DUST TO DUST
THE CIVIL WARS
JORDAN
There are a couple of considerations to make when spreading a loved one’s remains. Such as: Who will you share that sacred time with? Are there witnesses? What’s the projected wind force and direction as you open the lid? Where are you located in proximity to said remains?
I blame the wind and Mrs. Cotten, who screams, “Hey, y’all!” from down the stream just as Emory opens the lid to James’ urn, startling her and thereby catching those remains in the huge gust of wind that passes through at the exact moment of release.
Suddenly, all of us are caught in a storm of ash particles, frantically wiping them from our clothes and sweaty skin, dusting it from our hair, and in Dinah’s case, dry heaving onto the ground.
Leave it to my best friend, in a last hurrah, to have one final prank on his bride.
At first I think Emory might be crying—and who could blame her—as she rests her hands on her knees, shoulders silently shaking.
But then, catching her breath, Emory lifts herself upright, cheeks tearstained and laughter in her eyes.
It’s a really weird time to find her completely breathtaking, but I do.
“Is that drugs you’re dumpin’ in the river?” Mrs. Cotten’s shrill voice grows closer as she races down the shoreline as quickly as her seventy-plus years will take her, dragging Veronica and Mr. Cotten with her. “Michael, I think they’re using drugs!”
“We aren’t using drugs.” Emory wipes her eyes then takes a good look at Molly, who’s no worse for wear and has abandoned the chaos completely in favor of skipping more rocks with her cousin.
Mrs. Cotten shakes her finger at us, coming right up to the dumping ground, where Veronica begins sniffing the site for evidence—while the real crime here today is the fact that the dog is dressed in a yellow tutu, a doggie tee that reads, “Your Pine-ness,” and is wearing a crown looped over her ears.
“You all were tryin’ to get rid of those road drugs. You oughta be ashamed of yourselves.”
Jack actually rolls his eyes, correcting her. “Street drugs, Mrs. Cotten.”
“Oh, don’t you sass me, young man.” She points her finger at him, but he continues running a soothing hand over his wife's back. “I know what I saw. Right, Michael? Plus, you’ve got it right there in your beard.”
Dinah heaves again. Jack swipes the substance in question from the scruff on his face.
Mr. Cotten nods, wordlessly, in a matching pineapple shirt with “Lookin’ Pine” printed across his chest. Another victim.
“Mrs. Cotten, it wasn’t drugs,” Emory says, tucking her loose T-shirt in the front of her jeans, presentable to make her case. “It was my husband.”
Dinah gags again.
“Or, sorry… it was my late husband’s ashes,” she amends, cringing at her sister’s distress. I’m learning quickly that nothing is ever straightforward or simple with these women. But gracious, is it entertaining. “We were scattering his remains today.”
Mrs. Cotten grows immediately softer, rushing towards Emory like an elderly but equally aggressive linebacker.
“Oh, honey…” She pulls her into her arms—any remnant of my best friend surely transferring to the pineapple printed dress she’s wearing.
“I knew you could never be guilty of such atrocious behavior. I had no idea this was happenin’ today.
I would have brought you a casserole if I had, of course. ”
“That’s so sweet, but not necessary,” Emory mumbles from where her face has been pressed into the older woman’s body.
“Hush. I’ll bring my funeral mac and cheese.”
“You really don’t have to. He’s been gone a long time.”
Mrs. Cotten pays her no mind, instead reciting her new grocery list while keeping Emory in her grasp. “Bacon… gouda… cheddar… I’ll need to get chives for the top, of course. And Michael, we’ll need to get that french butter you love so much. Eat it in bed, baby. It’ll make you right as rain.”
Emory sinks into her. “That does sound nice.”
It sounds awesome. And the fantasy my active imagination procures with the word combo of Bed, Bacon Mac and Cheese, and Emory must surely be written across my face, because Jack punches my bicep without preamble and looks like he’ll gladly aim his fist at my face if I don’t straighten up.
I mumble an apology and think about less titillating subject matter.
My best friend’s ashes dusted across my boots. The Cotten family’s wardrobe. Mrs. Cotten allowing her Pine-ness to kiss her straight on the mouth after licking what was likely remnants of a human from the grass.
“Your outfits look great,” Emory says, barely batting an eye at the mouth-to-mouth, pineapple party we’re witnessing. Mrs. Cotten abandons her princess and plants a wet one on her husband’s lips before responding.
“Aren’t we just the sweetest?!” she asks, holding her hands out to her husband and fur child. “I just love the zesty combinations you come up with, Emory. You have such a gift.”
And, of course, Emory made these. I hate that I’m annoyed and somehow all the more endeared to her. Do I think pets should wear clothes? Decidedly, no. But the woman dresses entire, weirdo families. It’s disturbing while being impossibly adorable.
“So, what are you two doing all the way out here?” I ask, probably with more entitled authority than I should. “It bein’ private property and all.”
“We were having our weekly picnic,” Mrs. Cotten replies, slipping her hand across her husband’s chest, forgetting all about the suspected drug ring they discovered or the memorial they intruded upon.
He winks at Jack and me. “Ya need to keep the romance alive, men. Never stop pursuin’.”
Jack nods, likely learning over time that less is more with the characters of Honey Hill. But also, Michael Cotten seems just as happy with his lot in life as can be, so I do the same. The man may be on to something.
“You have a weekly picnic here?” Dinah has finally returned to the land of the living, though she looks a bit green. “That’s lovely.”
“Oh yes! Emory invited us years ago to walk the grounds whenever we like. Lots of folks from town visit the farm throughout the week. It’s good walkin’ land.
And lavender season… just as it all starts to bloom…
is so romantic. My Michael takes his girls for a weekly walk and picnic here at Purple Pastures.
Sometimes with a bottle of champagne,” she whispers like she’s telling us a dirty little secret.
“Then it’s home for the evening to our hot tub and Veronica. ”
I kneel down, holding out my hand to the dog. “She sure is a sweet girl.” Veronica puts her nose into my palm, happy with the attention.
“Not Veronica, the dog,” Emory explains. “Veronica Mars.”
“I don’t know what that means…”
“Hot tub!” Dinah shouts suddenly, like she’s won a round of BINGO. “Romance!”
Emory’s eyes widen. “I couldn’t…”
“You could. You should.” Her sister bounces on her toes, clapping her hands. “We will! Right, J?”
She slaps Jackson in the chest, who wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulder, pulls her close and nods, though I’m not sure he actually knows what they’re talking about.
“Course, Polly.” He gestures lightly to me. “The doc is in, too. Whatever you need, Em. We’ll make it happen.”
“I don’t know what we’re talking about.” I mean, I want to make it happen but am feeling more confused by the second. Especially when Emory and Dinah are crying again, hugging each other and throwing compliments back and forth.
“I’m so proud of you.”
“No, I’m proud of you. You’re so strong and so brave.”
“I want to be you when I grow up.”
“What you did today was amazing…”
“You’re a queen.”
“You’re a boss, and you inspire me every day.”
“Should we get matching tattoos?”
They’re still volleying back and forth as Jack meanders closer to me, his hands tucked in his pockets. “They do this sometimes. It’s just a reset. They’ll fill us in when it’s over.”
“So you don’t know what they’re talking about?”
He chuckles. “Doc, when it comes to those two, they’re speaking their own language ninety-eight percent of the time. And now they’ve got Molly and Lola in their club, too. It’s exclusive. Girls only.”
Almost as soon as he says it, Emory and Dinah’s clones skip up to them, joining in the fray.
“And the other two percent of the time?” I ask, probably showing Jackson more of my hand than I should—as if he weren’t clued in based on this morning alone. There’s a strange guilt associated with my feelings for Emory. They’re complicated, yet more simplistic than I’ve ever experienced.
I’m falling for her. Have fallen… Am too far gone to turn back.
He slaps me on the shoulder. “For the other two percent, Doc, we are the lucky ones who get to be a part of their world.”
I catch Emory’s gaze as she peels herself out of the girl group hug.
Molly’s still chattering, Lola has wiggled her way into Emory’s arms, and Dinah’s found her way to Jack’s, but Emory…
By some miracle I will probably never understand, she’s looking at me.
And more than anything, I want that two percent.
“You’re jittery today, Son.” Bill’s giant hands remain steady, working delicately to extract one of King Gus’ teeth, affected by resorption. “You know, when I switched your mother and I to matcha instead of coffee, it really released us both from the edge caffeine was creating.”
“I’m good.” I have no interest in picking grass from my teeth today, thank you very much. “Only had one cup this morning.”
No, I’m just anxious to be done with my hands in Gus’ mouth, because in under one hundred and twenty minutes, I get to go home.
Not home home, since I still haven’t found somewhere to rent while I make plans for something more permanent to settle down in.
And I’m technically still crashing at my mom and Bill’s place—when I’m not having nightmares from a recent insight into how they spend free afternoons, when they think I won’t be coming by the house to pick up something from the room I rarely sleep in.