Sphinx

Kristina parked the hire car opposite the single-storey cube of a building, cringing in its utilitarian modernity as though embarrassed by its own starkness. A sign above the floor-to-ceiling door read Sphinx Funeral Chapel and Crematorium, with a stylised rendering of a sphinx beneath. The business name was odd, but she brushed it aside. She was there for one thing and wanted it over.

She had been nowhere near her father in years. A cousin identified the body and left this final responsibility to her. Her younger brother, John, refused point-blank to come. Who could blame him?

There was no greater distance than death, yet Kristina trembled at the thought of his proximity. Henry Maher still frightened her. Get a grip, Kristina!

The sphinx is again skilfully inlaid into the door at eye level. Kristina clasped the brass handle and prepared to push, but released it as the door pulled away from her.

‘Please, come in.’ A short, stocky man in a dark grey suit and tie stood aside. He attempted a smile, but his thin moustache evoked two squirming caterpillars.

A young woman dressed similarly stood to one side. A girl, really, her arms by her sides, trying to smile sadly and failing. Kristina’s experience told her that grief couldn’t be easily counterfeited, unlike love.

The front office was self-consciously contrived: a series of melancholy landscapes on the walls, one on the floor awaiting hanging; an uncomfortable-looking leather couch with matching tub chairs, all in dark grey, and matching the suits of the man and his assistant, who each had a brass tiepin with the company logo. Why a sphinx? No religious iconography, secular to a fault, though doubtless, a variety of deities would be available when required. The only relief was the splash of colour from a thick Persian rug in front of the couch. The rosewood floorboards were so shiny Kristina could see up her own skirt. Her hand absently smoothed its surface. She noted the sickly smell of newly applied varnish.

‘Mr. Burns, I’m guessing,’ she said.

His acknowledgement was somewhere between a nod and a bow. Obsequious, cramped. What a stuffed shirt. God! Is that a toupee?

‘Is he here? I trust you’ve made sure he’s completely dead.’ Kristina smiled and winked at the girl, who looked like she might cry, a face of partially constructed emotions ready to subside any minute.

‘Your father is being prepared, Miss Maher,’ was Burns’ unctuous reply.

‘Ms. I’m not a girl. Haven’t been for a while.’ Kristina glanced at the girl, who merely blinked in return.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Burns.

‘Don’t be. I didn’t much enjoy being a girl. Far from it.’

He flinched; the sphinx bobbed at his chest. ‘No, I mean—’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Right. Sorry. Well, we’re still in the process of getting things ship-shape. We still need to test and check some apparatus, the tools of our trade, that sort of thing.’

‘O-kay,’ What had that to do with anything? Kristina’s attention returned to the tiepin.

He reflexively touches his tie. ‘Is there something you—’

‘Your…. The logo. What does it…? Oh, it doesn’t matter; let’s get this show on the road.’ Kristina gestured to the desk.

‘I decided on the Sphinx logo because it is the guardian of tombs.’

‘Right. Well, at least I’ve had no riddle to solve. Or do I?’

‘Ha! It had occurred to me, but I thought better of it,’ His smile slid off his face like a calving glacier.

‘You could say the manner of Henry’s death had an element of the tomb about it,’ Kristina said. ‘They recovered the body from beneath tons of rock.’

‘I’m sorry. Mines can be dangerous work environments. I believe your father was an engineer,’ Burns said.

‘Apart from his alternative occupation of drinking, yes. Is saying sorry an occupational thing?’

‘Oh. No, it’s—’

‘If so, don’t be for my sake.’ Kristina again looked around the room, noting the door at the back. ‘I’m reluctant to use religious terminology, but my father was straight-out evil, a pox on us when I was growing up. Are those the forms?’ Kristina pointed to several papers on the desk. Little yellow tags with arrows on them indicated where to sign.

‘Yes, of course,’ Burns answered. He twitched, reddening at the same time, making him look overheated even though it was as chilly inside as out. His 5 o’clock shadow bristled in the sombre lighting. The caterpillars squirmed.

‘It’s cold in here. Is that normal for a funeral home? I can see how it could be.’

‘No, not normal. The central heating isn’t quite right,’ said Burns.

‘I see. The apparatus you mentioned suggested other things that are not ready?’

‘It’s all brand new,’ exclaimed the young woman, awkwardly sweeping an arm around to take in the surroundings. Her arm was stiff, the limb appearing unaccustomed to use. Had she suffered an injury?

Burns glared at the girl, who cast her eyes to the floor and returned his attention to Kristina. ‘We’re working on it.’

‘Why?’ Kristina asked.

‘Pardon?’ Burns cast another acidic glance at his colleague.

‘What happened to the previous premises?’

‘Oh, the crematoria stopped working, and the embalming studio needed upgrading.’

‘Don’t know why I asked. Still, studio sounds like an odd word for it. Anyway, business is booming. With guaranteed customers, it will probably continue to be so…death, taxes, and all that.’ Kristina again glanced at the doorway on the opposite wall. ‘Well, my father is newly dead, and I assume being prepared for the oven somewhere in your new establishment.’

‘It’s not an oven.’ Burns' Adam’s apple appeared above his collar, tie clip pulling at his shirtfront. The little sphinx jumped. ‘But yes, it’s happening…at the rear of the building.’

‘Right,’ Kristina replied.

‘Your father is… I mean, he’ll be ready for viewing shortly. I believe you’ll find the preparation to be of a high standard, and the clothes your relative sent us are fine.

‘That was unnecessary. I don’t wish to view the corpse.’

‘I hope the casket meets your expectations.’

‘I have none. The thing will be obliterated along with the body. It’s beyond me why craftsmanship is applied to something about to be incinerated?’

‘It’s customary to send our loved ones off in style. It’s not usual to have a client—’

‘My father demonstrated no interest in style. Screw the casket down tight. Trust me; you don’t want Henry getting out.’ Kristina permitted a tight smile, again directed at the girl still making hard work of sombre decorum.

‘As you wish, Ms Maher.’ He gestured irritably to the girl, who produced a pen. ‘I never met your father.’

Kristina scribbled her signature as required.

She handed the pen back to the girl, noting her bitten fingernails. ‘You dodged a bullet.’

‘Pardon?’ Concerned, the girl looked at the forms.

‘Lucky for you, you didn’t have the displeasure of his company.’ Kristina watched the girl stiffen. Brittle enough to be snapped in half and packed away for the evening.

Something about these two wasn’t right.

‘We’ll take care of everything,’ Burns said. ‘Will there be many attending the ceremony?’

‘Nobody will be here but you and your staff. Kristina again glanced at the girl, who quickly adjusted her expression to represent thoughtful optimism. ‘He was universally despised. If by some miracle, my brother came, it would be to dance on his grave.’

‘I see,’ Burns said sourly. His face reddened again in a sterling effort of restraint.

‘Dance on his ashes, in this case,’ Kristina amended, staring at Burns until he diverted his eyes to the glossy floorboards. Again, she ran her hand down the fabric of her skirt. He didn’t seem to be having a perv, but one never knows with his type. One thing for sure, this fellow was wound very tight indeed.

‘I paid online, Mr Burns. I’m here to sign the papers, that’s all. There’ll be no ceremony, so feel free to incinerate at your leisure. No, do it straight away. He won’t be missed by a single soul.’

‘Certainly, Ms Maher. It will be done as soon as the crematoria is ready.’

‘Ready?’

‘Most probably tomorrow afternoon. It has to be fired up and tested for the first time.’

‘Right, your apparatus, the oven,’ she said, glancing defiantly at Burns.

‘It’s not an—’

‘Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m off.’ Kristina took a step back.

‘Linda will show you out,’ Burns said with a scowl. His tiepin flashed at her. She’d been dismissed.

Linda followed her out to the driveway and onto the footpath. Did the girl intend to get in the car, wait for me to turn on the ignition and drive off into the sunset?

‘You don’t have to….’

The girl’s demeanour had softened, yet an intensity remained, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.

‘Before you leave, I just…. I wanted to ask you something.’ Linda furtively glanced at the door before meeting Kristina’s eyes.

‘It’s none of my business, but if there’s something wrong, you should…. I’m trained to notice certain things, Linda.’ Kristina waited for a response, but none came. ‘I’m not happy about what I’ve seen. That man, is he doing—’

‘My father…. He’s my father.’

‘Oh.’ Kristina felt the stab of fear in the girl’s announcement.

‘You hated your father that much?’ Linda asked.

‘Henry Maher was a horrible person. He did terrible things to my family—to me.’ The girl flinched. ‘Linda, you don’t have to put up with it, you know. You can—’

‘I have to go in.’ She backed away.

‘Of course. Wait.’ Kristina reached into her jacket pocket and handed over her business card.

Linda looked at the card. ‘You’re a counsellor?’

‘I’ve had experience with women in difficult situations. Personally and professionally. You can—’

‘Thanks,’ She took a breath. ‘And you don’t care what happens to your father, his ashes?’ Her voice creaked into a whisper.

‘Not for one second. I’m relieved. Dump the ashes in the rubbish bin for all I care. If, for some legal reason, you need to supply me with them, I’m sure I’ll find an appropriate method of disposal.’ Kristina waited as the girl winced and then shyly looked up at her. ‘Linda, you should get away from that…. If your father is—’

‘It’s okay. I’ve got it.’ She whispered and continued backing away. She faltered on a loose paving stone, righting herself before disappearing through the ridiculously oversized door. Kristina knew what this girl was experiencing. She’d be in a constant process of double-thinking herself, internalising her abuse.

For correspondence, Kristina preferred a post office box to a street address. Her job wasn’t without risk. She thought of it as erring on the side of caution. She’d made alternative living arrangements for women in danger, even provided evidence in court.

Two weeks later, her daily visit to her post office produced a notice. An item awaited collection. She went inside and retrieved a package with the dimensions of a six-pack of wine bottles. Had she inadvertently signed up for an introductory selection? If so, fortune had rewarded the thirsty. She’d polished off her last bottle of Pinot Gris the night before. The package certainly had the heft for it.

At home, she found a plain posting box after stripping off the outer packaging. Coddled in bubble wrap was a black enamelled urn, the silvery etched image of the sphinx on its lid. When removing the object, a folded sheet of parchment paper dislodged itself from the bottom. Her father was a big man, but the weight of the cremation urn still surprised her. Perhaps six, seven kilos. She picked up the sheet of paper.

Condolences for your sad loss. We are pleased to provide this urn with the ashes of your loved one.

Beneath this, the familiar Sphinx logo again, and the legend, Guardian of Tombs.

And then the neat handwritten part. The i’s topped with quaint little circles.

Ms Maher. We fired up the crematorium, but my father had a terrible accident and is no longer with us. As he often did, he made a mistake in thinking that everything was his to control, even the testing of the furnace.

You didn’t want to have anything more to do with your father, but you said you’d find a way to get rid of his ashes. And you were kind enough to say those words to me, right when I needed them most. I’m sending you this urn because you need closure, as do I.

Linda Burns.

Kristina and her brother decided that this particular mining engineer’s final resting place would be the bottom of a venting shaft, a kilometre below the earth’s surface, and they knew just the one. Near a cold and miserable little town in the western highlands lay a wretched, abandoned coal mine. He had brought them there once, and their squabbling had led to a vicious threat that they’d find themselves at the bottom of the shaft if they didn’t stop. That evening didn’t end in violence for them after the drinking. Their mother took the punishment instead.

John brought a bolt cutter to gain entry. Shivering, they found their way to the site, with Kristina carrying the urn in a backpack.

‘Damn!’ John said.

‘Bloody Hell!’ said Kristina.

A steel plate was fixed to the top of the concrete venting shaft. It must have been there for years, completely covered in rust and slumped in the middle.

John removed the urn from the backpack. ‘I guess we’ll just dump it around here, then. Wow, I didn’t think ashes would be this heavy. I’ve heard stories about dodgy crematoriums. You know, they—’

‘Here, give me that.’ Kristina grabbed the bolt cutter in both hands and bashed at the middle of the corroded plate until a ragged fissure opened wide enough to dump the ashes.

‘Jesus! Go, Krissy!’

Together they solemnly began pouring the urn’s contents through the gap, but stopped when they heard the ping of metal on metal. John reached down to retrieve an object caught in the rusty edges.

‘What’s this?’ John asked. ‘It’s pretty badly…ouch. There’s some sort of spike. Can’t see…wait…looks like an embossed shape. What is that?’

‘Let me see. Ahh. A sphinx.’ Kristina smiled at the tiepin before tossing it through the gap. ‘I thought they might both be in there. Well, it can guard the tomb of those rotten bastards forever.’