the other. A thin metal line attaches the two.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “That’s your grandfather’s urn.”

  “No, urns are ceramic and vase-like. That’s a fishing pole, and my Grampy hated fishing. If this is a joke, it’s not very funny.”

  “It’s a custom urn. He designed it himself.”

  “I don’t understand. Where exactly is my grandfather? It’s just a figurine. A statue. A knick-knack.”

  “He’s inside the fish. There’s a little opening in the mouth. See? If you ever want to open it, you just twist here…”

  “No! That’s quite alright. Thank you,” I say, jumping out of my seat. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is all.”

  “Thank you,” I say, awkwardly taking the pole and fish from Melanie and rushing to my car. I sit in the parking lot a good five minutes just staring at Grampy’s remains sitting on the seat next to me. I b
reak the trance and debate stopping by Lizzy’s. I mentally veto that idea and continue on to my apartment. I’d no sooner pulled into my parking spot when the familiar python-skinned bike rolls up next to my car. I crack the door.

  “Hi, Fletcher,” I say as he removes his helmet.

  “Hi. I thought I’d check in on you. Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I go to the passenger side and wrestle the fishing pole out of the car.

  “What’s that?” Fletcher queries.

  “Grampy,” I say, giving one final tug to free the pole from the door frame.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You see this?” I ask, holding the piece out so he can get a better look. “This is what happens when funeral home attendants let senile old men make their own final arrangements.”

  “I don’t follow. You said it’s your Grampy…”

  “He’s inside the fish,” I explain. Fletcher takes a couple of steps back, but slowly, a smile crosses his lips.

  “You got me. Seriously, how did it go today?”

  I give him a look that says I’m not joking.

  “Do you want me to carry it for you?” he asks, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

  “Sure,” I say, pushing the pole and fish into his hands then winding the metal line between his fingers so it won’t drag on the ground.

  “Uh, okay.” He awkwardly juggles the assortment while I fumble for my keys. “Where do you want this?” he asks once we’re inside the apartment.

  “The coffee table for now, I guess.” After tossing my purse onto the sofa, I kick off the heels I’m wearing and slowly unbutton the black suit jacket that covers the matching dress I have underneath. “I’ll just be a second. I’m going to change. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

  “Thanks,” Fletcher says, shaking his head as he tries to arrange the urn in a way that allows all of the elements to remain on top of the coffee table.

  I debate the whole pants versus shorts issue before I decide that since the cat’s already out of the bag about the scars, I may as well get comfortable. Shorts and a t-shirt have me feeling much more relaxed by the time I find Fletcher on the sofa staring at the new addition I’d acquired. I plop down next to him and do the same.

  “So, your Grampy liked to fish?” Fletcher asks.

  “I always thought he hated it. He used to tell me that he got bored waiting for the fish to bite, so he preferred crawfishing and crabbing, those kinds of things.”

  “Then why did he…”

  “I have no clue,” I interrupt.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you read it yet?” Fletcher asks, nodding his head toward the thick envelope that hangs halfway out of the purse I’d tossed onto the sofa.

  “Nope.”

  “You know I promised…”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll do it now,” I say with a huff.

  “Don’t get indignant about it,” Fletcher says with a playful smile. “I’m only following orders.”

  I return his playful grin before tearing into the envelope. The first thing I notice is an odd shaped key that tumbles out of the folds of the letter to land on the floor. I dip to retrieve it before settling in to read the note.

  “No, no, no…,” I say as I peruse the page.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I drop the note to my lap, lean my head back, and run my hands over my face. “A misunderstanding. A huge, stinking misunderstanding is the reason my Grampy is spending his eternity inside of a bronze bass.”

  “What?” Fletcher asks with a semi-laugh he tries hard to conceal.

  I sigh heavily. “I remember this day well. Oh, my goodness! I can’t believe he was awake. Okay, the facility called to say that Grampy wasn’t feeling so well, and that he was running a fever. Lizzy and I went over to check on him, but he was sleeping when we got there. We quietly talked in the sitting area until he woke up, but evidently, we weren’t that quiet.”

  Fletcher looks confused, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  “Lizzy was always trying to set me up with a date, and she said that we both needed big fish. She was sure she was close to catching hers because all she’d caught so far were minnows that needed to be thrown back. I told her that minnows were too much fish for me, and that a big fish was not on my agenda. She kept arguing back and forth, so to shut her up I finally agreed that I, too, wanted a big fish.”

  A smile crosses Fletcher’s face as he finally realizes where this is going.

  “According to the letter, Grampy had a secret cash stash that he told no one about, and he used part of it to buy a boat. For me. A person who knows zero about boating. A person who has no vehicle capable of towing said boat. Oh wait! Here, he’s provided for that, too,” I say, pointing to the spot on the letter that says I’ve inherited his pickup truck. “Too bad I sold the truck to pay for his cable bills at the facility. Seriously, how do you buy a freaking boat while living in an assisted living facility?”

  “The internet?” Fletcher offers.

  I toss my hand out in a shooing motion before I continue reading. “If I never catch that big fish myself, all I have to do is look at Grampy’s statue and know that I’ve caught a whopper of a fish, ‘because that’s where I am, and you caught my heart the day you were born.’”

  The room is silent as I let Grampy’s words sink in. Picking up the letter, I scroll through until I reach the end, then I fold it and tuck it back inside the envelope. Still inside is a stack of bills, which is what is left of Grampy’s secret stash--$1,500 for me to spend on something that will make me happy.

  Resting back on the sofa, I toss the envelope, and it lands next to Grampy, the old man with a heart of gold, forced to spend eternity trapped in the stomach of a bass because of Lizzy’s burning desire to find a partner. I start to giggle, and the giggle turns into a chuckle, and finally, the chuckle into a full blown laugh. Though the action feels somewhat foreign because I never belly laugh, it feels good. Fletcher soon joins in, and before long, we’re both wiping tears from the corners of our eyes.

  “You wanna see my boat?” I ask, reaching for a tissue.

  “Sure. Where’s it supposed to be?”

  “At some marine store off Johnston. Here’s the card of the salesman that Grampy used.” I hand it over to Fletcher.

  “Want to take your car or the bike?”

  “Can we take the bike?”

  “Of course.” Fletcher smiles.

  “Let me put on some pants…”

  “Why? It’s not that far away. Plus, it’s like a hundred degrees out there.”

  “My scars…”

  “…are not as noticeable as you think they are. And so what if they are. You know how they say that women dig scars on men?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, remembering the ones splayed across his broad back.

  “Well, men dig scars on women, too.”

  “What? No way. Guys dig big boobs, tiny waists, bubble butts, and a pretty face.”

  “That’s what guys dig before their hormones level off. Once they catch up with our brains, we realize that while all of that might be nice to look at, it’s not necessarily what you want to come home to each night.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest.”

  “Are you at risk of losing your man card for divulging all of these dark secrets to me?”

  Fletcher laughs. “No, but don’t spread it around, okay?”

  “So what about the middle aged guys who hang out at the restaurants with the scantily clad waitresses? Shouldn’t their hormones have leveled out?”

  “They crave the attention, and it’s cheaper than a strip club.”

  I laugh again. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “Anytime,” Fletcher says with a wink while handing me a helmet. He straddles the bike then holds out his hand to help me onto the back. He fires up the engine, and I tightly wrap my arms around his waist as we head off in search of the marine
store.

  Nothing goes the way I anticipate once we arrive at the boat place. First, Terry Kent, the salesperson, isn’t the gentle, older man I’d pictured in my head. Instead, he’s a pimply turd of a teenager dripping with attitude and a false sense of empowerment because he knows he has me between a rock and a hard place. I want a refund on the purchase, but according to Terry, it isn’t an option. Adding insult to injury, I’m threatened with additional charges if the boat isn’t removed from their property by the close of the business day. I plead, argue, and fight to no avail. Asking to speak to the manager is a joke because Terry IS the manager. Asking to speak to the owner is even worse because Terry’s dad owns the joint. Defeated, I ask to see my boat.

  Terry tosses down the cell phone he’s been paying attention to instead of me, and begins an attitude-laden walk outside a double door that leads into a lot full of boats. He’s practically sprinting, but I drag my feet as he impatiently stops and stands next to a brand new bass boat. Fletcher reaches him before I do, and I don’t know what exactly is said, but he’s much nicer when I finally catch up.

  “This is the boat my grandfather bought?” I ask with disbelief. “How much?”

  “I’m supposed to say that the cost doesn’t matter, it’s taken care of,” Terry says in absolute monotone.

  “Fletcher?” I say, nodding him aside, “How much do you think a boat like this runs?”

  “At least twenty-five grand.”

  I close my eyes and sigh. “That’s more than I thought.” I amplify my voice, “How did he pay for this?” I ask Terry.

  “It was a cash sale. No returns.”

  “Yeah, I know. You made that perfectly clear while inside, Terry.” My tone drips with disdain. “How am I going to get this home?” I ask Fletcher.

  “We’ll go to my place and pick up my truck. Then we’ll come here, get the boat, and bring it to Ben’s camp. He’s got plenty of room out there to store it.”

  “I’m really not used to this. I always do things on my own, but I honestly see no way for me to handle this one by myself.”

  “Hey, don’t get all weird about this. It’s not that big of a deal.”