LAST RITES, by Timothy Bentler-Jungr

Our part of Chelsea is not particularly kid friendly, so the doorbell caught me by surprise. Jason and Emmet had come by with little Maya a few hours before—her pink princess ensemble included a feather boa left over from Jason’s La Cage phase—and I figured that was probably it for trick-or-treaters this year.

A few blocks away the clubs would be jammed with writhing bodies, of course. Not my scene anymore. Not since Eric had come into my life and showed me that domestic bliss wasn’t simply a lie made up by Martha Stewart to sell magazines. I’d just poured myself a second glass of pinot noir and resumed surfing through the night’s assortment of look-alike reality shows, wishing Eric was home to provide his scathing running commentary. I hit the mute button, grabbed a couple organic granola bars from the kitchen, and opened the door.

“Hello, Stephen.”

Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was how old and shrunken she looked, but it took a few beats for my brain to register what I was seeing. Not a little bed-sheet ghost, or a miniature Darth Vader. A real monster. The Wicked Witch of Long Island.

“Mom? What are you…I mean, how did…” I realized I was stammering like an idiot. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “How did you get here?”

It seemed like the simplest question to go with.

“Taxi.” She must have caught me glancing up and down the block. “I sent him away already. So you’d have to invite me in.”

An icy wind shrieked between the brownstones, scattering dead leaves and bits of rubbish in its wake. “I could leave you out on the stoop to freeze.”

She seemed to consider this possibility for a moment. “That would be one way, I suppose. But I don’t think you will. You aren’t cruel.”

And how would you know? I wanted to ask her. I could be Jack-the-Friggin’-Ripper for all you know. Call me cruel? She had kicked me out at sixteen and told me never to darken her door again. Her actual words. “Never darken my door again.” Geraldine O’Connor had always had a flair for the dramatic, if a little clichéd.

In twenty-two years, I hadn’t been anywhere near her door; now here she was, darkening mine. In all that time, I’d seen her once. Seven—no, eight—years ago, at Dad’s funeral. Even then, elegantly bereaved in black Chanel across a crowded church, she hadn’t spoken to me, hadn’t acknowledged my presence at all. Why now?

“I’ll call you another cab. But only because Lisa would kill me if anything happened to you.” I couldn’t make myself actually invite her in, but I stepped back and let her step into the foyer. “Don’t take your coat off. You won’t be staying that long.”

In the light of the hallway I got a better look at her. Her once beautiful face looked pale and hollowed out, with purplish circles around her eyes and sores on her lips. Her hands shook as she adjusted her wig. Cranial prosthesis, I corrected myself. According to my sister, that’s what you called it if you wanted insurance to cover it.

“May I sit down? All those steps, I’m a little winded.”

Before I could answer, she walked into the living room and sat down. First rule with door-to-door salesmen, don’t let them get their foot in the door. I’d blown it.

But that didn’t mean I’d buy whatever she was selling.

Eric’s antique armchair seemed to swallow her up, making her look like a child dressed up in her grandmother’s clothes. Trick or treat.

“Very nice,” she said, her pale-blue eyes taking in the room. “Classy. Not quite what I expected.”

“And what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Leather and rainbows, I suppose. This is so normal.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, no, it’s nice. Cozy. Much more comfortable than Lisa’s place, with the toys everywhere. Is he here?” she asked, her voice dropping. “What do you call him? Your partner? Lover?”

“Eric. His name is Eric. And no, he’s not here. He’s in Boston all week, for work.”

“Oh, too bad.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “I would have liked to meet him. Lisa says he’s very nice.”

“We’ve been together more than four years. Almost five. You’ve had plenty of time to meet him if you wanted to.” I realized I still had the granola bars in my clenched hand, crushed to crumbs inside their wrappers.

“True.” She heaved an operatic sigh. “But not much time left.”

More drama. “Spare me the pity party.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A glass of water, if you don’t mind. It’ll be time for my meds soon.”

That threw me off guard. I spent a lot more time than necessary in the kitchen, fixing her a Perrier with ice and a twist of lemon while I tried to get my head around the situation. What the hell was she doing here?

“Thank you.” Her hands quivered as she raised the glass to her lips, spilling a few drops on the front of her coat. “Do you have a coaster? I wouldn’t want to ruin this lovely table.”

“It was Eric’s grandmother’s,” I told her as I placed the coaster in front of her.

“Ah. I’m to infer from that that his family didn’t disown him?”

“His parents were here for Sunday dinner last week.”

“That’s…that’s nice. Oh, for God’s sake, Stephen, sit down. Let me look at you.”

I sat on the sofa, facing her across the coffee table. My knee-jerk obedience annoyed me.

“You look good.”

No thanks to you. “You look awful.”

I don’t know what surprised me more. That she laughed, or that it sounded just like it always had. I would’ve expected a cackle, I suppose, since she looked like she’d crawled out of the bad end of one of Grimm’s grimmer fairy tales. “Oh, Stephen. You could always make me laugh.”

For half a heartbeat I flashed back to when I was about seven or eight, the two of us cracking up over some silly joke. But the next heartbeat brought other flashbacks. “Not always.”

“You’re right.” She sobered. “It’s too late for pretence. For being nice. I appreciate your honesty.”

“Good. Then maybe you can cut the crap. Why are you here?”

She drew a small pharmacy bottle out of her purse and handed it to me. “Could you open this for me? Damn child-proof caps.”

Her helplessness disarmed me a little. Showing weakness had never been her style.

“How many?” I asked, twisting the cap.

“Two. No, better make it three, just to be safe.”

I set three large, oval tablets on the table next to her glass. “You didn’t come all the way over here so I could open your pills. What do you want?”

She took her time answering, swallowing the tablets one by one. “Is it so hard to believe I wanted to see my son?”

“A little bit, yeah. Why?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Stephen. You know that I’ve been…that I’m ill. I know Lisa has kept you informed.”

“If you’re after bone marrow or a kidney or something, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Nothing so dramatic as that.” The last pill seemed to go down hard. She grimaced. “I’ve had a lot of time to think recently. To reflect on my life. Examination of conscience, that’s what the nuns called it.”

“Before confession. I remember.” I hadn’t been to church in ages, but some things were so drilled in you never forgot them. “Does that mean you’re here for absolution? Fat chance. There’s a church two blocks from here. Take a left at the corner. Try your luck there.”

“Just hear me out, that’s all I ask.”

“What makes you think I want to hear anything you have to say?”

“Well, for one thing, you haven’t called that cab yet.”

I stood and crossed the room, heading toward the phone. “I’ll get on that right now. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.”

“Wait, Stephen!” Something in her voice made me stop and look back. She had risen from the chair, but was now hunched over, her face white and rigid with pain.

I froze, unable to look away. Lisa had described Mom’s illness in lurid detail. It was a way of unburdening herself from the stress of caregiving, I guess. But seeing it, seeing the agony Mom was in, I wasn’t prepared for that.

“Shouldn’t you be in a hospital or something?” Maybe I needed to call an ambulance instead of a cab.

“No.” The worst of it seemed to pass. The tension left her face and she slumped back onto the chair, breathing hard. “No hospital. Not now. I need you to hear what I have to say.”

“Okay, fine. You win. Say your piece.” It was morbid curiosity, that’s all. That’s what I told myself, anyway. “Then you’re out,” I added, but the fight had gone out of me. Not much sport in beating up a cancer patient.

“All right.” She drew a deep breath. “I want to apologize, Stephen.”

“For what?” No way could she get off that easily. “Specifically, for what?”

“For everything. I know I wasn’t always a good mother. I made some mistakes that—”

“Mistakes! That’s your big confession, you made mistakes? You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. You threw me out on the street like garbage.”

“And I know now that I was wrong.”

“Do you know what happens to a sixteen-year-old kid on the streets?”

She seemed to shrink into her woolen coat, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. “I truly am sorry. I…I never thought…I thought you’d, I don’t know, change your mind, and you’d come back, and everything would be okay again.”

“It’s not something you can just change your mind about. I didn’t just make up my mind one morning that this was who I was going to be. This is who I am.”

“I realize that now. But back then, I didn’t understand.”

“You’re supposed to be apologizing here, not making excuses. What’s the word? Contrition, that’s it. Didn’t the nuns teach you that?”

“I’m not making excuses, just trying to explain. I don’t blame you if you’re still bitter.”

“You know what? I’m really not. I was angry for a long time. Not bitter.” Such a wimpy, genteel word. “Crazy-assed, fist-through-the-wall angry. But I got over it. I put it so far behind me I hardly ever think of you.” It was true. After carrying all that rage around for so many years, clinging to it like it was all I had, I’d finally let it go. Mostly thanks to Eric, the first person in a long, long time to make me believe I was worth something. “And now you come here and drag it all up again, so you can feel better. So, fine.” I traced a cross in the air like a priest. “I absolve you. Go now and sin no more.”

She didn’t move. For a few moments she just sat there, staring at nothing, the ghostly light and shadow from the muted television dancing across her face. “There’s more,” she said finally. “Something else I need from you.”

Should have known. “I can’t imagine what I could give you.”

Her eyes met mine. “I need your help.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve. Ask Lisa.” I felt shitty saying it. Lisa had carried the whole burden of Mom’s illness. “Or Philip. Let the Golden Child help you.”

“Philip is too far away. And what I need, I don’t think Lisa has the stomach for.”

“Okay, I’m curious. No promises,” I added quickly, “but I’ll hear you out.”

“That’s fair enough. Stephen, I need you…” She looked down at the talon-like hands twisting the handle of her purse. “I need you to kill me.”

“Christ, Mom!” I pushed up from the sofa, banging my knee on the edge of the coffee table. “Ouch! Damn it!”

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Are you out of your freaking mind? Is this some sort of sick Halloween prank?”

“I’m very serious. Serious as cancer, as they say,” she added with a faint smile. “And technically, you wouldn’t be killing me. Just helping me kill myself.”

I stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. The chemo must have fried her brain.

She pulled a second bottle of pills from her bag. “These should do the trick. The others were anti-nausea, otherwise I could throw up and that would be a waste of both our time. And I wouldn’t want to mess up your nice rug.”

“You mean, right now? You want to do this right now? Here?”

“Did you have other plans for the evening?”

“This is insane.”

“I’m dying anyway, you know.”

“But Lisa says the chemo—”

“Lisa hasn’t faced reality yet. I’m not going to get better.”

I sank back onto the sofa, rubbing my bruised knee. “If you’re dying anyway, why don’t you just wait to die?”

“I’m tired, Stephen. I’m exhausted, I’m in constant pain, and I’m miserable. You probably think I deserve to suffer.”

A play for sympathy, or good old Catholic guilt? “Maybe you do.”

“Maybe I do. I don’t mind paying for my sins. But what I can’t stand, I just can’t stand the loss of control.”

“That sounds more like the Mom I used to know.”

“This whole business—the surgeries, the chemotherapy, the battle, as they’re always calling it—it takes over. Doctors poking and prodding. Like I’m a piece of meat. And for Lisa, it’s almost like it’s a game she’s trying to win.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, I suppose not. Not a game. Sorry, my mind can get a little clouded sometimes. Things don’t always come out the way I want them to. But you know what Lisa’s like. Competitive. Hates to lose.”

That much was true. She’d been that way since we were little. “She gets that from you.”

Mom nodded. “Stubborn Irish, both of us. You too. You’re tough.”

“I’ve had to be.”

“I know.”

Did she know? I wondered. Did she have any idea what I’d been through?

“It’s like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. My life doesn’t belong to me. So I’m taking it back.”

“This is a bit extreme, though, don’t you think?”

“It’s all there is left. My death is all I have left, and damn it, I am going to be in charge.” She held out the brown medicine bottle. “Would you mind?”

I stared at it for a moment. Were we really doing this? “Oh, what the hell.”

I opened the bottle and handed it back to her.

“Thank you.”

“Why here? Why me? Why not in your own home?”

“I thought about that, but I need someone to make sure I don’t chicken out. And in the end, I didn’t want to die alone. Does that sound pathetic?”

“No, not really.” I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even her.

“And Lisa would never go along with it. She’ll fight to the bitter end to keep me alive. But I thought you would be okay with it. If there’s anyone in this world who would appreciate watching me die, it’s you.”

“Jesus, what a thing to say.” I wasn’t as ghoulish as that. Was I? “I don’t want you to die.”

“Really? Well, that’s a little disappointing. Not even a little bit? I figured you dreamed about it.”

“Well, sure. Every boy dreams. But, you know, I’d always pictured throwing you in front of a freight train or something. Fiery and violent. Not like this.”

“This way is better, I think. Less messy.”

“How do you even know it will work?” I asked, pointing to the medicine bottle. “How do you know what to take? Or how much?”

She dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand, diamond rings flashing. “I Googled it, of course. You can find anything on the Internet.”

“Huh,” was the only reply I could come up with.

“I’m very computer literate these days,” she said with a self-satisfied look. “I’m even on Facebook. I’d invite you to friend me, but there’d be no point in that now, would there?”

“No, not if you’re really… You’re sure about this?”

“As sure as anyone can be.”

“So, what’s going to happen, exactly?” I’d never actually seen anyone die before.

“If these work the way they are supposed to, I’ll fall asleep, and then…” She shrugged. “When you’re sure I’ve stopped breathing, wait five minutes, then call 9-1-1. You didn’t see me take anything. I simply dozed off while we were visiting and poof. Gone.”

Sure, I thought. Nothing could go wrong with that plan. Assisted suicide was illegal in New York, I was pretty sure. I could look it up, of course, but that would leave a computer trail.

“Well, you might as well take your coat off and get comfortable,” I said. “Looks like you’re going to be here for a while.”

I helped her out of her coat and hung it in the hall closet next to Eric’s raincoat. Eric. What was I going to say to him? Could I really do this?

When I came back into the room, she had shaken more than a dozen small, white tablets out onto the table and was already popping one into her mouth. “I’m going to need some more water,” she said, draining the last gulp from her glass.

My glass of pinot stood untouched where I’d left it on the end table. I grabbed it and took a long swallow. “How about one of these instead?”

“Oh, the doctors say I’m not supposed to mix—” She cut herself off, giggling. “Sure. Go ahead. One glass isn’t going to kill me.”

Before I realized what was happening, we were laughing together, loud and long, until my side hurt and I had to sit down. Anyone passing on the street would think we were having a party. When it subsided, I poured her a glass and topped up my own. “Cheers,” I said, raising my glass toward her. “Here’s to…to what?”

“To absolution?”

“Absolution. Absolutely.”

We clinked glasses and she took another pill before sipping her wine. A blissful look smoothed out some of the creases in her face. “Ooh, that’s good. It’s been a long time.”

“You know, I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t always pay attention. But I’m pretty sure the nuns said this was a sin. You know, what you’re doing.” What we’re doing, apparently.

“The nuns.” She rolled her eyes. “Dried-up old sticks, what do they know about life? They were wrong about you, weren’t they?”

“So you’re not afraid of hell?”

“God couldn’t be that much of a hard-ass, not for all eternity.” Two more pills, chased by a long swig of wine. “If hell exists, it’s in this life, not the next.”

“You’re probably right.” I clicked off the TV and turned on the gas flame in the fireplace. I’d wanted a real, wood fire, but Eric insisted on gas. Cleaner and easier, he said, and where would we keep the firewood? “A little atmosphere.”

“Nice. Very nice.” Another pill. “Cozy.”

“Uh, before this gets too far along…”

“Yes?”

“Well, would you mind dying over here?” I pointed to the sofa. “It’s just that you’re sitting in Eric’s favorite chair. I’ve always hated this sofa, so I won’t mind throwing it out. You know…after.”

“Of course, dear. No problem.”

I helped her get settled and moved her pills closer to her. The wind rattled the window, and she shivered a little. “It’s cold out tonight,” I said. Brilliant. Mom’s killing herself, and you’re blathering about the weather.

“Lisa will have taken the boys out trick-or-treating. I hope she remembered to dress them warmly.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“You used to love Halloween, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Loved dressing up. Maybe we should have picked up on that.”

“Maybe.” I stared into the fire, not looking at her. “This is weird.”

“Me killing myself?”

“No. I mean, yeah, that’s weird too. But us, I mean, sitting here together. Talking. I never expected this.”

“I never expected it either.” Another swallow. “But I always hoped.”

“Hoped what?” I asked, defensiveness creeping in. “That I’d change?”

“Yes, all right, I hoped you’d change. At first anyway. So sue me. It came as such a blow. You always seemed so normal, then—”

“I am normal.” Well, more or less. I took a deep breath and another swig of wine to calm myself.

“Yes, yes, okay. You know what I mean. You played football. A linebacker, for heaven’s sake. And you dated that cheerleader, what was her name? The Jewish girl?”

“Jenny Stiglitz.” I hadn’t thought of Jenny in forever, but the name came back instantly. What had happened to her, I wondered. A house in Long Island, probably, with a nice, straight, Jewish husband and two and a half kids.

“That’s right. She was sweet.”

“You didn’t approve of her at the time,” I reminded her.

“Well, no. But in retrospect, a Jewish girl seems like small potatoes compared to catching you and Ryan Jenkins in the back seat of your father’s BMW.” The memory must have disturbed her, because she took two pills in one swallow. “You can hardly blame us for being blindsided by that. And so we…we overreacted.”

“There’s an understatement.” Turning toward her, I saw that her eyelids were starting to droop.

“I kept trying to figure out what I’d done wrong,” she said. “That’s what they used to say, it’s the mother’s fault. Coddling, spoiling. But I never coddled you.”

“No, you certainly didn’t. If you coddled anyone, it was Philip, and he’s much too boring to be anything but one hundred percent hetero.”

“Be nice.” She was going through the pills like salted peanuts. “Now they say that you’re born that way, and I wonder, sometimes. You know, I still smoked when I was pregnant with you. I quit before Philip and Lisa. Who knows?”

“I think you can let yourself off the hook, Mom. It’s not your fault. It’s not a fault at all. It just is.”

“Later, I just wished you’d come back, whatever you were. But you never did.” Her words were starting to slur. How fast was this going to happen? “Stubborn Irish.”

“Look who’s talking. You could have come looking for me.”

She swallowed another one. “I’m here now.”

She had me there. Did that make her the better person? I’d need a lot more wine to get my head around that. I refilled both of our glasses and went to the kitchen for another bottle.

“Your father would have taken you back if I’d let him,” she said when I came back. “He never forgave me, you know. Do you remember Bettina, from his office?”

“I think so. Kind of vulgar? Peroxide blonde with long red fingernails?” I remember wondering how she typed with those things.

“That’s the one. He had an affair with her. Right after you left. Sorry,” she waved her hand, warding off any objection I might offer, “after I threw you out. His way of punishing me.” She closed her eyes.

The thought of Dad boffing his secretary to avenge me was strangely heartwarming. Didn’t know he had it in him. “I’m glad you told me.”

It suddenly dawned on me that I was glad. I was enjoying this conversation, and it was going to be the last I’d ever have with her. Everything was happening so fast. “Mom,” I shouted. “Mom!”

Her eyes snapped open. “What?”

“Are you sure about this? Absolutely sure? If I call an ambulance right now—”

“No, Stephen.” She seemed to struggle to focus on me. “You’re supposed to be the strong one here, remember? To keep me from backing out. Be brave.”

I took another sip of wine to wash down the boulder-sized lump in my throat.

“Come here, beside me.” Her hand flapped listlessly against the sofa cushion.

I knelt beside her and took her hand. It felt cold and bony and small in mine.

“You’re a good boy, Stephen. I’m proud of you.”

“Jesus, Mom.” I’d waited twenty-two years to hear those words. Now it seemed there was nothing else we needed to say.

“No, no. Don’t cry.” With her other hand she reached out and stroked my hair. “My pills, Stephen.”

“What?”

“My pills. Not finished yet. Got to do it right. Got to finish. You need to let me go.”

I picked up the last two tablets from the coffee table. Mom opened her mouth and, after a moment’s hesitation, I placed them on her tongue, like a priest administering communion.

“That’s my big, strong boy.” She clutched my hand tight as she swallowed. “That’s my boy. Now, Stephen.”

“Yes, Mom?”

“My funeral. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Closed…closed coffin. Promise me. Don’t want…don’t want…”

“We don’t want those nosy biddies from the country club coming to gawk and gossip about how bad you look.”

“That’s right. That’s right.”

“I’ll nail the lid shut myself if I have to.”

“White…white roses only. Not red or…or yellow. Just white.”

“Of course. White roses. Red would be tacky.”

“’Zactly. I knew you’d unnerstand. Tell Lisa…”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll see to everything.”

“Good boy. Now, music. Music…”

“How about we start with a rousing chorus of ‘Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead’?”

A faint smile played on her lips. “Nice.…That’d be nice.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Timothy Bentler-Jungr has been, at various times, a dishwasher, a bartender, a croupier, an actor/model, an English teacher, an editor, a writer, a diplomatic spouse, and a stay-at-home parent (to name but a few) while living in five countries on three continents.

A single dad, Tim is often found texting story ideas to himself while attending soccer games and school concerts, shopping for groceries, or doing laundry. This is his first published crime short story.