The Crate

A slight bit of whimsy could be seen in the old lady's eyes as Harold’s body tumbled over the side of the bridge, making an insignificant little splash in the river below.

 She folded his wheelchair back into the trunk, and as she drove home she thought of watching Barney Miller when it came on.
  

 Just about two weeks to the day, a person calling himself Stewart Beaker stood at her front door asking if he could come in. 

"I've just a few questions.  It's about the order your husband placed.  There are some delivery preparations that should be made.  We sent him a letter." 

"What order?" the old woman asked, stroking a scraggly old cat that she held under one arm.

"Is your husband at home?"

 "Whatever he ordered, cancel it."

 "He's already paid for it in full.  It can't be cancelled now.  You're scheduled for a Saturday delivery.  It will be here in two days.  I hope you've made preparations.  It was all spelled out in the letter"

 "I don't know anything about any order.  Now just go."  And with that she closed the door.

 That Friday night the old woman dozed off after finishing her dinner.  The cats were perched about the living room and the television flickered and droned on without direction.

 Startled awake by the ringing phone she grabbed at it.  "Hello?"

 "Sam Fishman here, just calling to remind you about tomorrow's delivery.  Someone must be there to sign.  Everything must be ready, you know, according to the instructions."

 "I don’t know about any delivery?  Leave me alone." 

 She pulled the phone plug from the receiver and left it lying on the table next to her chair.   Boots jumped to the arm of the chair and then stepped onto the old woman's lap.  As she stroked the top of his head, he curled up and purred loudly.

   "What did that old fool order?"  But Boots only blinked under the heavy stroke of the woman’s hand.

  

                    Boots jumped onto the bed and began to nudge the old lady's arm.  Groggy and annoyed she rolled over and mumbled it was too early. Boots hopped up onto the nightstand and batted at the window curtains, causing shards of sunlight to strike her pillow.

          The old lady was just about to yell at the determined cat when she heard voices coming from the side yard.

  "Who is that Boots?  Who's in the yard?"  She sat up and slid her feet into her slippers.  Then she heard a very loud mechanical sound.  Pulling her robe around her she went over to the window and drew the curtain back.  Boots leaned over and peeked around the edge of the curtain as well.

          An 18-wheeler had backed up into the side yard and a large crane was hoisting a huge crate off of the truck bed and was placing it onto the ground.  Her first inclination was to wrap on the window and yell at them to get out of her yard, but before she could, the front doorbell rang.

          She snatched Boots up under her arm and headed for the front door.  He began to meow, but not so much to ward off intruders, as it was to express to the old lady that just moments ago he had filled up on salmon flavored crunches.

     The old lady's steps were deliberate and forceful, jostling poor Boots as she walked.

          With her free hand she unlocked the door and flung it open, ready to chastise whoever it was that had the audacity to violate her Saturday morning, and trespass onto her property. 

          Sam Fishman stood sharply, clipboard in hand, ready to greet Harold, the man with whom he had secured the sale.

  As the door opened he could see an elderly woman with a course scowl, holding a cross-eyed (though not Siamese) cat under her arm.

          "What do you want?"  She growled between clenched teeth.

          "We'll need a signature." He replied, holding out the clipboard.

          It was, of course, at that exact moment that Boots ejected a brown stream of mostly digested salmon flavored crunches onto the signature page.

          "There you go." the old woman said, and flung the door closed.

 

 They had been childhood sweethearts and were married the moment he returned from the war.  You never saw one without the other and you could always see the love they had for each other in their faces.

          As they grew old together they formulated a pact.  He would always say, "Should anything happen to me, just take me out to the bridge and toss me over and remember, not a word to Social Security."  Then he would laugh and laugh.
 

          It had always been her desire, in the event she went first, that she have an Indian-Polish cremation.  This is a little known tradition whereupon your body rests on an elevated wooden platform.  Underneath – a gross of accordions are set ablaze.   

          Now that Harold was gone, the old woman sat alone with her cats.  There were never any visitors and Harold's Social Security and retirement checks kept coming in just like clockwork.  The only change to her surroundings was the large crate now sitting out in the side yard.

          The crate had been out there for several months, and only once did the old lady wander out there for a closer look.

  From the side of the crate she had peeled back a plastic envelope and removed the enclosed document.

At the top of the document, in German, it read,

 Beiliegend, 144 Begräbnis- Akkordien

          She smiled, thinking that Harold must have known that his time was drawing near and to help in her preparations, whenever it became her time to go, he had ordered her 144 funeral accordions.

  

The story is true.  It took place several years ago in Ashtray, Wisconsin.

When Harold had placed the accordion order with Sam Fishman, he had explained the pact that he had with his wife.  Several years later, Sam was one of the few attendees at the old woman’s funeral.  

He describes the ceremony as one of the most moving events he has ever witnessed, although he claims that even to this day, the smell of melting accordions brings a tear to his eye and makes him a little nauseous.

Sam is retired now and lives just outside of Elbow, a suburb of Ontario.