The Urn Carrier by Chris Convissor Page A

tear the skin apart, fighting to get his windpipe open, he was still
not breathing, but he was on his knees and pulling and pulling until first a
half breath, then another, his head on the ground as he kept pleading inside
for his throat to open. Finally, miraculously, it did and when he could take in
a gulp, he leaned back on his knees and saw two forms lying in the snow.
    His dad with part of his scalp and face almost peeled off. A
bloody knife still in his right hand. Eli threw up.
    “Tessa! Tessa!” His voice sounded foreign and raspy and not his.
“Tessa?”
    She lay forward in the pile they had mushed down. Face planted in
the snow. Eli begged her to be alive, please don’t be dead.
    She was breathing and when he lifted her and
held her he was crying like a child. His breaths were fuller with each sob.
When her stomach cramped and she pushed off him, they both look down
and saw the ribbon of intestine bulging out.
     
    AFTER PURCHASING HER ferry ticket for the SS Badger, Tessa is in a
laundromat, cleaning all the bedding Joe and Marissa used to whack Willy Wonka
into Wonderland.
    She discovers the storage under the bed holds half-a-dozen large,
black binders with dates.
    She opens one labelled 1955-1961 and four or five tan old-style
composition books tumble out. *1955-1956*, *1959-1961* . . . Tessa picks one up
and it opens at the middle to a black-and-white photograph of a really young
Great Aunt Sadie and Uncle Percy standing among some sage brush, arms around
each other. Her arms are barely over where his butt must be, and he’s leaning
down a little. They both have dark hair, and Sadie’s is curly ringlets and way
longer than Tessa remembers ever seeing it.
    They look like they’re about twenty-one or twenty-five. It’s hard
to tell. Young.
    Tessa reads an entry below it. “After his long
hike, Percy returned to camp to find a string of clothes leading into the
Pinyon pine. First a sandal, then some shorts, a pair of panties . . .”
    She feels her cheeks burning. “Oh my God. This
is porn . . .”
    The description continues. “He comes upon the vision he so
anticipates. A lovely minx, curled up in the blanket and sun, as if she is
asleep . . . just for him.”
    Gulp.
    Tessa closes the journal, then she sees a long, thin envelope with
her name in an old person’s scrawl on it that must have fallen out with the
clump of journals.
     
    Tessa, you’ve
found some travel journals that I was entrusted with among your aunt’s
possessions. I hand these over somewhat reluctantly, but I trust you will
protect the contents herein and be judicious about the details you share. Your
aunt specified she thought these journals might be illuminating when spreading
the ashes and add some depth to the task at hand.
     
    Oh yeah, they add depth all right, if any of the rest of it is
going to be like this.

 
    Chapter 7
     
    ONCE SHE BOARDS the ferry with the truck and trailer, Tessa
finally breathes fully. She leashes Murphy and puts his service dog jacket on
him. Mr. Forsythe had been thorough; he told her there might be places only
service dogs were allowed. He’d assured her Murphy was fully trained as a
service dog and to use the jacket when necessary.
    “If anyone asks, he is trained for high
glucose levels for diabetics.”
    “But I’m not diabetic.”
    “He has other . . . talents, shall we say? I am very confident his
skills will benefit you on this journey.”
    She climbs the metal stairs from the belly of the SS Badger. Long
semis and campers are part of her contingent. Everyone is moving from their
vehicles to the upper deck.
    Murphy pays little attention to other service dogs or people. They
sit outside in the fresh air and people watch. He lies at her feet, his head
over her right foot.
    Tessa’s phone rings, and she’s excited to see Dina is FaceTiming
her. “Where are you now, you little imp?”
    “I’m on the water. You can’t tell anyone. I’m going to Wisconsin.”
    “That’s not on your