The Cremation

THE CREMATION
         

The brunt of an Atlantic snowstorm was due in the Boston area in a few hours as Maureen and I entered the parking lot of a small chapel in the small town of Plymouth Massachusets. New England Weather had decided to live up to its reputation and put on a show for Billy Mac's funeral service. The huge lot was deserted other than the six or seven vehicles in front of the chapel.
It was the conclusion of a short service. The minister of the chapel asked "Would the person who is accepting William MacGinnis's ashes please come forward"?--there was an uncomfortable silence. As pregnant seconds dragged by--my companion squeezed my hand and a questioning look. My return grasp and the negative look on my face answered her. The beautiful Maureen--my bartender in the after-hours Club I had operated many years ago and now spokes—lady for a popular brewery and their TV ads. Billy was the love of her life but she wisely married a wealthy businessman. some things never change. One of the four unsavory characters who had arrived in an older Cadillac--probably hoping to hasten the close of the service--accepted the ashes.
Billy Mac, with his wide Irish face and grin—disarming to the uninformed and..as the Irish would say..had a touch of the whore. A gift or antenna that could seek and seduce a man's darker side. When the seduction was completed, the person or institution was usually left better educated on trust issues. It also resulted in hot pursuits and some serious beatings. Billy seemed to enjoy the risk. Threats of physical harm--jail--public embarrassment, fazed him not.
As the service ended there were very few handshakes, just nods of recognition from my newspaper reporter past--gamblers hustlers--degenerates of another generation. A few made men from a shattered Boston mafia, possibly there to confirm Billy's death or entrap one of Billy's many cohorts. The stares and interest began shifting towards my companion. We quickly nodded and avoided eye contact through the small group. We were in no mood to exchange memories of Billy Mac.
The character with Billy's ashes had parked the Cadillac at an angle that provided little traction and the Atlantic wind had driven the snow into drifts now piling against the vehicles--Three of the men had begun rocking the vehicle as the driver unsuccessfully spun its wheels. The Atlantic gale had gained in ferocity. The other vehicles, leaving slowly, moved past the scene with the collective thought that ...if these were Billy's friends,...It was probably safer to ignore the situation. As we approached my car; the driver exited the Cadillac with Billy's ashes in hand and proceeded to dump the ashes under the car's rear wheels for traction. The Cadillac fishtailed out of the chapel parking lot--the Urn package had blown into the wind. As I opened her car door, she stared at the dark patch, with a trace of a smile whispered "Billy would have done the same thing". I leaned in and grabbed the empty coffee cup off the console. The storm's tempo was increasing and we had 30-odd miles back to the city. -Half-filling the cup from the ashes enmeshed in tire tracks I returned to the car.