Uncle Chick's Last Wish

Uncle Chick's last wish was to have his ashes scattered across the Naked Mermaid, a nude beach deep in the Florida Keys. And so here I am, squeezed into the plush blood—red seat 7-B of Flight 1403: Washington, D.C. to Key West. An expensive ticket, more than I can afford, but Aunt Alice whipped out her glitter—spangled credit card and . . . swoop! Next thing I know, I'm zooming through the wild blue in a shiny silver jet. Abracadabra magic, as Uncle Chick used to call his slick card tricks.

I'm wedged elbow-to-elbow with Aunt Alice's flowered dress and a gray flannel suit smelling of Old Spice and business. Stuck in the middle with Uncle Chick in a shoe box balanced on my lap.

The battered duct-taped box once cradled an unscuffed pair of Nikes, sturdy running shoes that held old Uncle Chick upright as he tottered across the earth. Size 13, triple E. And now here he is: flying, reduced to a pile of cinders and dust scooped haphazardly into a shoe box.

"Do people wear shoes to get cremated?" I wonder out loud. "Are they dressed?"

Aunt Alice shifts in the window seat, the swishy fabric of her dress brushing my bare arm. Her white hair has a clean sparkle — a starry sheen in the late-day sunshine — and she smells light purple, like lavender soap. Her eyes are filmy, milky-blue membranes of haziness, and her age makes me shiver. Aunt Alice is ancient, an antique, and I'm constantly struck by the fragility of her years. I'm always half-scared that she's going to drop dead when I'm around.

"He was in his birthday suit," she whispers, daintily posing a hand before her withered pink lipsticked mouth. Aunt Alice's flawless fingernails perfectly match her lips and the blush of her cheeks, thanks to her personal hero Mary Kay, the millionaire makeup lady. Uncle Chick got her hooked when he bought Aunt Alice a bottle of Genji perfume for Christmas a couple of years ago. She still wears the stuff; you can smell her before she gets there and after she leaves. She lingers in the air.

I try to smile, feeling the surreal pressure of the box on my lap, a heft not unlike a sleeping infant. Mister Gray Flannel has been casting snobby glances at the box: aloof slides of his eyes as he pretends to shuffle papers. He thinks his business is so important; some day he should have to do this job. A shoebox can be just as serious as a laptop.

"So Uncle Chick went out the same way he came in: without a stitch," I comment loudly, tensing as the plane shakes and vibrates through an air pocket. I hate turbulence. I can't even watch the Jerry Springer show without cringing.

Aunt Alice pats the lid of the box, and my stomach drops as the jet lowers.

"Weighing less than the day he was born," Aunt Alice proclaims, as the plane skims dreamily above the emerald and sapphire quilt that is Key West. "Gracious! Isn't that amazing?"

* * *

Aunt Alice and I are swimming with the dolphins. Well, not exactly swimming, but more like gingerly interacting: cautiously splashing, warily touching. The dolphins click and creak, and their skin is like
taut rubber. They give me the creeps. Their smiles are perverted.

"Uncle Chick would love this place!" Aunt Alice raves. She is archaically radiant in a rose-splattered skirted suit that billows and swirls through the pure green water of Theater of the Sea. I'm wearing my snakeskin suit, and praying that the rattlesnake pattern does nothing to agitate the dolphins.

Uncle Chick is alone in the hotel room, resting on my bed. We haven't yet gotten up the nerve to go to the nude beach; all of our previous spunk has melted under the sun. Cowardice hangs between us, slipping through the water like squishy jellyfish nipping at our lily-white legs. Aunt Alice and I are spineless. Chickens.

"Do you suppose it's legal to just go on a beach and scatter a person's ashes?" Aunt Alice fretted, after we were settled in our too—cheerful lemon—yellow room at the Dew-Drop Inn. "Maybe we need a permit or something."

I shrugged. I wasn't worried about legalities, for God's sake. My concern was stripping and making myself open to the scrutiny of others. After all, I am a 40-year-old woman who bears battle scars: pregnancy, mothering, too many broken hearts, too little exercise, and way too many chocolate Twinkies.

"Do you think it's a law that everyone must be unclad at the Naked Mermaid?" asks Aunt Alice, as a dolphin skims between us. "Will we get arrested if we just stay in our swimsuits?"

I sigh. Aunt Alice is overly concerned with judicial matters, it seems. I, on the other hand, am preoccupied with the aesthetic concerns. The idea of showing my privates in public scares the shit out of me. I wonder if this is Uncle Chick's idea of a joke.

A dolphin rises smiling into the sky, then plants a kiss smack-dab on Aunt Alice's coral-slicked lips.

"Good heavens," she says, dabbing her mouth. "Do you think . . . that maybe, just maybe that could have been him?"

I roll my eyes. Then I have an epiphany. "So we'll just wear our swimsuits and get arrested. So what . . . big deal! We'll only get written up for . . . for . . . 'decent exposure' or something. How big can that be?"

The dolphin leers, clapping its fins, then thrashes back into the water. It disappears, eerily.

"Abracadabra magic," Aunt Alice says.

* * *

We're watching late-night television. The yellow room is dark, and Aunt Alice and I sprawl together on my bed. Uncle Chick rests quietly on the dresser.

"Smell that fresh Key West air!" Aunt Alice says, taking a wheezing deep breath. The window is open; the lace curtains dance. The moon is full. The air is cool. It's a great night. Lots of stars.

I inhale, nodding.

"Good air," I agree. Howard Stern is on TV.

"That man is disgusting," Aunt Alice proclaims, picking up the remote control. She clicks, dismissing Howard, and then flicks the menu button.

"Recent Movies, Hollywood Favorites, Adult Collection," she recites, reading the pay TV options.

"Chick always wanted me to watch one of the X-rated movies with him," Aunt Alice muses, her pink fingernail tracing circles on the slippery bedspread. "I refused."

She sighs. "But now that he's gone, I think: 'What harm would it have done?' Really. I could have accommodated him, just once. It would have made him so happy."

She's highlighting the Adult Collection movies: Eye Candy, Lap Delight, Sizzling Bite.

"He begged me to go to the Naked Mermaid with him, back in 1988 when we flew down here with his buddy Gubba for that golf tournament," Aunt Alice reports. "I refused, and went to the art museum instead. What was I thinking? Nude people are art!"

She returns to free TV, where Howard Stern is analyzing a guest's breasts.

"Why in heaven's name does that man wear sunglasses all the time? What does he have to hide?" She changes the channel. "He really is disgusting, but Chick loved him. God only knows why."

Aunt Alice stops at the shopping network, eyeing a fake diamond necklace.

"He also implored me to read his girly magazines and to go with him to The Treasure Chest store and to order something from the Victoria's Secret catalog. I refused, refused, refused. What an old stick-in-the-mud Miss Priss I was! Really, what harm would it have done?"

I shrug.

"Have you ever heard of suttee?" Aunt Alice asks, and I shake my head. "It's widows throwing themselves on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands."

"Burning?" I ask.

"Burning," Aunt Alice repeats. "Hindu women used to do it in India."

She casts a surreptitious glance at the box on the dresser.

"I felt like doing that, too," she whispers. "Jumping into the fire. Burning with him, our ashes all mixed up into one heap."

I shudder. I don't like to think about anybody's flesh and blood and bones burning in a furnace, and especially not my relatives. This is our family's first cremation.

"Lung cancer is such an ugly way to go," Aunt Alice says. "I just keep seeing his face on the last day, all hooked up to that infernal breathing machine. It was hard to believe that he was the same man."

"I always told him," Aunt Alice says, "to stop smoking. He refused, and now look at him. Fucking cigarettes."

I'm shocked speechless. Aunt Alice never swears.

Uncle Chick is pleased. In the light of the TV and the full moon, the silver box seems almost alive. It shines.

* * *

It's 5 in the morning, and we're still watching TV. I haven't done this since I was 15.

"Swimming with the dolphins was fun," Aunt Alice says. She's drunk from lack of sleep. Her nightgown is wrinkled, and her face creased from the pillow sheet. Even her lipstick has worn off. "A little bit scary, but fun. I'm glad that we got up the nerve to do it."

I nod. "Me, too." I close my eyes and a gleam of gray streaks across the back of my eyelids. It's the graceful arc of a dolphin. Thank you for bringing us here, Uncle Chick. It never would have happened without you.

"Oh, look!" Aunt Alice squeals. "Three free minutes of psychic advice!"

I open my eyes.

"1-800-Telltale," states Aunt Alice, reaching for the telephone. "Let's call!"

"Really, Aunt Alice." I roll my eyes. "Do you really believe in that crap? Those so-called psychics are all quacks. It's a waste of money."

"What money? It's free!" She's dialing.

"What harm could it do?" Aunt Alice whispers, her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

"They charge you a fortune if you go over the three . . ."

"Oh!" She sits bolt upright. "Hello. I'd like my three free minutes, please."

She listens to a spiel. That's 30 seconds gone right there.

"January 18, 1928," she says. "Blue eyes, white hair, five-feet-five, 135 pounds on a good day." I tsk. Aunt Alice listens, cocking her head.

"A widow," she says. "Two weeks ago tomorrow."

The red number on the clock radio flips. Once, twice, three minutes have passed.

Aunt Alice is quiet. She's hanging onto the phone as if it's a lifeline.

"Time's up," I whisper. Aunt Alice pushes the hang-up button.

"What did the so-called psychic say?" I ask. Aunt Alice stands. Her brow is crinkled.

"She said," Aunt Alice heads for the dresser, "that I made all of my husband's wishes come true by taking great risks in faith."

She lifts the shoe box, pressing it to her heart. A seagull squawks outside.

* * *

The sun is rising pink in the sky. We're on our way to the Naked Mermaid. Aunt Alice and I are in our nightgowns. No makeup. Matted hair. Bad breath. Hairy legs. Uncle Chick slides on the seat between us. I'm driving the rental car at high speed, going fast before we change our minds.

"I'll bet Chick is getting such a kick out of this," says Aunt Alice. She puts her hand on the box. "He always was a jokester."

"Some joke," I say.

"Making us get naked in public," Aunt Alice gasps. "Stripping like a couple of go-go girls. Hoochie mamas."

I'm laughing so hard that I can barely drive.

"Where do we get off?" I sputter. "What exit?"

"Nine," replies Aunt Alice, huffing and puffing. Tears stream down her cheeks. "Left on Seaside Drive, and then we're there."

I roll down the window and smell the ocean. My hair is in my eyes. I'm driving barefoot. I'm not wearing underwear. Aunt Alice and I are Thelma and Louise, fearless females. People like us run the world.

I veer onto Exit Nine, squealing the tires, then hang a left onto Seaside Drive. We're there. The sun is a pink ball of fire, the sky is streaked purple and blue, the sand is white and fine. It's exquisite.

"No wonder Uncle Chick loved this," I say, parking the car in an empty lot.

"Nude beach, here we come!" Alice takes a deep breath and holds Uncle Chick to her bosom.

We step from the rental car and into the sand. I'm wearing purple silk shorties and Aunt Alice is radiant in knee-length polka-dotted cotton. We climb to the boardwalk.

"Only a few early birds way down there," Aunt Alice comments, shading her eyes. The sun is bright.

"Luckily," I say, as a breeze lifts the top of my nightie.

But then we notice that the few people on the beach are wearing swimsuits. Nobody is nude.

"What on earth?" breathes Aunt Alice. She turns to a ragged man on a nearby bench, who is totally unaffected by the sight of two women in nightgowns.

"This is the Naked Mermaid, isn't it?" she asks. The man nods.

"Used to be, until '93," he says. He snorts, and honks his nose into a red handkerchief. "Then it became a public beach."

Aunt Alice's body sags. She clutches the shoe box.

"Oh," she says. "Thank you."

We start to walk away, back toward the car. But then I look at Aunt Alice. She looks at me. We're both smiling. I nod. Great ladies' minds work alike.

Stepping through prickly beach grass, we trek over sand dunes and onto the beach. We're giggling hysterically. I haven't laughed this hard since tenth grade.

"Shall we?" asks Aunt Alice. She gently places Uncle Chick on the sand.

"We shall," I answer. I pull my top over my head and toss it into the air. I drop my bottoms, as Aunt Alice squirms from her polka-dots. Her breasts sag like wilted flowers, but her smile is confident and sure.

"Well," says Aunt Alice. She waves her nightgown like a flag. "What are we waiting for?"

"Nothing," I reply. I lift the shoe box and slowly peel the duct tape from around the lid. My heart flutters at the sight of the remains. Slivers of bone shine like white surprise. I remember a teacher in high school telling us that stars give us some of the calcium in our bones. I don't know if that's true, but it's a nice idea.

Aunt Alice and I take a big breath, in unison, and then I dip a hand into the ashes. They're surprisingly coarse.

Aunt Alice closes her eyes and reaches into the remains, bringing a handful to her lips as if to kiss it. But instead she blows — just a puff of breath like a sigh — and the ashes float gently into the sky, then drift down. Some of the ashes land in Aunt Alice's hair. More speckle her breasts. Leave it to Uncle Chick.

"Abracadabra magic," whispers Aunt Alice. She reaches for another scoop. I do, too.

And then we begin to run, scattering ashes across what was once the Naked Mermaid, sprinkling what was once Uncle Chick in a place he loved. People are staring, but I don't care. The sun is yellow, the sky blue, the water a bright green. It's a nudist camp Kodak moment. Somebody take a picture, quick. This won't last.

We run and run, taking naked flight under the morning sun, and it's actually kind of fun. Like swimming with dolphins or flying for the first time or falling in love. Scary, but fun.

In my head, I can hear Uncle Chick laughing. Dolphins leap in the sea, and Aunt Alice's buttocks gleam a brave pure white, like stars.

© Linda Oatman High 2002