Page 115 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

days, my mother and my brother and I had separately pleaded with different members of the family to allow my father’s ashes to be spread over the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Before we left the chapel, I caught up with my grandfather to make one final plea. “Grandpa,” I said, “we can’t bury Dad’s ashes.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
He started to walk away, but I grabbed his sleeve, knowing it would be my last chance. “Wasn’t it his?” I asked. “He wanted to be cremated because he didn’t want to be buried. Please, let us take his ashes out to Montauk.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized that I’d made a critical mistake. My grandfather realized it, too. He associated Montauk with my father’s frivolous hobbies, such as boating and fishing, activities that had distracted him from the serious business of real estate.
“Montauk,” he repeated, almost smiling. “That’s not going to happen. Get in the car.”
Sunlight glinted off the marble and granite grave markers as our grandfather, his light blue eyes squinting beneath his enormous eyebrows at the brightness of the day, explained that the tombstone, which was already inscribed with his mother’s and father’s names, would be removed temporarily so my father’s name and dates could be added. As he spoke, he spread his hands wide, like a used-car salesman, bouncing on the balls of his feet, almost jaunty, knowing he was in the presence of a rube.
My grandfather followed the letter of the law and then did what he wanted. After my father was cremated, they put his ashes into a metal box and buried them in the ground.
Dad’s death certificate, dated September 29, 1981, states that he died of natural causes. I don’t know how that is possible at forty-two. There was no will. If he had anything to leave—books, photographs, his old 78s, his ROTC and National Guard medals—I don’t know. My brother got Dad’s Timex. I didn’t get anything.
The House seemed to grow colder as I got older. The first Thanksgiving after Dad died, the House felt colder still.
After dinner, Rob walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. He pointed to my new cousin, Ivanka, asleep in her crib. “See, that’s how it