I never met her. And yet here I was carrying a container with her ashes to their final resting place. So bittersweet. But go ahead and accentuate that sweet part - she was finally coming home with the love of her life to the place where they’d spent some of their happiest moments - Coney Island, where they courted in the 1940’s as high school sweethearts. Rae had died fourteen years previously, two months to the day after 9/11, long before we’d had a chance to meet. Her husband of almost 50 years, Ray, had wanted to bring her back to the beach they’d played on so long ago, but had worried that with the increased security measures in the wake of the September tragedy, his mission would be highly suspect, and could easily go awry. So her remains remained. In the living room of his small mobile home. And then sadly, 6 months before he would have turned ninety three, he too was translated to ash, and we began to make plans to fulfill his dream of returning them both to the place where their young love had kindled.
Making the arrangements to transport the containers from the mortuary was just one of those details, one of those red tape matters society increasingly imposes. Timing is everything and the regulations on our airline had just tightened that Fall, dovetailing with our reservations. But Paul crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s and we figured it was virtually handled. Still, the State had yet to return the final official forms to the mortuary the day before we were scheduled to leave. That night Paul was philosophical, “We’ll just have to get out to New York another time down the road.” How would we be able to afford that? I was crushed. I had such a romantic vision of this whole operation and strongly felt that the time was now, they’d waited long enough and were so ready for this final journey.
The next morning Paul called from his office with great news. Before he could share it, I had some preemptive news of my own - I had just discovered when I tried to check in online that actually our flight had already left at one minute before midnight the night before. Guess who got confused on the dates? Just like that, I'd punctured his balloon toute de suite. Dark clouds thundered deep inside me. It seemed ironic that he had just gone over and picked up the last minute paperwork from the mortuary so we could take our exceptional cargo on a plane that had already left! I was a basket case.
And in that condition I left to get to a Dr.’s appointment. I was so rattled I drove to a couple other Dr. offices in town first and was unforgivably late. It was a surprise to me that they still could fit me into their busy schedule. By the time I was in the examining room I warned the nurse that because of my situation my blood pressure would be off the charts, yet she was extremely reassuring and emphatically stressed that everything happens for a reason. I did calm down some. Some. The Dr. came in and gave me medical clearance for the surgical procedure I was scheduled to have in New York. Which was great, except how was I supposed to get to New York at this point? It would be prohibitively expensive to try and buy new tickets for the same day, and planes are usually full anyway, particularly this close to Christmas.
NYU Langone Hospital had called the day before to switch the schedule from Saturday to Monday, so a couple days’ grace, but still. It was Thursday, and it would be a cross country 5 day drive, a bridge too far. When it rains…. Sometimes there are rainbows, in fact had we been on the right flight I would have been in NYC already and missed my Vegas Doc appointment that I needed to clear me for the surgery in New York. There just hadn't been an earlier appointment available when I made it, so I took it in the hopes of the Universe conspiring to be on the list in case of a fortuitous cancellation. But the Universe tends to get out of whack when conspiring, so no cancellation and instead this flair for the dramatic.
Things happen for a reason, I tried to repeat that silently as a mantra while I was dialing Jet Blue customer service. Let it go. Let the chips fall. I felt I had nothing more to lose, so I was calm as I explained a bit of the situation to the agent. She listened. She really listened. And she cared enough to work some magic with the help of her supervisor. I was on hold for several minutes while she was waving her sparkly wand around, and when she came back on the line, she told me that we were booked to leave that night at one minute before midnight...same exact flight, 24 hours later. And I was only charged the change fee! Bonus upgrade thrown in, how generous, Jet Blue! How were there even two seats together for us at the last minute? On a full flight? Do things really happen for a reason?
Well the plot thickened once again. Midnight came and went. 1, 2, 3, 4 came and went. No explanation in the semi deserted airport. Finally, as we were at long last able to board, we got an explanation. There'd been a brawl that broke out in the less than friendly skies that night among some good ole Irish hockey fans enroute to Vegas for a match The plane was turned back around midair to JFK so the authorities could referee that situation in a more up close and personal manner. Meaning that we didn't leave the McCarran Airport till closer to 4 am, and our poor flight crew was even groggier than we were, having supersized their shift of duty. At long last though, we took off into the starry starry night. Or what little there remained of it. Isn't life pretty much an obstacle course?
So we got to New York. Eventually. And got on the Subway from Manhattan to Coney Island that Saturday. Soon we would realize our vision of returning Rae and Ray to the deserted desolate beach that had once been Coney Island, an attraction for throngs. Those were the days, long gone now, and with Hurricane Sandy slamming through here only a couple years ago, we envisioned not much left, not even debris. A place of raw, poetic solitude. It would be cold and forlorn and we would be figures enveloped in a mist of fog, fulfilling a sacred mission. I clutched Rae’s container close to me, haunted not by a ghost, but by the thought that with my track record, I conceivably could mess up something so eternally important by inadvertently leaving her on the subway. I held on tight the entire way.
Other unbidden ghosts flooded my reality then. I remembered how per my own mother’s dying request, I’d asked to scatter her ashes on my father’s grave rather than in her own plot, thinking it a simple matter. But it enraged the cemetery manager who made all sorts of threats, having cameras installed in the trees, etc. Seriously. I’d had to do so surreptitiously. So I had some baggage, a tad of apprehension, for who knew what was legal/illegal in such matters in another state? Better not to know at this point. After all. doesn’t that axiom about it being easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission hold sway at certain pivotal times? It's possible a smattering of trepidation can be useful. What better basis for a little needed discretion?
And so an hour later we disembarked and started for the Boardwalk, or more likely, where the Boardwalk used to be. Soon we saw old shops on the main street, a couple of blocks from the beach. They were all closed for the season, and looked like they had materialized from an old Kodak photograph. And behind them, behind tall fences, the roller coasters and ferris wheels and tilt a whirls and rides from another era. Spectacular! What ambiance! Who would have expected such a bonanza? Wouldn’t our charges feel right at home now?
Then soon enough there we were, on the Boardwalk. It was still there! Incongrouously, so were the people! OK, some people, maybe not the exact same ones of yesteryear, perhaps their kids or grandkids even. Great grandkids? It wasn't wall to wall humans like in the old postcards. Still, there were dozens and dozens milling around in the aberrational December warmth. We weren't expecting extras in this personal documentary/drama. So guess they didn't get the memo, and our vision of the lonely poignant send off was obviously going to have some major revisions. We needed some time to edit that script, and so Paul, The Director, ever hungry, was more than happy when he noticed that the little diner on the corner was open. Turns out that Tom's Coney Island first opened circa 1934, making it the quintessential hangout for that era's teenagers. Maybe we were even sitting in the same booth Rae and Ray once had. Anything seemed possible. And overshadowed with meaning. Or were we just more open to it?
What needed to open up next though was a new vision- where and how exactly to inconspicuously, yet with suitable dignity, return them here, what with all the activity around. I found a bench to warm with Rae & Ray while Paul went to scout for the perfect spot. He came back feeling inclined to head down the beach toward the pier. As our feet first met the sand, there was rhythmic drumming coming from the pier, which seemed strange. Then as we turned to the ocean, ready to scatter the ashes, Paul remarked, “You know, neither of them were very good swimmers at all.” What? So how would that be in their comfort zone?
“So let's bury them in the sand then, “ I volunteered. “How?” he queried. And right that second he saw a small crater in the sand ahead, much closer to the Boardwalk than the water. Obviously someone had conveniently hollowed out this little pit for this very purpose. We went and sat down. It wasn’t very deep, maybe 8 inches deep and a couple feet wide, but it was a start. I improvised and took Rae’s ashes from the container, which were secure in a heavy plastic bag, and I used the empty container to dig deeper and deeper. The cool, damp sand was cathartic, it helped me ignore all the passersby who were hopefully ignoring us, and the cadenced drumming in the distance seemed ceremonial, appropriate. We were being clandestine in intent, but paradoxically more hidden in plain sight.
It was soothing to just keep digging and digging. But the sky was darkening, and Paul thought it was more than deep enough, and so even though it wasn’t even a full two feet deep and maybe two feet long, there was ample room for them both. So the time had come. Still, it seemed like a certain je ne sais quoi would be in order as we placed the ashes into the sand. They weren’t religious at all, so I couldn’t very well offer a prayer. I don't do short prayers anyway, and Paul is a man of few words. I couldn’t sing, and he wouldn’t, so I was stymied. I was grasping for something. Ceremony? Ritual? In a flash it came to me. “Time out! You’re Dad was a veteran, Paul, a Purple Heart Veteran, for heaven’s sake! Do you realize we can have your Dad along with your Mom interred for free in a beautiful Military Cemetery, with a 21 gun salute and all? It’s a tremendous honor, so moving. You even get to keep the flag they use as a permanent memorial." I felt like I was pleading. "We’ve not even considered this, and maybe we should. Are you sure you want to trade all that for this casual-in-the-extreme, less solemn rite? Is this maybe a huge mistake?"
Just then we saw the seagull walking deliberately towards us across the sand. No mistake. We locked eyes with him and he trumpeted a few notes. “Ray,” I said, “ you’re here.” There was no more room for doubt. I was overwhelmed, and Paul choked up. We gently started scattering the ashes into the trench. Peripheral vision revealed another seagull approaching; she hung back just a little and didn’t come as close as Ray, but her eyes were on us the whole time, and we well knew who she was. They stayed until we finished replenishing the piles of sand back on top, and then took off. It was all so very, very good. A phenomenal and very personal experience.
RIP @ Coney Island, Ray & Rae. May beachcombers and young lovers, moonlight and stars, sunsets and storms keep you company at times, and bring you full circle.
