The Ring: One Size Fits All

I dig. It is well after midnight but only hours after the funeral and burial. My younger sister was a spiteful, hateful creature. And now she was dead. In a manner of speaking, looks like I won, sister.

My father long ago had promised me the ring his grandmother had commissioned, a sizeable emerald, perfect and clear, surrounded by diamonds just as perfect. The initials--his grandmother's--were the same as mine. It was meant for me. She had said so when my mother was pregnant for me, but Grandma died the day I was born, obviously on a due date for both her and me.

My sister lay in her casket, scheduled to be inserted into the freshly dug space in the family plot. She lay there serene, as antithesis to how she lived. I held my disgust just below skin-deep, lest others would see my avarice and my rage.

It was my ring! Mine! How dare she wear it. I considered slipping it off of her cold finger, but I knew I would be seen. Also, the missing ring would be noticed. The ring was a big deal. Everyone knew that. Everyone had taken sides between us sisters in this family melodrama. No one had said anything about the ring being buried with her, but everyone knew. They all regarded me queerly at the funeral.

No, the ring had to stay.

Besides, her finger had swollen around it.

I continue digging. I have an appointment, after all.

It had been quite the scene when my father had told me I wasn't ready for the ring on my 16th birthday; then again when I got engaged; then again with the birth of my first child who I named after him.

No, he gave it to her. I was too irresponsible. I'd lose it. Or hock it. Not her, though. She was the responsible sister. The smart one. The beautiful one. The hateful one. But she was the younger one. There are traditions in the birth order, and that tradition was violated. I was violated.

She wore the ring proudly whenever she saw me. She would even kiss it in front of me, whispering, "I love you, Daddy." I'm sure he felt each kiss in his own coffin.

I continue to dig.

I'll get that ring off of your cold, dead finger. You'll see. No need for it to adorn dust for the eons, is there? And why? Not because your rotting body wants to make a favorable first impression.

Ha! First impression for who? For the demons and devils who would be meeting you, you shriveled, bitter, toxic hag?

You wore it for me, didn't you? In life and in death. It was your will--and it was even in your will. You would be buried with it on. It was your last wish in your final will and testament. It was legal. Unchallengeable. You knew that I would stew for the rest of my life knowing that--now--I would never have that ring.

Before it was supposed to be mine, it was my father's and his grandmother's before that. But then it was hers. Daddy didn't wear it. He kept it under lock and key. Until her 16th birthday. I couldn't believe my eyes.

You two walked out together toward the limousine, you in your tuxedo and you at your debutante Sweet 16 best. Oh, and with you wearing it. It!

He just smiled at you, but you just smiled at me.

I wondered for so many years why she was special to him. It makes me dig faster and another layer of dirt has been removed. I hear some gravelly scratching with the tip of the shovel. I am close.

Once my horrid sister loaned it to her own daughter. For her Sweet 16 party. I could have died. Sixteen years old and already with tattoos. And the ring that was mine on that pubescent, hypersexed little trashy nymph. Where had that finger been? I wonder, and I dig even faster.

How did you get it away from her? You didn't even know you were going to die, you feckless bitch. Now neither she nor I will be able to wear it.

Ha! That's what you think.

My shovel strikes the casket. It's a good sound. It is the sound that will forever right the things that have wronged me. Oh, it goes way beyond just the ring, though. You could only imagine. My father and her!

They say each child, in reality, has different parents. So true, because my father was different--with her--and different with me. The former in a spoiling way--and the latter in a very bad way. And although there were a hundred million things, slights, insults, and unfathomable unfairness at every sisterly turn, it was that ring that symbolized it all. And that special relationship between him and her. How special one could ask? Very special. I guess some daughters are not pretty enough. She was. And he did.

Always in his lap. Always the one he'd take camping. And always the one with the ring. Maybe she earned it. I certainly didn't.

What will I do when I get finally get to it? When I pry it off of her swollen finger? Maybe I'll just melt it down. Or give it to a homeless person. No. I'll wear it.

Every minute of every day it shall be my answer to both of them. Told you it was mine. See? I didn't have to earn it. It was supposed to be mine.

The entire casket is uncovered now. I fall onto my stomach and dangle my arms to reach its latch. I had practiced this many times in my mind since the visitation at the funeral home.

My fingers' grasp finally gains purchase of the mechanism and the lid snaps into an unsecured state. I have a knife ready for her finger if need be. Or maybe I'll cut it off anyway, even it doesn't have to be. Or maybe all of them.

This little piggy is for the ring. This little piggy is for the new car. This little piggy is for the condo. This little piggy is for...I stopped.

Stay on task.

I hook my fingertips under the lid edge and slowly pry it open, my eyes closed: I want a big surprise. I would open them and there she'd be. And that ring. My ring! At last!

I open my eyes and there it is! There's the finger. But...it is only her finger. My ring on a solitary finger, cut off cleanly at the knuckle. I gasp. My sister, otherwise, is gone. Well, all of her but one finger. There is a string around the disembodied fingertip with a note.

For you, sweet sister.

In spinal reflex I slam the coffin lid down with a loud crash. I lose my mind. My thoughts race, but nothing makes sense. I consider re-opening the coffin and taking the ring anyway. Stay on task.

No! It's where it belongs. Right where it belongs. On my sister in pieces; but where the other pieces are I don't know. I laugh, because I also don't care.

I shove all the dirt back atop the coffin, but it's not a tidy job. Surely people will know someone was here. But they won't suspect me.

Because whoever did this to her left the ring.