Myrtle

By Nancy Davidoff Kelton

I got my turtle in the pet department of W. T. Grants when I was in kindergarten and put her in a plastic bowl on the kitchen counter next to the sink. I wanted a parakeet or a canary, but my mother said a bird would make too much noise and fly around every time someone opened the cage door. I also wanted fish in a bowl like my cousins had but my mother said that fish bowls took up too much space. She definitely did not want a dog or a cat ─ or any pets really. She was not thrilled with animals ─ or people. She could not be bothered by them.

I wanted something to care for. To love. To talk to. I wanted a close friend in the house. I would take care of little Myrtle.

The reason I put Myrtle in her bowl on the counter very close to the sink was because when my mother was in the kitchen, she was usually standing at the sink making herself a highball, drinking it, washing vegetables, and getting the chicken or fish or lamb chops ready for dinner. Our dinners were often overcooked and dried out. And definitely over seasoned. Mom put too much paprika on everything. I was concerned she would season Myrtle.

My mother talked to me when I initiated the conversation. Mostly she ignored me. She definitely ignored Myrtle. She had a nervous breakdown when I was in second grade, had weekly sessions with a psychologist and then was institutionalized.

Until I was in first grade, we lived on Crescent Avenue one and a half blocks from the Buffalo Zoo. The closest entrance was on Parkside Avenue. The children’s train was right inside. So was the elephant house that had one elephant. On Saturdays and Sundays, I went there with my parents, mostly with my father alone.

One Friday morning when I was at Myrtle’s bowl about to feed her, she did not move. I put her in my hand. Nothing. My sister and mother paused and said Myrtle must be dead. My father joined us and agreed. “We should probably wrap her up and throw her out,” he said, getting a big white paper napkin.

“No,” I said. I was crying. I asked if we could wait until later that evening or the next day.  My parents consented.

On Saturday my father took me to the zoo without throwing out Myrtle first. My parents agreed to discuss how we would dispose of Myrtle later. I was sad and we decided that cotton candy from the zoo concession stand was what I needed first.

When Dad and I got to the zoo, Jimmy ─ the man who ran to concession stand and Dad’s pal ─ said that the elephant died the night before and would have a funeral and be buried. We told Jimmy about Myrtle. He made me a huge cotton candy.

“I’d like Myrtle to have a funeral, too,” I told Dad.

My father said okay. It would be Sunday at 1:00 pm. When we got home, my mother was less than thrilled with our funeral plan, but she went along with it. I called Grandma Cohen and invited her. I asked my sister to get dressed up. Knowing what Myrtle meant to me, both Grandma and Susan agreed. My father got the snow shovel from the garage. He said he would dig a hole on Sunday.

On Sunday, I consulted Susan about where to bury Myrtle. She agreed with me that near our swing set ─ but not super close ─ would be good. She said she would wear a plaid pleated skirt and a white blouse. I wore the same thing. My skirt had straps. I loved dressing like Susan.

Grandma arrived wearing a navy-blue dress. She parked in the middle of the street.  She was not a good driver or parker. My father reparked her car by the curb.

I put dandelions around Myrtle’s bowl. We had plenty of those. We also had some daisies that I put around the dandelions. My father began to shovel the dirt on top of the bowl and suggested we begin.

“We have to wait for Mommy,” I said.

“I don’t think Mommy’s coming,” Daddy said.

I kept looking inside the kitchen. She wasn’t there. I didn’t think she was coming out either. I didn’t ask why, but more tears fell than I expected. I spoke first. I said Myrtle was a delight to feed and play with until her death. And she made me very happy. Susan and Daddy were pleased that I had a sweet pet. Daddy shed a few tears.

We took turns shoveling the dirt onto Myrtle’s bowl and went back into the house. No signs of Mommy. I checked upstairs. She was in her bedroom lying across the bed. I made myself chocolate milk. I was angry at my mother for not asking about the funeral, attending it, or making me chocolate milk.

I did not talk at dinner. After I went to my room and drew pictures of Myrtle.

Years later, I got another pet. I am not sure I ever got over my mother not participating in Myrtle’s funeral.