Windfall (3 page)

On the way to the Royal Oak Burial Park, I breathe on the car window and write my name in the mist. The end of my finger is dirty from the planter. I think of Mrs. Reynolds with her tidy office and her clean hands. Richard was dirty and rumpled and didn't have a job or money, but he was a better person than Mrs. Reynolds.

Chapter Six

The boys and I like the idea of missing school, but none of us wants to stand by Richard's grave. I'm wearing a skirt and itchy tights. At least Mom agreed I could wear high-tops and a jean jacket, seeing as Richard wasn't exactly Mr. Fancy.

Mom thought it was better for the boys to sit in the parking lot than not to go at all. “It's different from normal to be in a hot car in the middle of nowhere. Doing things differently is a way to honor death,” she explains as we drive along. “Death makes things strange. It makes us look at everything again. In a way, it wakes things up.”

“Like that tree over Richard's bench,” Silas leaps in. “I never noticed it before. But now that there's no Richard, it's like it sings. It's a really neat tree. It's got long droopy branches like a willow, except it can't be a willow—the leaves are shaped like keyholes.”

“A weeping oak,” Mom murmurs.

“The bench sure stands out now,” Leland adds. “It's so empty, it shines.”

“I feel guilty when I see it,” Silas says. “Like I'm betraying him.”

“Survivors' guilt,” Mom says. “You feel guilty that you're alive and he isn't.”

“Yeah,” Silas says. “And I felt guilty when he was alive because I had a house and nice clothes.”

“Why
didn't
he have anything?” Leland asks. “Why did he live outside?”

“I don't really know,” Mom says. “But he probably had a mental illness.”

“He was sick in his mind?” Silas asks.

“More like his mind didn't help him get the things he needed,” Mom says. She pulls the car into a parking lot that's empty except for two other cars. “Here we are.”

The boys pull out their books. Mom insisted they pack serious books, no comics. That was more respectful. She and I stroll across the huge lawn of the “park.” It is surprisingly beautiful, quiet and treed. We're careful not to step on the plaques in the grass that mark where people's ashes are buried. Their tidy rows remind me of the orchard.

At a knee-high pile of dirt, we meet up with our neighbor, Nicole, and two men who introduce themselves as Richard's neighbors. I ask if they left the sunflower and the photograph, and they nod. Nicole has learned that Richard had no living relatives, so the city is paying for his cremation.

“I'll bet Richard would have preferred a green burial,” Nicole says. She tells us about her mother's “green” funeral in England. In a green burial, she says, the body is put in a biodegradable casket, something like cardboard or bamboo. The body isn't preserved with formaldehyde to make it last. “You
want
the body to rot. Or, sorry, to decompose,” she says. “Family and friends plant native plants on the burial mound. There are no stone slabs or bronze plaques. Instead, the grave becomes part of the ecosystem.”

A tall bony man in dark jeans and a loose suit jacket strides toward us. He carries a simple wood box. Mom puts her arm around me as I realize with a shock that Richard is in the box. Well, his ashes are.

The thin man introduces himself as Mitchell Harlan. He's a church minister who tries to help people living on the street. He often visited Richard.

“We are here to remember and say farewell to Richard Karl Lind,” he begins. It's a shock to hear Richard's full name. “Richard was a gentle, very private person who lived in public. He was a man of few words, but he did once tell me that his parents died in a car accident. He was left alone in the world at nineteen years old. Perhaps he never recovered. He lived in Meegan Park for twenty-seven years, often inviting the kindness of strangers—”

“And neighbors,” Nicole breaks in.

“Yes,” Mitchell agrees. “Richard had a gift for turning strangers into neighbors. And you did your best to make him
your
neighbor.

“Richard accepted his fate, though I believe he accepted it too well. I never learned to what extent Richard chose the life he lived. In my mind, he was a mild and meek soul who didn't know how to ask for help.

“Only two weeks ago, I said to him, ‘Richard, you are getting too old to be sleeping outside.' ‘I know,' he agreed. I said, ‘How about we finally get you a bed somewhere?' ‘Okay,' he said.” Mitchell imitates Richard's thick voice, and we smile. “It was the first time he had ever agreed—” Tears stream from Mitchell's eyes. A crow flies overhead, so close we hear its wings beat against the air. “Well, Richard,” he continues. “This sure isn't the home I imagined for you. But I am glad you are here, in the splendor of this old park. I hope you will be at home in this place.”

Mitchell invites us each to say a few words. Nicole speaks first. “Richard, you always reminded me to take in the world around me, to question my hurry and my greed. You made me thankful for what I have,” she says. “Goodbye.”

Mom reads a poem called “This is what was bequeathed us.” She tells us it is by Gregory Orr, an American poet. It's about what people are left with when someone dies. The last part goes:

No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.

No meaning but what we find here.
No purpose but what we make.

That, and the beloved's clear
instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.

The two men say in unison, “Peace be with you, Richard.”

Then it's my turn. My mouth is dry. I feel weird. I've never said anything more to Richard than “Hi.” Now, words work slowly from my mouth, difficult as gravel, “Thank you, Richard.”

Mitchell lowers the small box into the hole in the ground, fills the hole with dirt and lays a plaque with Richard's name on top.

In the morning, I had picked a few late-blooming flowers from the park, even though Silas reminded me we weren't allowed to. The park is a protected area. I decided an exception could be made for Richard. He had lived in the park for so long. I lay my bouquet beside the plaque.

“Beautiful,” Nicole whispers.

I feel like a hypocrite. Why didn't I give Richard flowers when he was alive? Was I afraid of him? Is it easier to be kind to him now that he's dead?

Mom tucks a few toonies into the fresh dirt of the grave, and everyone stands there.

After a few minutes, the adults start chatting about the weather, the traffic and a new highway overpass. I can't believe it! How can they talk about such stupid things? Then they're joking with each other, waving goodbye with a cheery “great to see you.”

I look back at the place where the trees bow over Richard's remains, as if they know he is there. I remember how I said “thank you.” What was I thanking him for?

For not getting angry that I did nothing to help him?

“You look mad, Liza,” Silas says when I get back to the car. I
am
angry at the stupid adults with their meaningless prattle. But something else is bothering me. I'm angry at Richard! For what? For making me feel helpless for so long?

I picture him in his dirty clothes, with his knotted hair, and I feel annoyed. I am tired of feeling bad for him. It isn't my fault he was the way he was. I dive into one of the books the boys packed. By the time we are back at school, I have forgotten about Richard.

Chapter Seven

I'm putting the nose on a papier-mâché piggy bank for Leland when the lovers' phone rattles with force. Silas holds the tin can to my ear, since my hands are covered with goo.

<>

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<real
shower. Over.>>

<>

A moment later, Olive bursts into our kitchen. “That's it! I want a shower with real soap and real shampoo. I've been washing my hair with eggs and beer for seven months. I want new clothes. And a new book—smelly-new, you know? I want the cover to crackle when I open it, like there's a secret between me and the book. I know a secondhand book tells the same story, but I want something that's
all
mine. I want socks that fit like they were made for
my
feet. I
know
tons of fossil fuels are burned to make them and package them and ship them from China. Oh yeah, I know it.”

“Socks from China?” Leland is amazed. “That's over the sea, right?”

“Olive, you're normally so unflappable,” Mom says. “Imperturbable.”

“Unrufflable,” Silas adds.

“Unshakeable,” I put in.

“Dispassionate.”

“Nonchalant.”

“Downright unflusterable.”

“Not anymore!” Olive fires back. “I'm perturbed. Ruffled. Flustered. Flapped!” She cracks a smile. “Seriously, Mom won't even get me new
shoes
!”

We all look down. Her runners look like they've been clawed by raccoons.

“Hey,” Mom says gently. “Liza has some old—barely worn—shoes that might fit you. Hop in the shower. I'll see what I can find.”

Olive looks sheepish. “You know, I love living simply. Really. I like biking everywhere. We have more time together as a family since we're not running around shopping for this and that. I've learned to mend and be resourceful and self-reliant
.
I've tried to be happy with what I've got.”

“You want a little buffing up,” Mom suggests.

“Something in the latest style?” I venture.

“No!” Olive says. “I look at the girls at school dressed in the latest from the Gap, and I can see they're naked underneath. I'm not a pervert—I mean I see who they
are. Here
.
Now.
Maybe you have to live the way I've been living to understand that.”

“I think I understand it,” Silas says. I'm not surprised. Silas is happy being his dreamy self, and he's no flashy dresser.

“I'm tired of everything I have,” Olive continues. “And I've read everything in the library.”

“Here.” Mom hands Olive a fluffy pile of bath towel, face towel and facecloth. She plunks a bar of soap still in its wrapper and an unopened bottle of shampoo from her last hotel stay on top. “The spa awaits.”

While Olive is in the shower, Mom, Silas, Leland and I ransack our closets and bookshelves and fill a basket with clothes and a box with books. I can't believe how much stuff we have that we don't need.

Olive tears up when she sees them. “Thanks,” she says. “I feel better. Ready for Round Two of walking with a small footprint.”

She leaves our house scrubbed and shining and dressed head-to-toe in “new” clothes.

The phone rings. Mom answers. “Shhh!” she says to us. “It's the pomologist.” Into the phone Mom says, “Oh, I see…uh-huh…Isn't that amazing!… No kidding…Wow, really? That's unbelievable…Right, no problem… Got it…yes. Thank you,” and hangs up.

“It's a Winter Rambo!” she tells us. “Pale yellow skin streaked red, tender sub-acid flesh. Asymmetrical in shape. Sweet flavor. It's been in the records—in England and the United States—for six hundred years! Shakespeare could have eaten one!”

It's cool to know the name of our beloved apple. Now, the tree has a history. It gives me the same feeling as when I heard Richard's full name at the funeral. I feel like I can do something about the tree, save it maybe. As for Richard Karl Lind, maybe I could do something for him too.

At supper, Mom says that loading Olive up with all our extra stuff reminded her of a job she once did. She was helping Kwakwaka'wakw people insure potlatch objects that a museum was returning to them. The museum was repatriating these items a hundred years after basically stealing them from the First Nation community. Mom explains that the word
potlatch
means “to give away” or “a gift.” A potlatch is a party thrown by the hereditary chief or a wealthy family in the community. The main purpose is to share wealth, which includes stories and songs.

“In the past they shared dried food, fish oil, even canoes,” Mom explains. “A family's status was raised not by having a lot, but by how they shared.” She gets a book from the shelf and opens it to a photo of an awesome-looking man with dark hair and a strong nose. “This is Chief O'waxalagalis of the Kwakwaka'wakw. He said,
‘
It is a strict law that bids us distribute our property among our friends and neighbors. It is a good law.' But the Europeans outlawed the potlatch. They considered it uncivilized!”

“Uncivilized to share stuff?” Silas asks. “That's crazy!”

“It threatened the European view of economics—you can't just
give
stuff away!” Mom says. “The Europeans raided potlatches and arrested people. They seized ceremonial objects and gifts. They took food, ornately carved masks, feast bowls, you name it. First Nations are still asking for these items back. Once in a while, a museum does the right thing.”