Tiger Rag by Nicholas Christopher Read Free Book Online Page B

bone, not ashes, as Ruby informed her.
    “At two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, the flesh is vaporized,” her mother explained in her clinician’s voice. “Afterward the bone fragments are removed from the furnace and pulverized in a remains processor—yes, that’s what they call it. They sift out the jewelry and dental fillings, the knee and hip replacements that have survived the flames, so the processor won’t be damaged.”
    Beneath Ruby’s flat tone, her anger was palpable. Devon knew that Ruby was happy to talk about the years she lived with her grandmother—buckling down to her studies, working in her grandmother’s dry cleaning business, preparing for college and medical school—but kept to a bare minimum the details of her childhood with her mother. That was off-limits.
    Once outside the funeral home, Ruby walked to her Mercedesthrough the bright sunlight and placed the urn on the rear seat. She drove to North Beach on the expressway.
    “I don’t want to talk right now,” she said calmly, before Devon could say a word.
    After finding a space in the parking lot, Ruby headed directly for the beach, the urn tucked under her arm. Realizing with horror what she had in mind, Devon hurried after her.
    “Mom, you can’t do that here.”
    “Why not?”
    “You can’t. There are people swimming.”
    “There’s room for one more in the water.”
    Sunbathers crowded the sand. In her long dress and stiletto heels, Ruby threaded them with surprising agility, leading Devon to the water’s edge.
    “Mom!”
    Ruby kicked off her shoes and waded into the surf. Devon didn’t follow her. She didn’t want to raise any more fuss. It was too late, though. Children were laughing at the sight of a fully clothed woman in the water. Swimmers looked on in bewilderment, and a few who realized what she was carrying shouted angrily. An old man beckoned the lifeguard perched on an elevated chair down the beach. In knee-deep water, her white dress billowing, Ruby unscrewed the top of the urn and poured out her mother’s ashes. Then she returned to shore, picked up her shoes, and made for the parking lot, sand sticking to the hem of her dress. “You’re sick!” the old man called after her as the lifeguard trotted down the beach, but by then Ruby had dropped the urn into a trash can and started her car.
    “Shhh,” she said when Devon opened her mouth to speak. “You can say everything you need to say later.”
    By the time they got home, Devon was too stressed out to talk. She stretched out on the living room sofa and fell asleep. Ruby threw a blanket over her.
    At two A.M . she was awakened by loud music. She walked down the hall to the study and found Ruby at her desk, writing on a legal pad with a fountain pen. Beside her was a half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a bowl of purple jelly beans. The home page of her computer was a photograph of a lightning storm at sea. Ruby looked up and said, “You know, Devon, I’m giving a speech in New York on the twenty-third.”
    “What?”
    “To a group of anesthesiologists. My brothers and sisters. In September they invited me to give a speech. I have my topic, but I haven’t had a chance to write it.”
    “And you’re going to go through with it?”
    “Why wouldn’t I? I always meet my obligations.”
    “What’s the topic?”
    “POCD. Postoperative cognitive disorder. How anesthesia may cause memory loss. I believe it does, but many of my colleagues disagree. I’ll tell you all about it, if you’re interested.”
    “Sure.”
    “Will you come with me to New York? I’m going to drive. I haven’t made that drive in years. It will give me time to think.”
    Devon felt queasy. “Can we discuss it in the morning?”
    “It is morning.”
    “I mean, like when the sun comes up.”
    Ruby put down the pen and sipped champagne. “I know you have things to do, but it might be good for you to get away. It would mean a lot to me.”
    “All right. But let’s talk it