A Party for Mom

by Charles C. Cole

The kids were running, screeching, dancing around the lawn sprinkler in their bathing suits and wooshing on their wet bellies at ground level along the Slip ’N Slide. The hot days of summer in Maine lasted about a week, traditionally. There was no time like the present to enjoy what God gaveth, knowing full well He would most likely taketh away by the end of the day-eth.

The grown-ups stood around on the deck, observing quietly, sarcastically, with cold-comfort alcohol in hand, waiting for their inhibitions to retreat, like good, repressed, lapsed-Catholic adults.

Brad raised his third can of beer to the bright blue sky in a ceremonial toast: “To Mom! She really came through! This is so much better than a funeral. Timing is everything.”

Brad’s twin sister, Gemma, was more blunt. “She demanded, and you complied. Mom insisted on a celebration. Not like you had a choice. Just like life under the old lady’s leaky roof, only with more sunshine and cheering. Less guilt and shame and yelling. To moving on! To letting go!”

“Say what you will, but without Mommie Dear, none of us charmers would be standing here.”

Gemma scrunched up her nose like she’d just smelled a carton of spoiled milk. “Again with the rhyming? You know that drives me freaking insane.”

“Without fail.” Brad smiled, faux innocently. “You’ve always been the yin to my male.”

“To think I was feeling sorry for you these last few months: missing work, taking her to doctors’ appointments, giving her medicine, helping her to the bathroom, holding her clammy hand at the very end. Even with Mom passed on, I still feel outnumbered. Where’s my knight-errant husband to stop me from pouring my drink over your stupid head?”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I’m daring you to do. Ever think of that? Cut loose; ding dong, the witch is dead. Hell, she’s powder. Besides, your loverboy’s over yonder, hanging up the sacrificial bumblebee piñata from the mighty oak.”

“Hey, hunky hero!” Gemma called out. Lou, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, nodded acknowledgment. Gemma cupped her hands around her mouth and called: “Save me!”

Lou smiled, waved. “Busy helping out. You got this.”

“You’ve outdone yourself, baby brother. But I, for one, am not going to stand here and watch blindfolded little children whack-a-mole each other bloody, as much fun as it might sound.”

“Relax. It’s not for the kids, Sissy. Smashing pretty things to pieces is strictly adult entertainment. I got it for you.”

“Really? Hope the kids know.”

“They’re fine. They have other fun. Besides, I slipped some hooch into their punch. Kidding. I don’t even think they know what it is. Too last century. Just more decorations to celebrate Mom’s ascension. Besides, hubby man is under strict orders to hang it too high for the wee whackers. Think of it as an effing effigy.”

“To Mom!” cheered Gemma.

“To Mom!” Brad echoed.

“You got my attention. I could go a few rounds of bam-ba-lam. I gotta exorcise the damn blues out of my system. In fact, I want to go first!”

“That was always the plan.”

“Please tell me you still have that macho aluminum baseball bat in the garage. I feel a papier-mâché home run in my future.”

“Followed immediately by a one-person ticker tape parade, or some semblance. Fanfare at any rate.”

“Who says psychotherapy doesn’t work? I do, that’s who. But it’s better than being bitter. I’m off to find a tool specifically designed for the job at hand. Don’t start without me.” Gemma beelined for the garage, drink in hand.

Brad wandered over to support Lou who was struggling to throw a bright yellow nylon cord over a branch ten feet above his head.

“I can’t do it,” said Lou. “I thought it would be easy, something requiring my modest skillset.”

Brad smiled. “You’ve gotta think darker, altar boy. When the kids were smaller, in the fall, I used to tie a hammer to a rope to knock the leaves down. Made it rain like... rain. Anyway, nobody ever got hurt, not that we didn’t have a few close calls, but don’t tell my wife. I’ll get you a hammer.”

“Can an in-law ask a morbid question?”

“Sure.”

“What are you gonna do with her?”

“Mom? Too soon. We’re still in mourning here.”

“Sorry.”

“Kidding. I did some research. There’s all sorts of boutique companies on line. I read you can make “approximately” 240 pencils from a cremated body’s carbon. She was a teacher, so there’s an idea. The inventor of the Frisbee had his ashes mixed into plastic to make colorful flying disks for friends and family. Too much like fun for Mom. Ashes can be compressed into a vinyl record, with a song list of your choice. But then I’d have to buy a record player. For an outdoorsy relative, some company makes a box of ammunition containing bits of ashes. Then there’s the stained glass solution or even mix her into paint and have someone make a portrait. But my personal favorite is squeezing her into a Pringles-package worth of skipping stones. Fun but too fun, and kinda nostalgic.”

A little while later, everything was in place. Lou tied the blindfold on his wife.

“Don’t get any kinky ideas,” said Gemma.

Brad operated the loose end of the rope, sliding the bee up and down. “Have at it.”

“How many swings do I get?” asked Gemma.

“Just enough.”

Gemma swung madly at the air, missing and spinning.

“Bring it down like an axe!” yelled Brad.

Gemma complied. Brad lowered the bee for easy contact. The paper object shredded. Ashes flew everywhere, especially in Gemma’s hair. Lou gasped. Gemma ripped the blindfold off. Brad laughed nervously, so hard he wet himself and ran inside.

Lou said, “I didn’t know, I swear.”

“Maybe it’s flour,” said Gemma. “It sure better be.”