An Old, Old, Short Story Retitled.
“Seventh
Son”
A
hazy mist covered the ground in the cemetery. Green saplings bent to
the ground. I walked solemnly, looking behind me every couple of
minutes. My chest beat and my legs felt tense. I had been meeting my
brother in Shadows Grove Cemetery for several years. Well, I guess I
couldn’t really call it meeting him. He’s dead. I just walked to
the cemetery to talk to him. He was the only person whom I could
really trust when he was alive. You see, my dad died before I was
born and my mom -- well, she’s crazy. She tells me that I’m crazy
for talking to Randall. She says, “He’s dead. When are you gonna
realize that? I raised a dip shit kid who talks to fucking angels.”
She isn’t all that bad, though. At least, she doesn’t hit me
anymore.
As I
approached his plot, I saw a big and nasty crow. It cawed at me and
flew into the grey sky, then alighted near Randall’s gravestone and
dashed back into the sky. The sun was beginning to make me tired. I
felt it on my skin and scratched carelessly at my face. A zit, in all
its glory, burst, and I scraped my nails past my hairline. My hair
felt heavy and smelled of Pert Shampoo. The air near the grave was
heavier. The smell of dying leaves mingled with the mossy air. I
knelt down by my brother’s grave. The soft mossy grass scratched my
knees, and I began my typical eulogy.
“Jesus,
Randall. Why did you have to die? Why couldn’t it have been me? I
was in the goddamn car too. You were driving. But I was the little
snot-nosed kid who always followed you around. I remember that day.
We got in your Pontiac Grand Am and sped down Parkway Drive.”
How
could I forget that day? Randall stopped off at Jimmy’s house to
grab a bag of weed. Then, we headed for Lorelei’s house. Some
frickin’ red Ford F-150 truck ran a stop sign, t-boned us, and when
I came to I was on the way to the hospital. Some acne-faced orderly
stopped in the waiting room to tell me that Randall had died. I never
even got a chance to say goodbye. Thinking about sitting in that
yellow wasteland of a waiting room while Jay Leno told some dopey
jokes on T.V. always made me want to cry. People were staring at me
and I hid behind a potted plant wishing that Randall was there.
While
I talked to Randall, I was usually started sobbing. Today, I lay in
the grass. I rolled over and stared at a large, shapeless elm tree.
Its leaves were dark brown and beginning to turn. I thought of
Randall, and how it would have been worse if the cops had found the
bag of weed, our mother and her comments, any number of things.
I
remembered the funeral on a dark, shapeless day. Assorted relatives
and well-wishers paying their last respects stood next to the small,
green coffin and fumbled their words. Our cousin, Joe, was too scared
to look at Randall laid out in his Sunday best. Aunt Betty and Uncle
Charlie were too preoccupied, so I grabbed the kid’s hand and took
him up there. The church was large, white, and really cold. We walked
up the aisle and I remember feeling his slimy hand. Cold, clammy, and
white, it sorta matched the walls of the place. Some god awful
incense smell filled the air and I tried not to cry. Joe took one
look at Randall and wailed. It kind of pissed me off. He barely knew
him, but the kid needed to see Randall like that. He would never
forget it, if he hadn’t. I don’t remember much else about that
day, but I do remember crying in the car on the way home and for
several days after.
Mom
shut down. She barely acknowledged that he was gone, sweeping up his
room and leaving it under the rug like all her other problems. She
became mean and bitter. “Grant,” she said, “Randall had it
coming. I always knew he would die young. He was like your Uncle
Walt. You never knew the man, but he was a bastard. That was where
Randall was headed. He would have been a self-loathing alcoholic.
Alone and empty. But, he wouldn’t find solace in the bottle;
Randall would just light another joint.”
I
nodded and concealed my smile. She was talking about herself alone
and empty, and well on her way to complete alcoholism. Her thin hands
wrapped around a cigarette and she deftly lit it. I guess that she
had years and years of practice. Her fine hair thinly shielded her
face and she sucked the smoke in. She reached into the refrigerator
and grabbed a bottle of Miller Lite and deftly shucked the cap in the
garbage can. She smiled slyly with her green eyes and I couldn’t
help but feel like crying.
But, I
wouldn’t cry today. I dried my eyes and crossed my legs. I had been
here a long time. Dark shadows framed the trees and the sun climbed
higher in the sky. I felt the soft breeze blow leaves past my feet. I
sat and thought for a long time.
Randall’s
grave was my favorite place. I had justified it for so long, because
it was a cemetery. I told myself, “You would hang out here anyway.”
Yet, I wasn’t one of the cemetery gang. I wasn’t one of those
poor Goth kids who hangs out in the cemetery and hopes to see
vampires or ghosts. I saw ghosts, but these were harsh and real and
only I wanted to see them. Lately, I had doubts. One of these days I
would stop coming to see Randall and that scared me, too. Randall
never talked back. His stone was cold and gray. Moss had grown on the
top and the faded picture of him that my mom had tacked on looked
cheesy. It was faded and forgotten. He was faded and forgotten and
looked lonely. I sighed and lay back against the stone.
I felt
someone kick me. I jumped to my feet in my best wrestling pose.
“What?” I shouted.
“It’s
just me.” It was my mom looking haggard and sad.
“What
are you doing here?” I stuttered.
“I
figured it was about time,” she mumbled. She was wearing a thin
baseball jacket. It was far too thin and the wind was picking up. She
looked so tiny. Her fine brown hair was blowing in her face. Tiny
worry lines surrounded the freckles by her eyes.
“Isn’t
it a little late? It’s been two years. You’ve been such a bitch
and you haven’t acted like you even cared.”
“I
know.” That was all she said. Her eyes were welling up with tears.
“I never say goodbye to anyone. Your father, your uncle, Randy. I
can’t live like this. I feel like I’m losing you, too.”
I
wanted to shout at her. I wanted to beat my fists in her face, throw
her on the ground and slap her. I couldn’t. I started to hate her
right after Randall had died, when she started throwing coffee cups
at me. I ducked to miss as one hit the mirror on the wall by my head.
I ran up the worn wooden stairs and hid in my room. After that, I
always visited Randall.
“I
knew that you came here. I followed you one day, but I couldn’t
come near.” She was fighting back the tears.
“You
could have asked to come with me. You could ask anything. I miss you,
mom.” I was struggling, too.
I
looked into her hazy, green eyes. The shallow wind separated us.
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