by Barry Rachin
As she explained things, her daughters wanted their father buried through Stanetsky’s Funeral Home in Brookline. Becky preferred a pine box and unmarked grave in the paupers’ cemetery. “He left us penniless.”
“So what’d you do?”
Becky gestured in the direction of the fireplace where a turquoise plastic urn rested on the oak mantle.
Dust to dust. A few meager cups of chalky powder was all that remained of the formidable lover who stole Becky Steinberg away. There was something unsettling about carrying on a conversation with the decease’s remains six feet away.
Near the bay window a moss green comforter had been draped over a Steinway, baby grand piano. "Do you still play?"
"Not in years."
Ralph recalled a rather eccentric interpretation of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the melody in the right hand overpowered by booming arpeggios that transformed the lilting tune into a bombastic riot that had more in common with a Scott Joplin rag than classical music. "Come spend a week with me for old time sake. We can pick up where we left off. If nothing comes of it, go live with your daughter in California. No one need know."
Becky said nothing for the better part of a minute. Finally, she took a deep breath letting all the air out in staccato bursts through her thin lips. "I treated you badly, always putting myself first. All you stand to get are the dribs and drabs of a squandered life."
"You were honest to a fault. And anyway, that's all in the past."
Becky lowered her eyes. A Kieninger grandfather clock in the hallway stroked the hour.
