After My Husband Passed Away, I Sent His Mom $200 Every Month

A good while passed until I heard the shuffling of slippers. The door opened a crack.

This time it was Elijah, blocking the entrance.

“At this hour, daughter? Why didn’t you call?”

“I got off work, passed by Macy’s, and saw this machine that works great for your arthritis.”

Elijah stepped in my path.

“No, no, leave it there. The house is very messy.”

“I’m not a stranger, Pop. Besides, I wanted to come in to light a candle for Marcus.”

My father-in-law’s face fell apart.

“What nonsense are you saying? Go on, go home.”

Just at that moment from the back bedroom a cough was heard, a dry short cough of a man. My father-in-law jumped.

“Your mother is with the cough again. Go now, go on!”

He snatched the box from my hands and slammed the door shut. I was left alone in the hallway.

That cough wasn’t Viola’s. Marcus’s presence in that house was confirmed.

The next morning I received a call from Dante.

“Kesha, I found something interesting.”

I went to see him; he showed me an Excel file on his laptop.

“I checked the transaction history. The pension checks arrive punctually every month but they haven’t withdrawn a single dollar in years. They have tens of thousands of dollars accumulated.”

“They don’t withdraw money?”

I asked, astonished.

“Nothing, only deposits.”

“Then what do they live on? The pizza, the beer, the things Mrs. Jenkins says she sees? All that costs money cash,”

I said out loud.

“Apart from my money, someone else has to be giving them cash.”

“Exactly. And that person can only be Marcus. He doesn’t make transfers so as not to leave a digital trail; he brings them the money in hand when he goes sneaking in at night.”

“So they aren’t needy. They have a fortune that their son gives them and even so they’ve been squeezing you to the last cent.”

I clenched my fists. This truth was even crueler than if they were poor.

They were rich thanks to their son’s dirty money but their greed led them to steal the sweat of my brow. I suspect Marcus is involved in something illegal.

The money he makes isn’t small.

“Can you find out what he’s doing?”

“That’s harder but I’ll try to follow the trail through his old contacts.”

“Thanks, Dante.”

Marcus was hiding somewhere involved in shady business and using his parents and a fake debt to exploit his own family out of pure greed.

Leaving Dante I passed by a print shop. I was still missing one piece: Marcus’s death.

I remembered the day we received the urn. The representative, a guy named Mr. Tate, said Marcus had had an accident and they had to cremate him urgently.

The family couldn’t go to North Dakota to identify the body. My in-laws agreed, saying it was better for their son to rest in peace.

I decided to call Mr. Tate.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Tate. This is Kesha, Marcus’s wife.”

“Ah, hello Kesha. How can I help you?”

“I’m processing the widow’s pension and the insurance company is asking me for the original forensic report and the death certificate from the state. Could you help me get them?”

“Oof, that’s very difficult. 5 years have passed; those papers don’t exist anymore. Besides, at the time everything was done via humanitarian channels. The documentation was very basic,”

Mr. Tate stuttered.

“Please try. I’ll compensate you for the trouble.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Mr. Tate hung up hurriedly. His attitude confirmed my suspicions: he had surely collaborated in the falsification of the documents.

I looked south toward the rural town in Indiana where Marcus’s family was from. The urn with his ashes was in the family plot.

I had to open that urn. I called my mother-in-law.

“Mom, this weekend I want to take Malik to the country to put flowers on his father. I’ve already paid the whole debt and I want to go give thanks.”

“It’s a very long trip. What are you going for?”

said Viola curtly.

“I can’t help it, Mom. Last night I dreamed of Marcus and he asked me to. I’m very worried.”

Old folks tend to be superstitious.

“All right, go if you want, but go and come back quick.”

“Yes, I know.”

I hung up. The trip to Indiana would be the key.

In that cold ceramic urn the whole truth would be revealed.

“Marcus, you hide from your debts; you make your wife pay them for you. But you won’t be able to escape justice.”

That weekend under an intense yellow Midwestern sun I took Malik in my old car down a highway that wound between cornfields. We left at dawn to reach the town before noon.

Malik was excited; he wouldn’t stop talking, asking about the tractors, about the grandparents he never knew. My son’s innocent laughter was like knife stabs in my heart.

The purer he was, the heavier the guilt of the adults. I didn’t dare tell him the true purpose of our trip.

For him it was a visit to his father’s town; for me it was the trip to find the evidence that would unmask his cruel father. When we arrived in town several relatives received us warmly.

My uncle-in-law, the one who took care of the cemetery, came out to help us with the bags.

“What a joy, Kesha! It’s been so long. Malik is growing into a little man. He’s just like his father.”

That innocent comment hurt me. Just like the man who was hiding, the one who in 5 years hadn’t sent him even a piece of candy.

I smiled and greeted everyone trying to seem calm. I put some flowers at the church altar and lit a candle.

The smoke stung my eyes.

“With your permission, I’m going to take Malik to the cemetery to put some flowers on his father and tell him I’ve fulfilled my obligation.”

I said it out loud so everyone would hear. My uncle nodded.

“You do well, daughter. Marcus will rest easier. Stay for lunch and go in the afternoon; it’s too hot now.”

“No, thanks uncle. I prefer to go now. In the afternoon we have to go back to Chicago so the boy can go to school tomorrow.”

I rejected his offer. I had to execute my plan at noon when everyone was eating.

I took Malik by the hand and we went to the cemetery located at the end of town. The sun beat down but I didn’t feel the heat.

In my purse besides the flowers I carried a small hammer, a screwdriver, and a micro camera with a charged battery. The town cemetery was silent under the shade of the trees.

The graves were clean and orderly. Marcus’s niche was in the columbarium wall, third row, with a shiny black granite plaque and a photo of him smiling.

I placed the flowers; Malik helped me put them.

“Dad, it’s Malik. I came to see you. Help me get good grades.”

The boy joined his hands and his childish voice resonated in the silence. I looked at him and my eyes filled with tears.

“Malik, baby, why don’t you go play a while over there while I talk a moment with daddy?”

“Okay, mama.”

Malik ran obediently toward a patch of grass to look for grasshoppers. I was left alone in front of the niche.

I looked around: not a soul. At that hour the whole town was home.

I breathed deep to calm myself. With trembling hands I turned on the micro camera I had hidden in the lapel of my jacket.

I had to record the whole process as proof. I approached the niche.

The urn was behind a small glass door locked with a key. My uncle had given me a copy the day of the burial in case I wanted to clean it sometime.

He never imagined that key would open the door to such a raw truth. I put the key in the lock.

The click sounded dry and metallic. The little glass door opened.

The earth-brown ceramic urn appeared before me; engraved on it was the name Marcus Gaines and the dates. I picked it up with my hands.

It was cold, not the cold of death but the cold of a lie. I put it on the ground and took out the hammer and screwdriver.

The lid was sealed with silicone; I had to pry carefully not to break it. Sweat ran down my forehead; my heart beat with the force of a drum.

If someone appeared at that moment they would take me for a crazy grave robber. Crack.

A piece of silicone popped off. I held my breath and kept prying.

After a few minutes of effort the lid gave way with a last push. It popped off.

I held my breath and looked inside. Empty.

Not completely: at the bottom there was a layer of dust and several construction stones the size of a child’s fist. No ashes, no bone fragments, nothing that resembled the remains of a cremated human body.

My legs failed me; I let myself fall to the ground staring at those inert stones. Even though I expected it, seeing the truth with my own eyes was a shock.

For 5 years the whole family had been venerating a handful of rubble. For 5 years my son and I had prayed to some rocks.

It was a macabre joke of infinite cruelty. I grabbed the camera and recorded the interior of the urn focusing on every stone, every speck of dust.

While I recorded I spoke with a choked but firm voice.