The Cremated Wheelchair

The Cremated Wheelchair
Dave Wright

The battered wheelchair rolled to a stop, its long-time occupant having recently made his final transfer to a waiting gurney. The remnants of a simple meal clung to its cracked vinyl arm like crumbling stucco. Its slumped seat, still warm from an old man’s body diminished by age and immobility, stared vacantly at the cluttered room.

The living room, like the rest of the house was littered with stacks of yellowing newspapers. A tattered LIFE magazine—the last issue printed in May of 2000—lay on top of an end table buried beneath a mountain of assorted periodicals. “A Life Ends” headlined the magazine—one that completed a story that originated in its first issue in 1936 entitled “Life Begins.”  A Bible, scuffed and worn, rested beside it.

Furrows worn into a grubby shag carpet wandered like a maze from living room to bathroom to bed to kitchen. Chipped Styrofoam plates splattered with half-eaten meals shrouded the counter. Generations of mice appeared from beneath the foundation like mourners gathering at a funeral. Broken furniture, dusty boxes and lamps dressed in tattered shades worn at lopsided angles cluttered the remaining rooms of the three-bedroom rambler. The house smelled like old age—a combination of stale coffee, Old Spice and urine.

Life for the old man had not always been like this. He had survived the rice paddies of Viet Nam in his twenties, recovered from a near-death motorcycle crash in his thirties, only to fall victim to a tumbling pallet of toilet tissue in his forties. The “toilet tissue topple,” as he referred to the mishap, left him paralyzed from the waist down. Prior to the accident he had a steady job at a warehouse loading semis. After the accident he had a steady relationship with a wheelchair.

Together, they fell into a monotonous routine as they aged: roll to the kitchen to perk a pot of coffee; roll to the door to retrieve the newspaper; then roll to the living room to study it. The old man would mutter disgustedly about a headline, chuckle at the funnies and let out an occasional, “Thank god,” when he discovered an agreeable opinion article; then he dropped it in a pile. After a week, a second pile grew next to the first like an unbalanced stalagmite. A month later the old man thought, “What the hell…why bother with a trip to the trash? I might fall out of my chair. I might throw out something valuable. I might have to save my strength for something important—like answering the phone.” But that rarely happened.

The old man had a sister who lived six hours away, but her son, his nephew lived nearby on the other side of town. The nephew made an occasional visit shortly after the accident to express half-hearted condolences for his predicament, but mainly to complain about how hard he worked and how much taxes he paid. “Damn government. All I do is work four months of every year to donate to the salary of some overpaid teacher. What do I get out of it? Nothin’!”

Rather than argue with him or point out how a couple of monthly government checks—one from the Veterans Administration and another from Social Security—allowed the old man to live independently, he and his wheelchair sat quietly to listen to his nephew’s rant. When he grew bored with the one-sided conversation, the old man rolled into the kitchen to offer a tepid cup of coffee. After a couple of sips, the nephew found an excuse to be on his way. He returned only when his mother insisted that he stop by to wish her brother a not-so-merry Christmas.

The old man found better company among the mice. They frequented his disheveled kitchen with more regularity than his relatives—and were more entertaining. At first a single field mouse poked its head from beneath a pile of newspapers. It appeared to be sporting a tawny blazer, white spats and a matching cravat while it twitched and sniffed. The old man reached down to offer his formally dressed guest a leftover piece of dried chocolate cake. He held it gently between his wrinkled index finger and thumb. The mouse looked over its shoulder as if it was committing the Crown Jewel heist and cautiously approached the wheelchair. The old man felt the mouse’s wet nose and whiskers tickle his finger before it snatched the dessert and scurried back to the safety of its newsprint home. Moments later the rest of the family arrived to partake in the feast. A couple of youngsters, sensing no immediate danger raced one another to devour the remainder of the cake. Less courageous siblings finished up the crumbs. An afternoon banquet soon became regular entertainment for the old man and his wheelchair.

A few days after the paramedics carted away the old man’s body his nephew was informed that he had been appointed trustee. “What have I done to deserve this honor,” he complained? A local lawyer explained that the old man had called him a couple years earlier to designate his nephew as trustee and to draft a simple will. It directed all proceeds of the estate, including a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy go to the local school district. Neither the nephew nor his mother was mentioned in the will.

The disgruntled nephew decided he had better go to the house to inspect his new responsibility. He shuffled up the ramp to the front door. A dust-covered leaf blower leaned against the wall. He eased the door open and stepped on to the ratty carpet. A legal pad balanced in the crook of his arm, was poised to catalogue anything of value. He ignored the wheelchair that sat forlorn in the corner of the living room but followed its well-worn path as he wandered from room to room. The house’s pungent odor prompted a hurried visit. On the way out he noticed the Bible and slipped it under his arm thinking, “Maybe it’s a family heirloom. Mother may want it.” He departed without having wasted a drop of ink on the legal pad.

Two months later firetrucks arrived, spilling the city’s volunteer force onto the house’s lawn and surrounding neighborhood. The nephew had negotiated with the city to use the old man’s home for a training exercise. The chief walked past the wheelchair into the farthest bedroom to set the first of several fires. Ruddy firemen rushed into the old home donned in bulky boots and oxygen masks. They lugged cumbersome hoses through the living room, kitchen and hallways, extinguishing one blaze after another.

The living room was the last to be ignited. The wheelchair watched as the flames licked at its wheels and footpads. As the heat intensified, it realized that the exercise would soon be over, and it would be cremated along with its old companion.

The next weekend the nephew visited his mother for Thanksgiving. They nibbled at their turkey and commiserated about how the selfish old man left them nothing but the bother of managing a worthless estate. After finishing a slice of pumpkin pie, they retired to the sitting room to ignore the football game and continue their discussion. The nephew handed his mother the Bible. “I thought you might want this. It’s the only thing in that nasty old house that might have had any value.” His mother opened the Bible to a passage marked with a post-it note. She squinted to read the wobbly message that had been scrawled in pencil: “Remember to deposit cash from the pouch under my chair.” Next to it was a deposit slip written out for $50,000.

The day of the fire the old man, now refreshed and youthful, observed a line of new arrivals parading toward his new dwelling—one lacking handicap access. He was surprised to see his wheelchair as part of the procession. He ran to greet his long-time companion. “Sorry old friend, no need for wheelchairs in heaven,” he chided pointing to his running shoes. “All wheelchairs are designated as taxis to purgatory.” He then leaned over and whispered to the wheelchair, “My nephew made a reservation this morning!”

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