“This can’t be right,” Seth says.
But then we see the sign for the NAACP headquarters. The building is brick and big, and people are coming out, and for a second I’m reminded that while we’ve been dealing with this family drama for the past week, other humans have been going to their jobs, as if life is normal. As if somebody didn’t just die. As if the world doesn’t know that Chris and I almost made out last night.
We park the car and stand in front of the building, confused about where we’re supposed to be.
I look over at Chris. He’s standing there, jaw dropped.
“What?” I say.
“It’s just . . . a lot of Black people,” he says, and then I notice that yes, there are people coming in and out of the building, some holding lunch bags, some walking to their cars. They are all Black.
Chris is smiling, his eyes huge.
“So many people,” he whispers.
I am reminded that where we live, he is always outnumbered, unless he is at church.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a little shocking. In a good way.”
I nod. I hope college looks more like this. That it can be even half of what this is for him right now.
“The building isn’t as—I don’t know—as majestic as I thought it’d be,” Chris adds, looking up. “I thought it’d be, like . . . a tower.”
I nod in agreement. I didn’t expect an office park.
“This doesn’t look like the kind of place that would have gardens,” Seth says from behind us.
“I’ll google it again,” I say, and pull up the part of Dorothy Parker’s Wikipedia page that tells me her ashes are somewhere here.
There is a young woman, maybe not much older than I am, standing outside the building. She has braids and is wearing a pretty blue dress and is maybe waiting for a ride, checking her phone.
“Excuse me,” Seth says to the girl. “Do you work here?”
“I do,” she says, smiling nervously as she eyes the Chico’s bag in Seth’s hand, which he is clutching too tightly. “Summer intern,” she adds.
“We’re looking for Dorothy Parker,” I say. I am impatient.
“I don’t know a Dorothy Parker,” she says. “But I’ve only been here for two months.”
“No. We’re looking for the Dorothy Parker who’s dead,” Seth says, and now this young woman looks truly concerned.
Seth scowls, frustrated with himself. “Sorry. I haven’t slept much, and it’s been a long week.”
Chris moves to stand in front of us. “I apologize,” he tells her. “It’s hard to explain, but—”
He’s cut off by a tall older man nearby who’s been talking to a group of people on the walkway. “Excuse me, did you say you were looking for Dorothy Parker?” He smiles through his white beard.
“Yes,” I say, speaking for the group now. “We’re looking for the grave of the writer Dorothy Parker. We’ve heard it’s on this property.”
“You heard right,” the man says. “It’s quite a strange story. I’m happy to take you around back.”
We follow him around the side of the building as the man, who is probably someone important in this building, retells the story I heard from Marge and tried to repeat for Seth, Ethan, and Chris. This man explains it better, with more details.
“I’ll admit that I worked here for three years before learning the full story, with all the details, of Dorothy Parker’s estate,” he says as we approach the area in the back. “She never even got to meet Martin Luther King. They say he was shocked when he was told she left him all of her money. She knew who would do right by it.”
We’re all listening with rapt attention. Seth looks like he’s in pain, and I know why; I can’t believe Grandma Sheryl won’t get to know that we’re here. I can’t believe she won’t get to come here herself.
“There’s a move planned,” the man tells us. “I assume we’ll wind up in Washington D.C., although it’s up for debate. I do hope we move Dorothy with us.”
The one side of the building looked pretty basic and boring, but as we turn a corner, following our leader, we see that the property has a lovely patch of green. I wouldn’t call it a garden, but there are ornamental grasses and plants, and it is all scenic. If I worked here, I’d bring my laptop outside. I take a few quick pictures and send them to the Garden Girls.
“What do you think of this place?” I ask them.
As usual, they respond within seconds.
“Gorg,” Kevin writes, meaning “gorgeous.”
“Where are you?” Jill says next.
“Maryland,” I write back.
“Why!?” Jill asks.
“Dorothy Parker is here,” I respond.
“!!” Deb says.
Rochelle sends her favorite pink hearts.
The man who led us here clears his throat.
“Well, here we are,” he says, and it’s his polite way of asking if we need any more of his help.
“Is Dorothy in . . . a specific place?” Seth asks.
The man starts to answer, but he’s interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Lor?” Mom says. “Oh, there you are.”
Mom is wearing a tan linen tank dress that extends to her feet. She’s also sporting a turquoise necklace that is actually normal necklace size.
“Who knew the NAACP was here?” Mom says, and I imagine, based on the look on the man’s face, that a lot of people know. But he is being polite.
Behind Mom is Bill, who’s in jeans and a Ravens T-shirt. His suit from the arboretum would have been more appropriate for this visit. He walks over to the man who works here.
“I’m Bill,” Bill says.
“Ben,” the man says, and noticing the shirt, he adds, “Season already looking good.”
“I’ll take it,” Bill says.
Bill is so weirdly disarming. The man who’s helping us—Ben—already loves him.
“Honey,” Mom says, and hugs me.
“Christian,” she says next, to Chris.
“Hi, Mrs. Seltzer,” he says while I give my mom look of appreciation for getting his name right.
“Please, call me Becca,” she says. “Or Brenda. At this point, I deserve it.”
Chris shakes Bill’s hand.
“So,” Mom continues, looking right to left. “What is our plan here?”
“Dorothy is here, somewhere,” Seth says, and looks to Ben, our new friend.
“A plaque in her honor is here, and somewhere beneath it an urn with her remains,” Ben says, walking in front of the benches, pointing down, and looking at the space below him with reverence.
“Thank you,” Seth says, and Ben nods.
“I have to head out for a meeting, but enjoy the property,” he tells us. “Lovely to meet you all.”
“Thank you, sir,” Chris tells him, and they shake hands too.
The rest of us say a collective thank-you, and I kind of want to hug him, but I hold back because that would be weird.
Once Ben is out of sight, we gather around a bronze memorial for Dorothy Parker that’s on the ground in front of us. The plaque is about two feet across, and it’s circular—sort of like a giant coin.
“This is the spot,” I say.
“Sure is,” Seth agrees.
I drop to the ground so I can see it better. Then I read aloud as everyone crowds around me.
“Here lie the ashes of Dorothy Parker . . . Humorist, writer, critic, defender of human and civil rights. For her epitaph she suggested ‘Excuse my dust.’ This memorial garden is dedicated to her noble spirit, which celebrated the oneness of human kind, and to the bonds of everlasting friendship between Black and Jewish people.”
We all breathe in at the same time, as if the words have knocked the wind out of us. This group of people has never been so quiet.
I trace the words on the plaque with my fingers.
“Excuse my fucking dust,” Seth says in amazement. I look up at him, and he’s crying, and I am a
little bit, too. “What a good line.”
“This is so beautiful,” Mom says, looking behind her at the wave of grass swaying in the mildest of breezes.
“She’d love that we’re here,” Seth says, and I’m thinking the same thing.
Of all of the places, this is the most meaningful spot. It wasn’t on her list, but it’s just right.
“This is unfair,” I say. I am so desperate to tell her how all this worked out. How we got here. In the past week, we have all done everything in service of Grandma Sheryl, and she’s not around to enjoy it.
“Dorothy Parker has a monument at the NAACP headquarters,” I say to the sky. “And there is an amazing quote on her grave. And Grandma doesn’t know.”
“Honey,” Mom says, wanting to console me.
I’m starting to ugly-cry, so I use my last clean dress—the yellow tank dress I’d brought to The Mount—to wipe my eyes and nose. I’ve had some small to medium cries since this all happened, but now it seems that every emotion I’ve stored up is clearing out of my body, and it feels euphoric.
I bend over next to the plaque and put my head on the ground, needing a minute to breathe.
Then I feel arms around my waist, and I look up to see that they belong to Chris. His chin is on my shoulder.
“Lor, you okay?” he whispers. “You appear to be having a meltdown.”
“I just need a minute,” I whisper, breathing into my folded knees.
His body is shaking, and after a moment I realize that Chris is laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“We’re really showing off the everlasting friendship between Jews and Black people right now,” he says.
I smile, imaging what we look like, hunched over in back of the NAACP headquarters, holding each other over this quote.
“We could be on a pamphlet,” I whisper.
“Sheryl would approve.”
He lets me go, and I sit up.
“I’m okay,” I promise everyone. “Let’s do this.”
I rearrange myself so I’m sitting crossed-legged in front of the plaque, and Mom, Bill, Seth, and Chris lower themselves to the ground too, making a circle around the memorial.
“Where do we do it?” Seth asks. “We can’t dump them on the plaque, so maybe around these flowers? Or the trees?”
“Anywhere,” I say.
We move a few feet away to something that could be flowers, but they might also be weeds. It doesn’t matter what they are. The grass is soft around them. Seth digs to make some small holes for Grandma. Then he opens the Chico’s bag, takes out the box, and goes for the craisins.
I am so used to seeing them, watching someone touch them, but it’s still kind of new to Mom, days later, and I see her flinch, so I talk her down.
“It gets less weird,” I tell her.
“Really? I can’t imagine it ever would.”
“I’ve touched them a bunch of times, and it’s not really Grandma,” I say. “I mean, it’s her, but it’s also not. It’s just her bones.”
My mom makes an unhappy face, and for the first time ever, she reminds me of Grandma. It’s the scowl Grandma would give me after she tasted something unpleasant. I know that, as a spiritual person, Mom doesn’t want to think about bones.
I remember what Marge told me about some religions believing that cremation sets you free.
“When I think of remains now,” I tell my mom, “like what it means to look at someone’s remains after they die—I can’t think of someone’s body. It doesn’t really remain, no matter how you try to preserve it. Like, the stuff that remains is people. We’re Grandma’s remains.”
“That was really lovely, Lori,” Mom says, and I notice Seth paying attention.
“That just came to me,” I say, and then I look at him and smirk. “Quick, you better take notes. Need a pen to write it down?”
“Touché,” he says, but he actually looks contrite, and I appreciate it.
Seth reaches into the bag to grab more of the remains. He gets more of the bigger pieces, as you can’t always get to the tiny ones.
I know that there will always be a little bit left, the pieces that get stuck to the plastic bag.
I know that when we throw the bag into a nearby garbage can, it will feel like there’s a little of Grandma in there, too. That freaked me out after our first stop—I tried to forget the image of Seth tossing the not-quite-clean bag into a public garbage can—but I have let go of the importance of the actual body. The important thing has been the honoring of it, and the reading, and the letting go.
I know that Dorothy Parker is right—it is just dust.
I know that Edith Wharton buried her dogs on her weird little pet cemetery hill, not for them, but for her, because it was important for her to visit them. I know that even though her body is in France, her spirit is probably with those dogs, or maybe with her inner circle of friends. I imagine that wherever Heaven is for Edith Wharton, there is no overhead lighting, parties are always small and intimate, and everyone sleeps over and hangs out in pajamas talking about literature.
I know that even though Grandma did not choose this particular office park for her ashes, she would be happy with it because things are growing here.
I am growing by the minute. By the millisecond.
Seth hands the bag to me, still half full. I’m less precious with the goods this time around. I put my fingers straight into the bag and take a handful. I close my eyes and imagine writing about the way this feels. Like glass. Like pebbles. Like seashells. Like dust.
I put some of the dust in the holes carved out by Seth, but then I move past them, standing up and bringing a handful to a pretty patch of ornamental green. I bring some more to a big tree nearby.
Then I take the bag to my mother.
“I don’t think I can,” she says, and her graying curls bounce as she shakes her head.
“You’ll be happy you did it,” I say.
She dips her hand into the bag, closes her eyes, and feels. She takes a small handful and sprinkles it around the grass in front of her. Her shoulders relax.
“Thank you,” she tells me when she’s done.
Then she does something really great; she hands the bag to Chris.
“Your turn,” Mom says.
He puts his pad and pen down and accepts the bag. After taking a polite fistful of the craisins, he walks to a row of hedges and drops the remains at the roots. I see his mouth move as he buries them. He’s whispering to himself.
At first I think he might be doing something religious, maybe saying something he knows from church, but then I realize he’s talking to her. I see his lips form the name Sheryl, and he’s telling her something.
I’m done for. It’s tears again for me.
His eyes are closed, and he’s smiling as he speaks, and I’m desperate to know what he’s saying, but I won’t ask. I will let him have this moment.
Sometimes I forget that Chris met her when he was a little kid, and that they had their own history together.
There’s a little bit left in the bag when Chris hands it to me. I give it straight to Bill. Honestly, why not? I think.
“I . . . wow. Thanks, Lori.”
Bill—who is clearly humbled by my gesture, which is sweet, I have to admit—takes the rest of the bag and walks to a patch of dandelions growing nearby. He sprinkles what’s left on the yellow flowers.
And it’s done.
Chapter 16
Seth has found a cheap room at a hotel near Bill’s house, which is, as mom said, right by a mall. It is not nearly as majestic as the Natick Mall. We drop him off, and Chris and I follow Mom back to Bill’s condo, where we stare at the wall of corkscrews.
“I know I’ve seen pictures, but it’s somehow worse in person,” Chris whispers.
I point to one that forms the shape of Micky Mouse ears. “I can’t,” I say. “I think Mickey died for that one.”
“That’s dark, Lor.”
“Finding everything you nee
d?” Bill asks, coming out of nowhere.
“Yep, we’re good,” I tell him.
“The guest room is all made up upstairs. There’s a bed and a cot. I’ll let you fight it out.”
“I’m happy on the cot,” Chris says, and heads upstairs.
I go into the living room and am still on the couch when Mom comes down.
“You’re staying up?” she asks.
“Just for a little,” I say.
“Babe,” she says, “can we talk about what happened with Seth?”
I answer with a loud exhale. “He told you what he did? Or what I did? About the manuscript?”
“He did.” She tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear.
“You’re not wearing your cat eyes,” she says.
“I don’t want to look like the girl in his book anymore.”
Mom smiles. She gets it. “You feel like he betrayed you.”
“He did betray me! He was acting like my new best friend, and all he really wanted was material.”
“Hmm,” Mom says. “It’s not okay, and I understand why you’re angry. But . . .”
There are no buts here, I think. When I say it all out loud, I’m even more upset by what Seth has done.
“It felt so embarrassing,” I say. “It’s a violation, but also, I felt so duped. I assumed he was asking me things because he cared about me. I was all excited about it. But I was being mined for ideas.”
“Right,” Mom says, hesitating. “This might sound strange, Lori, but when he told me what happened—what he had done—my instinct was to be jealous.”
I lean back, surprised.
“Jealous of whom?”
“Of you.”
“Why?”
“You’ve read Seth’s books, right?” she asks.
I have. I mean, I did, long ago, maybe before I was really old enough to understand them. My mom always said they were for adults, but when I moved in with Grandma Sheryl when I was fifteen, she said I could read anything, so I took them from her shelf and tore through them, not because they were fast reads—they’re pretty slow, actually—but because I was curious to know how my uncle told a story. The characters were all sort of miserable and longing for things beyond their small suburb. It all felt very tense in a way that didn’t interest me.
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