Desert Gothic

What to Do with the Dead

1 What to Do with the Dead Melvin, my coworker, sometimes talked ghosts while preparing a burn. “So look, friends say it’s strange, but there’s a clause in my will for Springer,” he told me. “And I wanted your opinion about it,” he went on, “whether or not, you know, it’s strange?” Springer was a large part of Melvin’s life, a calico I’d heard much about. I didn’t have an opinion one way or the other. To me, whatever Melvin wanted: fine. Though I’d only known him a short time, it was clear Melvin, a squat, fortyish, high-foreheaded man, was a champion of animal companionship. I’d also heard talk from the grounds crew that Melvin was a refugee fresh from a war-torn marriage, which helped explain his devotion. 2 W h a t t o D o w i t h t h e D e a d “It’s decided that when Springer goes there’s a spot for him in my entertainment center,” he said, adding, as if to impress me, “behind glass.” Melvin tapped the retort’s gauge, inspecting the temperature. A glowing ball of orange light filled the retort’s small rectangular window as it climbed toward sixteen hundred degrees. “And when I go, I’ve requested that Springer be mixed in with me. For interment I’ve decided—” Melvin lifted his hand, his ginger-colored eyes widening. He carefully scanned the plain industrial room. “Did you feel that?” he asked. “The breeze?” He was talking ghosts again and I didn’t like it. I didn’t believe in ghosts, or spirits, or gods. I painted. Life was filled with too many choices. Melvin massaged his forearms, saying, “Now that was something.” I was across the room on a hard metal stool, trying to copy down the delivery addresses of yesterday’s burns. A black binder hung via wire from the wall. Lists of names corresponded to dates of death. Attached was a pencil, a chipped nub, which gave my hand cramps. The pencil’s tip hovered over a street that didn’t match my directory . I didn’t recognize the name. In fact, where the hell was Choking, Nevada? I looked at the form again. Mary Ellis, age thirty. Requested delivery address: Choking. A joke? I was more annoyed that I didn’t know where Choking was than by the fact that Mary Ellis was a thirty-year-old overdose. All together, there were four deliveries, including the capsule now resting on the retort’s mechanical lift. “Who’s going in?” Melvin asked. I picked fuzz from my lip. “A man named Edward Yoo.” “Makes sense, another Chinese bribe,” Melvin said. “The man’s restless. I hope his family gave him a spendy send-off. That was probably him, just now, Edward Yoo.” I wanted to ask Melvin how he figured that but didn’t. Every few weeks we had one, a money box. I’d learned from Melvin it was old country tradition to place cash and gifts with the dead to satisfy the spirits. I’d seen a few overeager families stuffing bodies with thousands of dollars. They packed mouths full W h a t t o D o w i t h t h e D e a d 3 of twenties; they folded rigor-mortised hands around hundreds. Out of respect I never explained to them what they didn’t need to know. That the retort was an elaborately designed, computerized machine that recycled cinerary vapor through a series of funnels, and in the end, the only thing left was heat, not smoke. All that cash was incinerated over and over, and what remained was an imperceptible translucent streak shimmering from the chimney. The retort’s glow colored Melvin’s pupils gold. He stepped behind the control panel and said, “How’d he die?” “Car crash, it says.” Melvin said, “Well, help me carry him home.” I was working on a bubble. I blew it, and gum bonded to my upper lip. Melvin tipped his head. “At what point did you get so weightless ?” he asked, which was funny of Melvin, a funny thing to ask. Each hundred pounds required an hour to incinerate. During the three days a week I worked, I’d discovered the job required a lot of standing around. Estimating from Mr. Yoo’s weight, I thought he was an hour and a half, give or take...