67
Day of My Death
I take one last moment to listen to the world at night. A plane banks overhead as a distant cargo ship sounds across the water. Frogs bellow songs of love and battle and I wonder if in all that ruckus I’m hearing the one I caught for Red.
The coyotes start up, their throats churning bloody melodies, and I push myself upright, put the note in a plastic snack bag—in case things get soggy—and tuck it into my jacket pocket. My backpack is set with everything I need. I climb out my bedroom window and head to my truck. Earlier in the day, I parked it a few blocks away, at a road end where its engine won’t be heard.
I take my time walking. Always did like being out in these early-morning hours. How the dark and quiet make me feel part of it all, just one of nature’s animals. Thin clouds move across the nearly full moon, scattering its light into a bright patch of sky. A small animal darts across my path—a rabbit, I think. Always surprises me how fast they can move. I’ll miss it. Life. Because for everything that has happened, it can fucking make you cry sometimes how beautiful it is.
I stop then. I almost go back, but I would always smell Daniel on my skin, and Dad would always be pacing.
WE NEVER TALKED ABOUT IT, Mom and Nells and I, but we’d all noticed something was off that last morning. Nells elbowed me when Dad was busy yelling at Mom, mouthed, What the fuck?
Dad’s eyes were bloodshot, even more than usual. By the end of breakfast, he was on his fourth beer, ranting about how the motherfucking bureaucrats were jacking utility rates for no other reason than they could—how in the hell did they expect a man to take care of his family? And the doctors, now they were another story, acting like a man was lying when he said he was in pain, acting like he was some kind of addict. Had those sons of bitches ever had a rack of lumber crush the shit out of their spine? Turn their nerves into some goddamned torture chamber?
We’d seen him like this, lots of times, but never so early in the day, never so locked in. Then Brody had another accident, peeing all over the chair and floor. The old guy looked embarrassed like he always did. He tried to get up but collapsed in a heap, landing in the puddle. His eyes were so pathetic with shame and confusion that I almost understood why Dad did what he did. Why he walked out of the room, came back with the SIG Sauer, and shot Brody in the head.
Nells lost it, screaming, throwing herself on Brody. My father ripped her off, twisted her arm behind her back, held her there, that SIG pressed to her temple. “You love him so much? Do you? Want to join him?”
My mother and I leaped up, and the gun pointed at us. “Fifteen rounds. Plenty for all of us.” Tears were dripping down his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to know it.
My mother spoke, her voice strangely calm. “Roy, you did the right thing with Brody. He was suffering. You did the right thing. It hurts. I know. We all loved him. Now, let Nells go. We need to bury Brody.”
My father was weeping harder, shoving Nells around the kitchen, trailing Brody’s blood.
He was muttering how maybe he should put us out of our misery, do us all a favor. Every time Mom or I made a move, he yanked Nells’s arm back tighter, dug that SIG Sauer deeper. After a while, Nells quit sobbing and her eyes went dead.
Mom kept talking, soft, soothing, like he was a kid in bed hallucinating from a high fever. She told stories from when we were little, the camp-outs and barbecues, the school plays and dance recitals, going back and back till she was going on about meeting him at a school dance when they were sixteen.
“You kids wouldn’t believe your dad back then. I’d never seen a boy dance like that. Remember, Roy? The names you made up? The Snake? The Jumping Jellyfish? Your father could move.” He laughed a little and seemed to relax. But when he saw the hope on our faces, he jerked Nells’s arm like it was a crank, like he was aiming to squeeze out that whimper of pain. The war inside him was building again. All the little twitches and curses and sweat beading on his forehead, it crushed the breath right out of us.
Then something shifted. He let Nells go. Mom rushed to her, held her. Nells didn’t seem like Nells anymore. She looked like a rag-doll version they hadn’t made quite right. Dad watched Mom stroking her hair, his hands limp at his sides, his mouth hanging open. After a few minutes, recognition came over his face, like he was remembering who we were. And with it came the agitation, rising like sewage in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he said. “I have to take a leak so bad. The last goddamned thing I’ll ever do, and I’m going to end up pissing my pants.”
That’s when he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
As I walked the final block to the truck, I understood I’d witnessed my father’s last battle with his monster, the end of his lifelong war with evil. He’d wrestled it into submission but knew he couldn’t keep it down for long. Knew he only had seconds to save us.
My father sacrificed everything for us.
My monster? It’s already murdered Daniel. I have to be brave like Dad. I have to stop it at that.
IT’S A SHORT DRIVE TO THE SHERIFF’S STATION. I circle the place, making sure everything is dark, and park in Sheriff Barton’s spot at the side of the building abutting a stone wall. It’s a narrow passageway, just a few dumpsters and the sign Absolutely No Parking Anytime. If you’re driving by, you can’t see whether he’s there or not. He likes how he can sneak out a side door as certain people enter the front.
Sheriff Barton needs to find me. He’s always been nice to my mom, especially when Dad died. I’m sorry for the mess I’ll make, and it’s important that he deal with it, not Mom. He’ll be the one to tell her. He’ll hold her when she falls.
It’s four fifteen. Unless there’s an emergency call, it’ll be hours before anyone arrives. From the pack, I pull out the contractor bags and duct tape, spend the next ten minutes covering the seat, back cushions, and floor, even the windows and dash. Maybe Mom can make a buck or two off this old truck even yet.
When everything is covered except the driver’s-side door, I pull out the SIG Sauer and set it on the seat. I check things over and get out. I don’t notice if the trees are swaying or the clouds sliding in front of the moon. I’m not hoping to spot skittering bunnies or meandering deer, don’t even glance toward the Sound. I’ve said good-bye to all that.
I go behind the dumpster and take a final leak.
