The long grassy field on the west side of Ocean has long been a magnet for joggers, picnickers, dog lovers spending quality time with Rover, and the down-on-their-luck, and this fine August Monday was no different. One of those enjoying the grass on this particular day was a thirtyish black man, clad in running shorts and a white tank top, out for a stroll with his Great Pyrenees. As they passed the bronze plaque that marked the end of Santa Monica Boulevard, the dog abruptly stopped and swiveled her head so that she was staring across the street, towards a restaurant at the corner.

      “What is it, big girl?” The human looked down at his running mate, then turned towards the restaurant. At that same moment, something low, wedgy and four-wheeled effortlessly rounded the corner and rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant, its sky-blue paint glittering under the California sun. The driver’s door slowly swung open, and a twenty-something white male emerged, clad in a leather jacket and jeans. After closing the door, he deftly maneuvered around the car’s prodigious nose and onto the sidewalk, where he met up with the black-haired young woman who had exited from the passenger’s side. Her traditional Southern California ensemble of tank top, denim skirt and sandals seemed more in tune with the weather than his. It’s just a couple of tourists, the man thought as he lightly tugged on the leash. “Let’s head home, baby.”

      “Well, we made it,” the young man said as he slung a small black backpack over his shoulders. “End of the road.” He shifted his weight from one driving shoe-clad foot to the other and started towards the stoplight.

      “Not quite, Marc.” His companion caught up to him, and as he turned to his right, he caught a glance from her bottle green eyes. “66 stops here, but we still have my father to deal with.”

      “Ah, yes. Dear old Daddy.” They crossed Ocean at the light. “Callie, before this is all over, remind me to give a big ‘thank you’ to that little box of dust.”

      “Why?” Callie’s question was accompanied by a look that translated into English (or any other language, for that matter) as “What are you on?”

      “For sending us on this lovely little American odyssey,” Marc continued, unfazed by her gaze. “Nine days, eight states, three time zones, and 2400 miles are far too short.”

      She rolled her eyes as they made landfall on the sidewalk.

      Deep within the recesses of her mind and heart, Callie knew her fellow traveler was right, though she would never admit it to save her own life. It disgusted her to some extent, the mere thought of anyone—especially this relative stranger—praising her father in any degree.

      For five years, she had neither seen nor heard from Dad, and that’s the way she liked it. She wanted nothing to do with a man who chose to cope with his wife’s rapidly advancing amyotropic lateral sclerosis—better known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease—by walking out on her, nothing to do with the man whom she had last seen at her mother’s memorial service, when he briefed her on how he would contact her if he was in “dire need.” He was guilty of treason in her eyes, and he received the maximum sentence of permanent ostracism.

      In the half-decade following that day, Calliope Eriko Hart had fared quite well for herself. The comely lass of twenty-six had graduated from Northeastern University with a bachelor’s degree in music business management, and she relished her job at a music promotions firm in D.C. But on a rainy June night, in a burger joint/bar in her hometown of Chicago, she ran into Fate in the form of Marc Valjean, a 29-year-old photographer for the San Francisco Chronicle—and everything went squirrelly.

      It began with a bar fight: a lecherous and slightly buzzed regular started hitting on Callie, and when he got physical, Marc hit back and literally threw him out the door. Marc offered to walk her back to her hotel, she accepted, and that was where they ran into her estranged father—who told them of the cancer spreading from his stomach, his desire to make peace with his daughter, and a final wish.

      Hugh Hart’s last request was that his daughter and her “knight” embark on what he called “The Last Great American Road Trip”—to bear his ashes to California along historic Route 66 and scatter them in the Pacific Ocean. Callie grudgingly agreed after some prodding from Marc, who convinced her to go by suggesting that it would make a hell of a vacation.

      It could very well have been her own private circle of Hell—riding across the country in the Corvette her dad had ordered but never got the chance to drive, with his powdered corpse in the back and a man behind the wheel who she barely knew. But somehow, it turned out all right, and her attitude towards Valjean went from edgy to affable somewhere between those weird night lights in Oklahoma and a Mexican restaurant in Grants, New Mexico. Now, roughly three weeks after stomach cancer had reunited her father with his late wife, she was in sunny, breezy Santa Monica, waiting to send his mortal remains to Davey Jones’ locker.

      But first, Marc had to take a few pictures of a plaque.

      “Was that Kodak moment really necessary?” Callie unloaded the verbal barb as they returned to the car.

      “I happen to think so,” Marc responded as he reached into his jacket for the Corvette’s key fob. “I’m on assignment, remember? That means I have to shoot just about everything we see on the trip.” A low beep signaled the doors unlocking, and Marc popped open the driver’s door. He took off his pack, swung his six-foot-three frame into the chestnut-colored leather seat, and pulled the door closed.

      As he reached between the front seats to deposit his pack, his cobalt-blue eyes fixed on a deep red something lying on the floor. It was a velvet drawstring bag, cinched tight enough that it conformed to the shape of the hard plastic box it contained. The bag’s mouth, positioned over the top, was open, but just enough so that Marc could read the name on the label: HART, HUGH STEPHEN. With his attention so directed, he barely heard Callie plop herself into the shotgun seat.

      “I’m going to be so happy to get rid of that thing,” she said as she looked at the bag. Her voice displayed the hostile tone that she only used when she was referring to her father.

      “Just out of curiosity, was there ever a time when you two were on good terms?”

      “As a matter of fact, Doctor Freud, there was.” The anger stopped. “Dad and I had a rather normal relationship, up until my mom got worse.”

      Marc shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t believe you, Callie.”

      “What the hell do you mean?”

      His tone switched from light to serious in an instant. “I just can’t believe that you would let one dark moment cancel out whatever love you have for the man.”

      “After the way he walked out on her, I would have helped those two thugs maul him!” Callie became outright venomous as she brought up that street fight, and her five-foot-eight body seemed to quiver from the incredible wrath.

      “Listen to yourself,” Marc countered thunderously. As the grandson of a maquis, a guerrilla fighter with the French Resistance, he had his own well of inner rage from which he could draw. “Your mom is gone now. Your dad met her at the Pearly Gates two weeks ago. Whatever it was that happened between them in life, it’s over!” He let out a frustrated sigh. “You should have let them cremate that hatchet, too.”

      The fury subsided within Callie’s heart and voice. “Yeah,” she said, “I suppose Mom would have said the same thing.” She turned and cast another glance at the bag.

      A few moments passed before Marc tapped her shoulder. “It’s four o’clock. You wanna head to the hotel?”

      “Huh? Oh. Yeah, why not?” Her eyes bulged open. “Wait!”

      “Now what?”

      “Before we go anywhere,” she said as she drew a blue Nokia cell phone from her right pocket, “we better call Carl.” Carl Anthony was her father’s attorney, as well as the executor of his estate.

      “Shit, we almost forgot,” Marc added. “He told us to give him a ring as soon as we hit Santa Monica, and we’ve been here almost an hour.”

      “I’ll make the call now. In the meantime, to the hotel, Jeeves.”

      “Heh. As you wish, madam.”

      After his best impression of an English butler, Marc pressed the engine start button and the Corvette’s V-8 roared to life. With incredible care and judicious use of the gas pedal, he swung the car around 180 degrees and made a perfect left turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, hurtling away from the listing sun.

      After spending an uneventful night in their room at the Best Western Gateway Inn, Marc and Callie motored down to Marina Del Rey the next morning to meet up with Carl Anthony. They would scatter Hugh Hart’s ashes from the back of Anthony’s 46-foot yacht, the curiously named Honest Lawyer.

      Right now, Gina Anthony, Carl’s wife of 18 years, was piloting the boat out towards Santa Monica Bay. This allowed Carl, a stocky six-footer garbed in a black polo shirt, gray slacks, and loafers, to sit in the reception area and chew the fat with Callie and Marc over a round of beers.

      “Carl, I usually don’t drink this early in the day,” Marc said at precisely 10:30, “but when it’s Sierra Nevada, I’ll make an exception.” There was a thin smile that creased his lips after every sip from the green-labeled bottle.

      “I’m more of a Miller girl myself,” Callie confessed, “but I could definitely make an exception for this. Where’s it from?”

      “Chico. My old college town.” Carl had spent two years studying law at Chico State before transferring to Pepperdine. “Lucky for me they started up after I left, or else I’d never have met our captain.”

      This elicited an “I heard that” from Gina at the helm.

      “My brother Paul introduced me to the Pale Ale about two years ago. He loved the stuff.” It was Marc’s turn to speak again. “After his funeral, my parents, my sister Marie and I all hoisted one in his memory.”

      Callie had heard about Paul Valjean before—almost every night on the trip, Marc would share some wild story about their adventures. “I never asked before, but…how did he…”

      “Motorcycle crash.” She got cut off. “Near Devil’s Slide on Highway 1. He lived for a few days after the mess, but his body gave out from the pain.”

      “Jesus. I had no idea.” Carl offered his sympathies.

      “His last request was for me to put a jug band bomb in his coffin. Rather typical of Paul—wanted to go out with a bang.”

      “You buried him with a jug band what?” Callie was utterly stumped.

      “Bomb. Jug band bomb,” Marc laughed. “Paul taught me how to make ‘em when I was a little hell-raiser of nine or so. Goddamn, those things are fun!” He took another glug of Sierra Nevada.

      “How do you make one?” Carl was curious.

      “It’s relatively simple.” Marc put down his bottle so he could use his hands to gesture. “You take a glass jug or wine bottle and pour in a few drops of gasoline, topped off with a couple drops of potassium permanganate.”

      “The snakebite stuff?”

      “That’s it,” Marc continued. “Then you cap the jar and give it a couple of turns to mix the gasoline vapor with the air. You throw it, you dive for cover, and then you watch the light show.”

      A smile was spreading across Callie’s face, accompanied by laughter. “And you boys just wantonly blew stuff up with those things?”

      “Honey, we experimented to see what we could and couldn’t blow up.” Callie’s laughter was infectious. “One time, we even built a catapult as a pioneering project and launched ‘em that way. It was death from above!” He stopped for another sip. “Of course, I don’t want to be paying him a visit during an earthquake. Those things will go boom if you so much as tap ‘em with a feather.”

      Carl was now sporting a mischievous grin. “Hell, I played with firecrackers when I was a boy, but never anything like that. Sounds like good fun.”

      “I got to tell you, they’re nothing compared to the way Callie went off on me yesterday.”

      This comment earned Marc a sharp kick in the shin. As he grimaced, Carl inquired, “Really? What set it off?”

      The awkward silence that followed was broken five seconds later. “We…we were talking about Dad.”

      “I should have figured.” Carl picked up a manila envelope from the table where their drinks were and handed it to Callie. “Your father wrote this after he was diagnosed, and he requested that I give it to you before he was scattered.”

      “I know it’s not the will,” she said calmly, “so what is it?” She undid the clasp, opened the flap, and produced a handwritten note.

      “Just read it.”

      So she did.

            My beloved Calliope:

            If you are reading this letter, it means that your mother and I are together once again. I know we never saw eye-to-eye after she departed, but before you drop this in the round file, please read well. There are some matters I must level with you about.

            First, your mother. You have my stubbornness and her pride—the same pride that led to her asking for my help in keeping her promise that ALS wouldn’t kill her. The night Andrea died, I gave her a massive overdose of insulin and walked away in shame. I know it was what she wanted, but it still would have felt insulting to show my face at her funeral when her death was my responsibility. I’m sorry I never told you the truth, and I’m sure you hate me even more than you did for the last five years, but please understand that I loved her too much to say no, and that I almost asked you to do the same for me in the last few days of my life.

            Second, Marc Valjean. If Marc is reading this with you, punch him in the arm for reading over your shoulder. (He was, and she did.) Then thank him for going with you. Road trips are always more fun when you’re not the only one in the car, as I discovered when you and your mother and I went on all of ours. Plus, he seems like a genuinely good guy, and you can never have too many of those in your life.

            Finally, the Last Great American Road Trip. I’m sorry we were never able to do it while your mother was still healthy, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person, but I hope it was every bit as amazing and inspiring as our adventures on the Great River Road and US 1 were. I hope you and Mr. Valjean had fun, and I hope you have some great stories to tell your grandkids.

            Have a fantastic life, baby.

            Love forever,

            HH

      A small wet stream was plainly visible on Callie’s right cheek as she lowered the note onto the table. She struggled to speak, but all that came out was a stunned “Holy shit.”

      “Did your mom really say that?”

      “Oh yes.” Callie took a moment to gather her composure, along with a swig of beer, then leaned over to her right and kissed Marc on his left cheek. “Thank you,” she said between sniffles, “for coming along.”

      “It’s been an honor, Miss Hart.” He hadn’t called her that since they first met that night at the Billy Goat.

      At that moment, Gina Anthony walked down the steps from the bridge, her shoulder-length blonde hair bouncing with each step. “Folks, we are two miles out in Santa Monica Bay. You are officially free to scatter.”

      “All right, honey.” Carl got up from the couch where he was sitting and gripped the neck of his beer bottle. “But first, in honor of this one last trip, one last toast. To Hugh Stephen Hart.”

      He raised his bottle, and Marc did likewise. “To Hugh Hart.”

      “To Dad.” After Callie raised hers, they threw back the remainders.

      “I’ll take the boat off autopilot and leave you folks to your business.” With that, Gina turned and headed up the steps, her white Capri pants creasing and unfolding with each step.

      As Callie walked over to the chair where her father’s ashes sat, Carl undid the latch at the top of the sliding door to the rear of the reception area. He squeezed the handle and opened the door, revealing a rear exterior platform with a low wall and a kick-ass view of the beautiful blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

      “Everybody out!” Carl barked, and Marc and Callie heeded. She came out with her father under her arm, and Marc shut the door behind them.

      As he zipped up his leather jacket, Carl handed him a Swiss Army knife. “For the bag?”

      “Yup. Don’t drop it overboard, I’ve had it for twenty years and I’m a little attached.”

      Carl turned away from Marc, out towards the swiftly churning waves. “In accordance with his final wishes, we hereby commit the mortal remains of Hugh Stephen Hart to the elements. Ashes unto ashes, dust unto dust.”

      He then stepped back as Callie flipped the latch on the plastic box and extracted a sealed plastic bag of what appeared to be very fine cat litter. This was Hugh Hart, or at least what was left of him after getting baked in an industrial-strength oven for 90 minutes at quadruple-digit temperatures.

      Marc reached over, knife blade bared, and punctured the bag, eventually cutting off one corner. A little more cutting and the top was fully open. He folded the blade in while Callie gently cupped the bag with both hands. Then, with nothing more than a “Goodbye, Daddy,” she hoisted it and poured the ashes over the low wall and into the water.

      For a brief moment, a plume of gray dust hung in the air trailing the Honest Lawyer. As it dissipated into the salty sea air, Marc softly whispered, “Godspeed, Hugh Hart.”

      Her task complete, Callie stared out across the waves. A tide of emotion had been building inside her since they stepped out onto the deck, and now it surged. Her eyes watered, and as she started sobbing, she ran and embraced Marc, laying her head against his chest.

      As Marc held her close, he became infected by her sentiment. He too began to cry—he cried for the brother he had lost, he cried for the dead man he barely knew, and he cried for the woman in his arms.

      “Do you forgive him?” Marc asked between gulps of air. The reply was simple.

      “Yes.”

END

A Note from the Author

While virtually all of the places mentioned in “One Last Trip” are very real, the persons are 100% fictional. Any similarities with persons living or dead, or with other fictional characters, are purely coincidental. So please don’t panic.