Ashes Summary

Chris and his mother are having morning tea in a café; Chris is already exhausted from being around her, and it’s only 10:30 a.m. He reminds himself that he just has to stay on the good side of surliness—and given the occasion, his mother should forgive him if he slips up. She’s dressed up in heels, even though Chris warned her they’ll have to do some walking today. He knows, though, that the blisters she’ll get will give her something to complain about to her friends, whom Chris privately refers to as “the Book Club Women.” Chris’s mother has pictures of the Book Club Women’s grandchildren up on her fridge, and he believes that she talks about them specifically to torment him.

Whenever the conversation about his mother’s friends’ children and grandchildren fizzles out, Chris and his mother look out to the leaf-covered yard, where Chris’s father’s yard tools still sit. Ever since his father died, Chris feels as though reminders like this are everywhere, waiting for him like mousetraps or landmines. Today, he and his mother are taking his father’s car, which still smells like his father’s characteristic scent.

Earlier this morning, Chris tried to tuck the box that contains his father’s ashes in the backseat, but Chris’s mother insisted that the box go at her feet. Chris snidely thought that this made sense, but he kept his response to himself. Back in the present, Chris’s mother gets sidetracked with shopping at a store near the café. When they’d gotten to the café, his mother had been worried about leaving the box in the car in case of theft—but she didn’t want to bring it inside with them, either.

Chris’s mother can barely touch the box. When she and Chris went to pick it up from the crematorium, she made Chris fill out all the paperwork and ask for a bag. Outside, his mother had gotten upset that they had to ask for a bag at all. She didn’t cry, though—she simply unlocked her antique cabinet so Chris could put the box there with the good dishes. In that moment, Chris wished he was with Scott.

As Chris’s mother browses a craft store’s display, Chris recalls how his father used to joke that his mother could shop anywhere. He knows that his mother will want a souvenir, and sure enough, she returns with a silver picture frame.

Chris is sure that he’ll remember the turn for the lake when he sees it, even though it’s been 25 years since he’s been there. As he drives, the car’s cruise-control check beeps at him whenever he exceeds the speed limit, which startles him and makes him feel guilty. As Chris puts a CD into the player, he realizes that he would’ve last smelled his father’s scent two Christmases ago, when he gave his parents this CD. He wouldn’t have smelled it at the hospital more recently; there, everything smelled like cleaning supplies.

As Chris’s mother chats away in the passenger seat, Chris knows that he’ll need to change the subject soon. She begins talking about her choice to scatter the ashes at the lake, which she thinks will be meaningful. Chris can barely contain his anger as his mother notes how meaningful their many fishing trips to the lake were to his father. In reality, Chris and his father only went twice, and both trips were disasters. By the end of each trip, Chris felt like he’d failed a test; on the way home after the last trip, Chris’s father had even said, “I don’t know what’s bloody wrong with you.” At that point, he was aware that there was something about him his parents found embarrassing, but he didn’t realize what it was until college. When he’d told Scott about the fishing trips, Scott laughed—he insisted that Chris isn’t the only gay man with parents who didn’t understand. Scott eventually left when Chris waited too long to introduce him to his parents.

Chris thinks of the last time he saw his father in the hospital. The morphine seemed to lower his father’s inhibitions, and he’d told Chris that his mother is proud of him. But then, he insisted that Chris’s mother would die if Chris were to throw his sexuality at her. Chris realizes, though, that the truth of his sexuality killed his father, not his mother.

Ever since the funeral, Chris’s mother has been rewriting history to make the past seem happier—and less truthful. When Chris’s father was alive, his mother always spoke poorly of him; these days, she talks about how kind he was. Presently, she laments that Chris never took photos on the father-son fishing trips. Chris fumes. He thinks that in reality, he and his mother are going on a pathetic excursion to someplace with invented symbolism. As Chris takes the turnoff for the lake, he thinks about his mother’s dinner invitations, which have been increasing in frequency. She always asks him to stay the night, and Chris knows that if he keeps refusing, she’ll start noting that Chris doesn’t have a wife and kids to return home to.

Chris and his mother arrive at the campsite and begin walking out to the lake. Chris remembers being here with his father. He feels sick at the possibility of having to say another farewell—the eulogy was bad enough. But fortunately, Chris’s mother insists they should scatter the ashes without saying anything. She frets that she should’ve kept some ashes for herself, so Chris suggests that they put some in the camera bag and jokes about what his father would say to that. His mother says that at least it’s not a matchbox, given how much Chris’s father hated her smoking until she gave it up.

Out on the jetty, Chris pulls out the box. He remembers sitting out on a boat with his father: his father had smiled hopefully as he noted their slim chances of catching anything. Chris stands, takes a picture of his mother, and asks her to pick up the box. She hesitates, and Chris suddenly wishes that he’d complimented her outfit this morning. Her expression makes Chris choke up. Finally, Chris opens the box to reveal the ashes. His mother panics and says, “You.” Chris knows he has to scatter the ashes, no matter his thoughts or desires.

Chris picks up ashes and scatters them in the water. As he does so, he remembers washing saucepans with his father and putting out their campfire with lake water. The smell of wet ash was the same then as it is now. Chris remembers his father looking around and asking him to agree that the lake is beautiful. Chris had merely shrugged—and now, he can’t understand why. Now, his mother whispers, “Goodbye, Alan” over and over as Chris dumps handfuls of ash into the water.

When the box is empty, they stand on the jetty. Chris’s mother cries, and Chris wonders why he didn’t answer his father years ago. Back at the car, his mother asks if they could return to the gift shop so she can purchase frames for the Book Club Women. Chris agrees that they can make it in time before the shop closes, and that it’d be a nice gesture. He gently brushes some ash off his mother’s lapel.