After I'm Buried Alive Read online

  After I’m Buried Alive

  Catharine Bramkamp

  A Few Little Books

  Praise for Catharine Bramkamp’s Work

  "Catharine Bramkamp writes with incredible wit, humor and insight into the human condition. She is brilliant and one of my favorite writers and human beings!"

  Michelle Gamble-Risley, president, 3L Publishing and author of SMASH and Vanity Circus

  "Catharine has a keen eye on the world around her and the rare ability to translate what she sees in life into beautiful prose. Her words are not only witty and acerbic but also insightful and poignant.”

  Leslie Wirtley - Runaway Heart (Velvet Seduction Press)

  Also By Catharine Bramkamp

  The Real Estate Diva Mysteries

  Death Revokes the Offer

  Time is of the Essence

  In Good Faith

  The 380 Degree View

  Trash Out

  Don’t Write Like You Talk

  Don’t Write Like We Talk

  Future Girls

  Future Gold

  Future Run

  Ammonia Sunrise (Poetry Collection)

  After I’m Buried Alive

  Catharine Bramkamp

  The characters and events in this book are fictious.

  Any similarity to real persons living or dead,

  is coincidental and not intentional.

  Copyright @ 2020 by Catharine Bramkamp

  All rights reserved.

  A few Little Books

  Nevada City, CA

  First Edition: April 2020

  ISBN 978-0-9816848-7-1

  To Andrew, who would never bury me alive.

  Chapter 1

  Irreplaceable artifacts tend to stay put. More than policy, border patrols or customs, the most important icons of a nation are more often than not pulled home, as if place holds a gravitational field from which it’s difficult to break free. At least that’s what it looks like from my seat on the couch.

  It’s more difficult to smuggle ancient artifacts out of a country than you think. My nephew Chris wiggled an inch or two away from me and held up his phone. He had found another article on smuggling. The article explained that a small unidentified group had made at least three attempts to smuggle Egyptian statues, cartouches, and scarabs (provenance still unknown), out of the country. All three attempts had been thwarted. The Egyptian government leveraged the attention and their success as yet another example of how well they were taking care of their own history (no mention of that gravitational pull). That assertion led to the inevitable and evergreen argument over why the Neues Museum in Berlin must return Nefertiti’s head. The perpetual demand is popular since so many outlets have ready images of the beautiful sculpture, but the argument never gets very far.

  Chris continued to read the feed on his phone. “The authorities are searching for their origin, provenance is everything, we need to know where these come from. I think it’s like finders’ keepers.”

  Like Nefertiti’s bust. “A great deal like that.”

  I looked over his shoulder at the screen. From my angle all I could see was a jumble of blue faience ushabtis cradled in shredded packing material.

  “That’s a lot,” Chris commented.

  “The old Cairo Museum had so many, hundreds were just stuffed into a glass cabinet, too many to count. The new museum will of course fix all that.”

  “You need one ushabti for every day of the year.” Chris knew most of the story of the replacement workers buried with their masters. If possible, a rich man purchased one statue, one worker a day for the whole year. It was a much better solution than burying the human workers.

  “Yes, to do all the work.” I had a soft spot in my heart for the little blue figures, made solely for the purpose of working in the after-life fields for their master. Gives new meaning to the term: you were made for this role.

  “The one we saw was all alone in a big plastic box.” Chris continued to study his screen.

  “Yes, it was.” I indulged Chris as much as possible since his parents were not as inclined. When the last Tut/Egyptian exhibit came through the De Young, the two of us made pilgrimage to the exhibit: me, for nostalgia, Chris, because he was obsessed. He was right; the De Young displayed only the one blue ushabti, standing in solitary splendor protected in his own purpose-built acrylic box, lit from three sources. Tiny and alone.

  “It was precious so they must want to keep it safe,” Chris decided.

  My sister-in-law bustled into the family room and began to hustle us out.

  “Enough!” Tina picked up the remote and aimed it at the massive screen as if commanding a firing squad. “Vic, you need to join the party, people are asking for you. Boys, you need to come and toast your father’s retirement.”

  “Can I have a beer?” Matt piped up. At sixteen he was already more handsome than his balding father and was already skilled in using those bright blue eyes, coupled with an unruly shock of black hair that kept falling into the bridge of his nose, to get what he wanted. Did I want to know about his success with girls? I did not. But while Matt’s thick hair was cut and styled for the perfect studied effect, it could never compete with his brother’s. Chris, at times, seemed to channel his hero Harry Potter, his hair seeming to grow back days after Tina again spent a considerable sum to get it cut just right.

  Tina glared at Matt. “You certainly cannot, young man.”

  But I wasn’t to escape either. She aimed a perfectly French-manicured finger at me. “Come show some support.”

  “As soon as I refresh my drink.” I lifted the empty martini glass and bent to kiss Chris on the head.

  “Don’t get an olive.” His eyes were still glued to his phone. “It takes up too much room in the glass.”

  I grinned and patted his head.

  “You know what else?” He continued without missing a beat.

  “Sweetie, what did I tell you about the internet?”

  “There is always more.” He did not glance up me; he was enthralled and as usual unable to tear away from the images flashing on the screen.

  “Come on, big guy.” His brother took his arm and lifted him from the couch. “Stand by me and we’ll toast, then get out of here.”

  “Ride in the car.” Chris did not break focus from his phone.

  “Yeah, let’s take a ride in the car.”

  Chris obediently followed Matt.

  “I just don’t know what I’d do without you.” Tina sighed. “He does everything you say.”

  “Not everything.” I assured her.

  Chosen as the solo ushabti in the box wasn’t necessarily a promotion.

  I followed my nephews into the living room. For the momentous occasion of my brother’s retirement, my sister-in-law had created a tribute fit for a pharaoh. Hothouse flowers overflowed from plastic silver-colored vases competing with random flutes, pinot bowl glasses and shot glasses emblazoned with Vince Gardner—40 years. I automatically swept up the silver rented plates and set them in the kitchen sink.

  Vince had done well: the beautiful trophy wife, the second family, an impressive home, (close to everything), and he announced as I tried not to rattle the silverware, he was happily anticipating this next chapter of his wonderful life.

  I am, of course, paraphrasing his self-aggrandizing party toast. And he cleverly did not describe Tina as his trophy wife. They had probably discussed it ahead of time.

  I picked up three wine glasses, edging behind the rapt guests as Vince droned on about his accomplishments. Tina had set up the drinks on the breakfast bar. An attractive young lady stood in the kitchen and handed mixed drinks over the high countertop.

  I set the glasses at the end of the count
er so they could commiserate with five half empty flutes and two commemorative shot glasses meant to serve as lovely parting gifts.

  “Gin martini.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re out of olives.”

  “And that’s how we closed the biggest client in our twenty years.” Vince raised his glass again.

  Cheers.

  “Don’t worry, they take up too much room in the glass anyway.” With my naked drink I hovered at the very edge of the collective. I eyed a jumble of plates and forks begging to be gathered and cleaned but resisted. I needed to look the part of the loving sister. At least with a full drink in hand, I was safely excused from applauding Vincent’s every accomplishment.

  The boys slipped out the kitchen door, using the applause to cover the rumble of the garage door opening. It was a beautiful night for a ride. I almost wished I was with them, but Matt’s driving was still terrifying. He'd had his license for how long? I counted from his birthday. Four days. The boys were either going up in a ball of flames or nothing would happen at all.

  My bet was on nothing. Chris was closely watched over by our gods, his and mine. He would be fine and, by association, so would his brother. I felt a pang as the car roared out of the garage. They would be fine.

  Before I could take a sip of my refreshed drink, I was accosted by the person I least wanted to see, a person who, in fact, inspired my escape to the family room in the first place.

  “Oh, Victoria, you must be so sad that your mother is finally gone.” Beth Ellen Banner took my arm and moved me a fraction away from the crowd, as if that would serve to create a cone of silence and intimacy. She took a tiny sip of her champagne and eyed me speculatively.

  Beth Ellen was a dear friend and colleague of Vince and, after a couple of years, friendly with Tina. Beth Ellen and Tina worked out their differences during a company picnic at the historic Empire Mine, the face-off happened in the middle of what used to be tennis courts. Many staff members reported on the outcome. Supercilious, and always fashionable, Beth Ellen used to favor Armani suits embellished with shoulder pads that could block Tom Brady, but now that she was in retirement, she switched it up to a more relaxed wardrobe with Eileen Fisher for volunteer work and playful wardrobe pieces courtesy of Gucci featuring his signature blinding neon green. I was not sure this reinvention was an improvement.

  Tina reported that Beth Ellen’s retirement party had been held at the Four Seasons and everyone from the CEO to the janitor had been invited. The guest list for Vince’s party was more exclusive.

  Beth Ellen now devoted her time and her self-reported considerable expertise, to United Way of Sacramento. Even more than Tina, Beth Ellen embodied all the success and security that eluded me. She was thin when I was fat, celebrated when I was ignored, rich when I was poor; she owned two houses, I was technically homeless. And since I was currently all my faults at once, I absolutely did not want to talk with her. I took a deep breath and marshalled all my dwindling resources to appear appropriately polite.

  I focused on her brightly colored ensemble that belied her serious expression. With a shock I recognized her dress. It wasn’t a Gucci; it was a. It could be a knockoff. It could be a knockoff Gucci for that matter, Max Peters and Gucci were often mistaken for one another. Not the men, the clothes. On Beth Ellen, the slender sheath was flattering, very Twiggy, very mod-sixties, which was part of his second spring collection in the early '80s when Max was just launching his career as one of Vogue’s bad-boy designers.

  I hadn’t thought of Max in weeks. I blinked. I had catalogued this very pattern; the print was bright and loose like a child’s drawing or Matisse cutouts, both of which were inspirations.

  “Yes, of course I will miss her very much.” I patted my natural gray hair wishing I had made time to get a cut and color. But in my defense, I had just recovered from a nasty flu, my third this year. Mom had been healthy up to the end, but I seemed to catch every virus and bacteria available for pickup at the local Safeway. I took a deep breath, happy to not fall into a paroxysm of coughing. I eyed Beth Ellen. I was younger than she but felt a hundred years older.

  “Vince says you are just a saint.” She sighed. “I wish I had family. I don’t know if you heard, but I had to put Mother in a home, the very best, of course.”

  “Because you are so busy.” I offered the expected response; there was little reason not to.

  “My work has always been important.” She batted her lashes. I resisted a quick retort. My current position was not only tenuous: it was dramatically unimportant, no better than the nursing home staff Beth probably remembered every holiday with a box of See’s Nuts and Chews.

  I slugged back the rest of my drink. Good thing there wasn’t a tooth-picked olive taking up room in the glass, I would have lost an eye. I struggled to compose an acceptable follow-up comment. I had no conversation, nothing interesting to say. Beth Ellen had won again.

  The final applause washed over the living room. The crowd broke and made for the food and drink. Before I could escape to pick up those plates and forks, Vince sneaked up behind me, giving me a start. For a big man, he moved with surprising stealth. He grinned at Beth Ellen and threw his arm around me squeezing like an anaconda asphyxiating its lunch. “Vic is going to live with us and help with the boys!”

  I gave him a tight-lipped smile. This morning I'd realized I needed to bleach my teeth.

  Beth Ellen looked up and down from my best, but dated Calvin Klein black jacket, open because I couldn’t button it, down to my low-heeled pumps that, truth be told, were Mom’s.

  I hadn’t been sleeping. I had gained weight. I looked like a vision, a vision of an aging woman on the wrong side of fifty. My sixtieth birthday loomed, and my glass was empty.

  Moving from my parents' house to my brother’s house was a recent idea. To me. As Vince and Tina marched into our parents' house, it was clear they not only had discussed my next move and my new role: in their heads it was a fait accompli.

  They missed the coroner by seconds.

  Vince was dressed for work: full Boss suit, shined shoes, the five hairs he had left carefully parceled out over his skull. Tina looked like she was on the way to Junior League. Which she very well could be. Nice they could take time out of their busy scheduled to say goodbye…oh wait, they just missed her.

  Vince pulled out a paper from his inside jacket pocket and bade me sit down.

  I was already sitting.

  I was suddenly overwhelmed. The non-negotiable finality as the coroner zipped up the black vinyl bag wrenched through my gut. I was nauseated, breathless and sweaty and it wasn’t from the flu.

  I put my head between my legs just to get some blood moving. If it ever would.

  Tina, tall and brittle, acknowledged me with a nod and then stepped carefully around the split-level ranch house, assessing; from her body language I could tell she was seeing it all with new more acquisitional eyes. If I thought that afternoon couldn’t get any worse, I was wrong.

  Vince sat across from me on the matching upholstered chair. He cleared his voice.

  “We are both devastated, of course. It is a shame about Mother, but not unexpected, right?” He checked his phone. “Vance and Elaine will be here tonight. But he gave me the go- ahead with our offer.”

  Tina returned from her initial assessment and perched on the arm of her husband’s chair.

  We would sell the family house and split the proceeds three ways. Mom left us all a few dollars that, of course, he and Vance would invest on my behalf. In the same breath he and Tina told me I’d be living with them as the best way to preserve my capital, live frugally and not uncoincidentally care for the boys while she and Vince took a well-earned vacation. I was surprised there wasn’t an accompanying PowerPoint with slide after slide graphing the cost/benefits of their plan.

  I would have my own room and bath, they pitched. Time to myself while the boys were in school. Time off during the holidays if I so chose, but of course, of COURSE! The
y would rather have me with them during any family gathering and family vacations. I was so important, I was so caring; even as the youngest, I was so competent. Really, what would they have done these last three years? The boys needed someone at home, and you know, Vic. Here Vince eyed me with a jaded expression, as if he knew everything about me, as if I had always acted the caregiver, as if this was my only remaining talent, where else will you go?

  Vincent, in his new retirement mode, was already considering consulting offers (I really did miss the PPT deck; I was interested in learning exactly who needed insurance consulting). He and Tina deserved the time to travel. They wanted time with the boys unhindered by homework and school activities. They were not getting any younger, you know.

  I was their ticket to a carefree life. They had both worked really hard and deserved this.

  I will spare you any more details of that gruesome afternoon. As it finally wound down to its whimpering end, I was hours away from a housecoat, slippers, and daytime television.

  I smiled at Beth Ellen, philanthropist, wearer of designer dresses, and carefully extracted myself from Vince’s death grip.

  “It was so nice to see you again.” I dredged up my best party talk. I had forgotten how to make witty cocktail conversation. Three to five years out of practice. Even in his anticipated decline, Max had insisted on witty repartee. Every afternoon of his final two years, he rallied and invited any and all callow young men from the industry and off the street. When I wasn’t monitoring the wine, making sure small ornaments didn’t wind up missing and anxiously wringing my hands, those afternoons were kind of fun. Max chose death by party—going out with a sigh and half a glass of wine left to go. I turned away for a second so my mascara, old and undependable, wouldn’t run with a sudden rush of tears.