right hand pointing

Companions Forever

         “They call ’em cremains,” Josh said. “Cremated remains.”

“Uncle Ted is in that pot?” Mindy asked, scrunching her nose.

“Not him, stupid. His ashes. And they cremated his dog, too, since he died in the same wreck.”

“You mean Cooter? That old dog with one toe gone?”

“Yeah. Cooter’s ashes are mixed with Uncle Ted’s.”

“Gross!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Let’s look in it.”

“No! Don’t touch it. They’re gonna dump it out tomorrow in the field where Uncle Ted and Cooter hunted all the time. If you knock it over, Mom will kill you and then we’ll dump your ashes, too.”

“You wish.”

“Let’s go. It stinks in here.”

Mindy followed her brother to the room where the adults were eating. When Josh found the cake, she snuck back to the place where the urn rested on its gold stand. She touched the glossy, marble surface. It was cold. She tried to lift the lid, but it was stuck. Finally, she figured out how to turn it, and soon it was free.

Gripping the lid with one hand, she grabbed the urn’s rim with the other and stood on her tiptoes, straining to see inside. Then the urn was tilting, falling. The room turned gray. The girl was on her back, coughing. Her chest hurt, like someone had hit her there. She would have screamed, but it was hard to breathe.

She stood and ran from the room. In the hall, her brother saw her and spit out a mouthful of cake. He gazed at her ash covered dress, his mouth and eyes wide, then pointed at her chest.

She looked down and saw two gray handprints. The prints had fingers and thumbs, like a man’s hands, but also pads, like a dog’s, and claws, and a missing digit.