The 50-Dollar Urn

I was the only female carpenter in town, and I made caskets at cost price for anyone in the area who needed one. Everyone said I was generous, kind-hearted, the whole routine. Then one afternoon, Doug Hadley showed up at my shop with his wife Trish Grady and a handful of neighbors to order a cremation urn. Trish stared at the price tag. "An urn for only 50 dollars? What is this, scrap wood?" Doug shot her a look. "Don't run your mouth about things you don't understand. It's solid ebony. Bridget makes them herself, so it's cheaper." Trish snickered behind her hand. "Solid ebony? That might fool someone who doesn't know any better. My cousin runs a funeral supply shop, so trust me, I know what I'm looking at. This isn't ebony. It's plywood. It's five dollars' worth of material, tops. "I can take you all to my cousin's place. I'll make sure he gives us a deal." The neighbors were already nodding. "The urn's supposed to last a hundred years. Obviously, I want the best for my mom." "Selling plywood and calling it ebony... You ought to be ashamed." "Come on, let's all go to Trish's cousin. I'm not giving her the chance to make dirty money off any of us." Dirty money? As far as I knew, mine was the only shop in town that actually stocked real ebony. Everyone else used MDF. If they were not afraid of the thing falling apart, they were welcome to go for it. Chapter 1 I had just brought the finished urn out to the worktable when Doug Hadley walked in with his new wife, Trish Grady, and a handful of neighbors. Trish glanced at the urn, and her eyes went wide. "What? An urn for only 50 dollars? What is this, scrap wood?" I was irritated, but I kept my voice even. "It's solid ebony. We're neighbors, so I sell it cheap. I'm not making a profit on it." Trish pressed a hand over her mouth, her voice thin and shrill. "Solid ebony? That might fool someone who doesn't know any better. "Bridget, just because we're all neighbors and nobody wants to call you out doesn't mean you can just make things up. Anyone can tell this is plywood with a coat on it. It's five dollars' worth of material, tops." I stopped short. Five dollars? That would not even cover the cost of plywood. Doug jabbed Trish with his elbow. "Don't talk about things you don't understand. Bridget's a carpenter. She makes these herself and only charges for materials, so of course, it's cheaper." Trish rolled her eyes. "My cousin runs a casket shop. A proper ebony urn goes for at least 2,000 dollars." She pulled out her phone and scrolled to a photo. "Don't believe me? See for yourselves." Gail Fenwick looked at me carefully before speaking up. "Going by this photo, it does look like Trish's cousin carries higher-end stuff. Maybe you could clear things up for everyone, Bridget? If you don't explain, nobody's going to feel right about buying." When I said nothing, Trish let out an awkward little laugh. "Oh, my bad. I shouldn't have stepped on your business like that. I just don't want to see anyone get ripped off. You only die once, right? Who doesn't want the best for their parents?" Hank Morin, who lived across the yard, nodded with tears in his eyes. "My mom's been fighting cancer for over two years now. She doesn't have much time left. Of course, I want her taken care of when she goes." Trish cleared her throat. "How about I take you all to my cousin's place and have the urn custom-made?" She put a hand on her chest. "Top quality, I guarantee it. I'll get him to bring the price down to 1,500 dollars for everyone." Gail was nodding before Trish even finished. "I say we go to Trish's cousin. Bridget won't even explain herself. She's obviously using cheap wood and pocketing the difference." Hank was quick to back her up. I was trembling with anger. They wanted an explanation from me? What was there to explain? Chapter 2 Gail lived right next door, with just a wall between us. She was a single mother raising her daughter on her own while taking care of her bedridden, paralyzed mother. Between work and looking after the two of them, she was constantly run ragged. I often cooked extra and brought meals over to her place. She would eat until she had grease all over her lips and say, "I'm the luckiest woman alive to have you as my neighbor, Bridget." There was a tradition in our town. Once a parent turned 60, the children were expected to start making burial arrangements. Three days ago, Doug's father and Gail's mother celebrated their birthdays on the same day. They had each ordered an urn from me, and we had agreed they would come pick them up today. Every day after that, Gail had been watching me plane the wood. I never expected her to side with Trish and slander me. As far as I knew, mine was the only shop in the area that sold real ebony urns. Everyone else used MDF. The stuff did not last. MDF rotted away to nothing within a few months of being buried. Out of goodwill, I still tried to warn them. "A higher price tag doesn't always mean the product's better. Some sellers paint MDF black and pass it off as ebony." Trish shot me a nasty look. "You're just bitter you lost our business, so now you're making things up." Gail chimed right in, "An urn's supposed to last a hundred years. Of course, I want the best for my mom. Passing off plywood as ebony and you don't even feel bad about it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. "Come on, let's all go to Trish's cousin. I'm not giving her the chance to make dirty money off any of us." A chill settled in my chest. If they thought my work was beneath them and wanted the premium option, then why was I even trying to stop them? I thought the whole thing was over after that, but the next morning, Trish showed up again with Doug in tow. She marched through the door with her hands on her hips. "Doug paid you a deposit. You need to give it back." I was caught off guard. Doug had ordered a custom piece. He had wanted pine boughs and doves carved into the surface. The work was intricate, and it had taken me three full days to finish. We had agreed upfront that deposits on custom orders were non-refundable. Now, they were here asking for it back. Doug looked guilty. He would not meet my eyes. "Bridget, everyone knows you've been making dirty money. Just give me the refund." I could only laugh bitterly to myself. Doug's grandparents had both been laid to rest in urns I made. Not only that, I had called in a friend who ran a funeral home to handle his family's arrangements, free of charge. Doug and I had grown up together, after all. He used to trail after me everywhere as a kid, calling me his big sister. I kept my expression hard. "I can't refund that." Trish's voice exploded above me. "You won't refund us? Then this shop is done." She grabbed an urn off the shelf and hurled it to the ground, then shouted at the people walking past on the street. "Come see for yourselves! This woman is a crook! She plays the good neighbor while making dirty money off the dead! She sells plywood and calls it ebony, and now that we've caught her, she won't even give a refund! Don't any of you ever buy from her!" People on the street stopped and started pointing. "Disgusting! Using MDF to fake ebony for urns. She'll profit off anything, even the dead. The woman has no shame!" "Everyone's got parents. She's got family too. How can she pull a scam like this on grieving people? How heartless can you be?" "From now on, nobody in this town should buy from her, no matter who's holding a funeral. Steer clear of someone like that." Most of the people cursing at me were neighbors I had known for years. I had always valued those ties. I only ever charged them for the cost of the wood and covered the cost of labor myself. If someone passed suddenly, I would stay up through the night planing wood, even in the dead of winter at -4 degrees. I did it all so the departed could have a dignified send-off. Yet all it took was a few careless words from Trish for every one of them to throw away years of goodwill and turn on me. Chapter 3 Trish tilted her chin up, looking pleased with herself. "She's a crook! Don't let her get away with it." I was shaking with anger. "Trish, if you keep this up, I'm calling the police." Trish looked completely unbothered and straightened her spine. I pulled out my phone and dialed. "Someone is causing a disturbance outside my shop. I need someone here right away." The police arrived quickly. After hearing both sides, they dispersed the crowd. "Trish, if you have a complaint, you can file one through the proper channels. But standing out here and blocking her business is not acceptable." Trish pursed her lips and said nothing. "This isn't really something we can settle for you. But since you're all neighbors, I would say try to keep things civil. Just give them the refund." Trish raised her eyebrows smugly. "That's right! Refund!" I had no choice. I transferred 16 dollars to Doug. Trish's brows furrowed. "You shorted him. A third of 50 dollars is 16.67. You still owe him another dollar." I nearly laughed from the sheer absurdity. On top of having to cover the cost of labor and materials myself, I was also expected to pay an extra 33 cents too? I could not be bothered to argue. I sent another dollar and closed up shop. I had barely sat down to catch my breath when the door was pushed open again. A man I had never seen before stood in the entrance. He did not look like he was from town. "Are you Bridget Oakes? My name is Neil Compton." He held out a business card. "I run a full-service funeral company across from the city hospital. A friend told me your woodworking is excellent and that you make all kinds of urns. I'd like to talk about a partnership, if now is a good time." I was hesitant, but I invited him to sit. He did not waste time. "I'll get straight to the point. I've seen your work. It's better than anything else on the market. I want to partner up. I put up the capital, you bring the craft. Or if you prefer, you can be my supplier and I'll buy exclusively from you. The arrangement is up to you." I turned it over in my mind. When I was five, I was separated from my family. I drifted from place to place, begging for food, until I ended up in Millbrook. The only carpenter in town took me in and taught me everything he knew over the course of decades. He had asked only one thing of me when he was on his deathbed. "The people of Millbrook are good, honest folk. Whenever someone passes, you make the urn for them and only charge for materials." Between that promise and the fact that the townspeople had watched me grow up, I was willing to take the loss without complaint. I rubbed my fingertips together absently. "I need some time to think it over." After Neil left, I thought I might finally get a moment of peace. However, the neighborhood group chat was blowing up. Trish had sent a voice message. "Everyone, Bridget Oakes is a real piece of work. She passed off plywood as ebony and scammed Doug. A crook like her shouldn't be allowed to keep her doors open." Someone replied with a string of question marks: [That can't be right. She's always seemed so decent.] Gail jumped right in: [I can vouch for Trish. I was there.] Hank had typed out a message of his own: [It's all an act. She's rotten underneath.] [Those urns are thin as paper. They wouldn't last a year.] [She'd better pray the dead don't come back to haunt her.] The rest of the neighbors piled on. It felt like a fire was burning inside my chest. I ran out to the yard, took photos of the ebony wood, and posted them to the chat: [This is all handmade. Here's the proof.] Gail replied with a laughing emoji as well as a message: [Don't fall for it, everyone. She set that up ahead of time to cover her tracks. I live right next door to her. You think I wouldn't know?] Chapter 4 [I've never once seen her out there working. Her yard is spotless. Not a speck of sawdust anywhere. She buys plywood online and glues the urns together. She'll do anything to make a dirty buck.] Doug suddenly spoke up: [Now that I think about it, Bridget isn't even from here. She wandered in as a kid, and the old carpenter took her in. We took her in out of the goodness of our hearts, and this is how she repays us? Kick her out! Someone like that doesn't deserve to live in Millbrook!] The rest of the group piled on. [Yeah, kick her out!] [Get out of our town!] [A crook like her has no place here!] They even hung a banner outside my shop. [Fraudulent merchant sells fake urns! Get out of our town! Justice for Millbrook!] My heart went completely cold. I found the business card and called Neil. "Mr. Compton, I've made my decision. I would like to take you up on that partnership." The next morning, I packed my things and rolled down the shutters. Trish and Doug were standing across the street, watching. Trish was leaning against a wall, arms crossed. "What did I tell you? A crook never lasts. She kept trying to hold on, but in the end, she's still running off with her tail between her legs. "She thought she could go up against me? Not in this lifetime." Doug's face was full of resentment. "Ungrateful piece of trash! After everything this town did for her! Good riddance! Go wherever you want! Millbrook doesn't need you!" I did not so much as glance in their direction. I walked straight to the bus stop and boarded the next ride to the city. … Three days later, I was scouting locations for the new shop with Neil when my phone buzzed. Trish and Doug had taken Gail and Hank to her cousin Mitch Torrance's shop. They had posted photos in the group chat. Gail was gushing: [Now that's craftsmanship. You can tell just by looking. This is the real deal. Trish, your cousin runs a shop this nice and you didn't introduce us sooner? All that money we wasted at Bridget's..." Hank said: [You can see every single feather on the doves, every little detail. It has real weight to it, too. The wood looks premium, nothing like that flimsy cheap stuff. This is top of the line. My mom would love this.] Mitch sent a smiley face: [We only use the best materials, and every piece is hand-carved and polished by experienced craftsmen. Multiple rounds of sanding and finishing, no corners cut.] Trish was smug as ever: [You can see the difference right away. The quality alone is worth the price. Not like the work of a certain someone. She paints plywood black and calls it ebony. If you're going to con people, at least make it convincing. Who buys real ebony for 50 dollars?] Gail rallied the group, typing: [From now on, everyone should go to Trish's cousin Mitch. He carries all the latest styles from the city. And since Trish put in a good word, he's dropping the price from 2,000 to 1,500 dollars for all of us. No more giving dirty money to people who don't have a conscience. [We should all thank Trish and Doug.] The chat lit up. [Thank you, Trish and Doug!] [Those two really came through for us.] [Trish and Doug are the pride of Millbrook.] Gail sounded like she had just won the lottery: [All of us ordered from Mitch. Urns, funeral garments, the works. A certain someone can't squeeze a single cent out of us anymore. It must be killing her. Well, too bad. We're just not buying!] I scrolled through the photos. They looked identical to listings on a knockoff bargain site. I let out a quiet scoff. If urns of that quality managed to hold up, they could count themselves lucky. I would see how long they had to laugh about it. I left the group chat without a word and put my phone on silent. One week later, Hank's mother passed away. Hank placed the ashes into the urn with red-rimmed eyes, handling it with the utmost care. His fingertips barely pressed down at all. He was only cradling the base, but then a crack rang out from inside the urn. Hank went white. "No!"