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Another month passed. The trees lost their leaves and their branches, barren, reached toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The wind moving across the lake was now cold, even at midday. In Chicago, we put flannel sheets on our beds and battened down the hatches for the winter we knew was coming.
But today, today was different.
The temperature soared into the low seventies and the sun was butter yellow in a cloudless blue sky. Out the window, a person could be fooled observing that sky, thinking it was summer.
But the day inspired me. For too long, I’d wondered every night before falling asleep how I should take care of Marc’s ashes. The sunshine and relative warmth of the late autumn day gave me an idea.
When Marc and I were first together, before we’d even dreamed that a legal marriage was a possibility for us, we’d cohabitated for the first time in a spacious and very old two-bedroom apartment on Fargo Avenue, about four blocks from the lake, but right next to the L tracks. We had to stop our phone conversations as trains went by so we could hear. But the apartment was huge, with crown moldings, hardwood floors, fireplace, built-in cabinets, butler’s pantry, an original claw-foot tub, and huge windows that lured shafts of sunlight in. It had a ton of charm. It also had mice, ancient appliances, noisy neighbors, and the surrounding area could be a little dicey at night.
But during the day, especially during warm summer ones, Fargo Avenue Beach was but a few blocks away, a ten-minute walk. We accessed the beach by a set of broad concrete stairs. The sand was always fine, the water pristine, and there was a small island comprised of boulders within easy swimming distance.
Marc and I spent countless carefree days on that beach. We would anchor an old sheet down by folding the corners into the sand. We’d sprawl out on it, playing music on the relic of an old boombox I’d held on to since the 1990s. The air was scented with coconut oil and we’d spend entire days, lost in conversation, drinking Cosmopolitans from a thermos, and sharing pimento cheese and saltines. One of the reasons we adored this place so much was because it was always relatively empty, being about as far north in the city as one could get.
Somedays, it felt like our own private beach.
Marc, I knew, would love the idea of this beach as his final resting place.
The day was perfect for the task. I thought of waiting for Mom to get back from St. Clair, where she’d gone for a couple of weeks to settle her affairs before moving back here permanently. She’d be disappointed because she loved Marc about as much as I did. I hoped she’d understand.
I did invite one person to join me. I hadn’t intended to, but when Hunter texted me that morning, I decided on a whim it would be nice to have him with me. His part in this story was undeniable, even it did have gothic and gruesome overtones. I’d learned, though, that Hunter was as much of a victim as I was and as Marc was. He was no villain and I’d grown to care about him. Call me weird. You won’t be the first.
Besides, there remained one burning question I needed to ask him. The answer to the riddle was vital for me to decide if I wanted to continue having him in my life in a way I’d yet to define, or if I should do the mentally healthy thing of cutting him loose.
I seldom did the mentally healthy thing, which Mom will attest to.
I went to the mantel and opened the urn. Inside was a plastic bag of ashes, although calling them ashes seemed wrong. I’d held a handful and what remained of Marc (after most parts of him were vaporized by the furnace) was more akin to sand, but grayish white sand. They felt rough to the touch and small bone particles were visible and a little larger than the ‘sand’ of him.
I’d been squeamish at first, but the remains had become a comfort to me. Looking at them and holding them was a way for me to be in physical contact once more with Marc. I decided I would withhold about a teaspoon of them to, I don’t know, put in a pendant or maybe a small piece of glass art.
No matter what, going forward I wanted him with me in at least a small way. He was an undeniable and important part of my personal history. Our years together wouldn’t evaporate, even over something as final and omnipotent as death.
Death never erases our bonds with one another; those live on in hearts primed with memories and love.
I placed Marc’s remains into a silver Nordstrom shopping bag and went downstairs to wait for Hunter. He’d arrive any moment.
III
Hunter and I sat on the beach for a long time before I wanted to do anything with the remains. We’d spread out a couple of beach towels and lounged in the sand, legs outstretched, simply watching the ebb and flow of the waves and how the sunlight shimmered on the slate gray surface of the water.
At the south end of the beach, a woman with two kids, boy and girl, tossed a beach ball back and forth. We watched them as they played. Being kids, they’d rolled up their jeans and dared each other to wade into the icy water. They would scream when they did and dash back to the safety of their mother once the water’s icy embrace touched them.
A young guy with longish honey-colored hair, cargo shorts, a Green Day T-shirt, and Vans, frolicked with a German Shepherd. He’d toss a Frisbee into the water, which the dog would catch expertly in its mouth even as the water splashed up all around him.
Distractions.
I knew what I was doing.
Avoidance.
I wasn’t sure, now that Hunter was by my side, a warm and comfortable presence indeed—that I wanted to share this very private moment with him, especially given his connection, however innocent, with Marc’s death.
Why bring him along, then?
I think it was because I hadn’t really examined my motive, not with this grief hanging over me. Not with the loneliness pressing in, especially with Mom back in St. Clair. I wantedsomeonewith me, and he seemed like the only person in the world who would truly understand and empathize with what I was going through. Other friends and acquaintances had suddenly made themselves unavailable, barely responding to the usual forms of contact—social media posts and texts. I didn’t blame them. My situation had become bizarre. Not knowing how to respond was understandable. Perhaps one day, they’d glide back into my life, once recent events had paled into the background.
Hunter had been very supportive, though, taking my calls and texts at all hours and trying, in his own way, to let me know I was seen and cared for. Given his history with Jeb and Keith Walker, this was no small thing.
But I think the real reason I wanted him here was to ask the question that had been needling me for months now. I’d never had the courage to ask. I don’t know why. Maybe I feared embarrassing him when he’d actually bent over backwards to demonstrate to me nothing but kindness. Or maybe it was me who was fearful—of what his answer might be.
