Wednesday

June 1, 2016

It was eight o’three in the morning when the phone began to ring. Dave lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. It was his landline. He knew exactly who was calling. His mother was the only one who had the number, and it was unlisted. He also knew it would ring twelve times before the answering machine picked up. One minute of shrill, mechanical insistence.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Next to it sat the phone. He lived five minutes from work, which meant he didn’t need to get up until eight fifty. This eight o’three bullshit annoyed him to no end, and he refused to pick up. Let the machine get it. She was lucky to get that much.

He routinely considered having it disconnected altogether.
After the twelfth ring, the machine clicked on.

"Martha… Just leave a message…" it said, flat and robotic.

His mother’s aged voice spilled through the tinny speaker.

"Dave," she said. "This is very important." A heavy, frustrated sigh. "I know you’re there. I saw your car in your front yard this morning." Another, more frustrated sigh. "Just… call me back."

Dave doubted it was truly important. She never said important things because she wasn’t an important person.

The clock now read eight o’six.The phone rang again. Another twelve rings. Another minute. Another message.

"Dave," she said again. There was a shift in her tone. Almost caring. Unrecognizable. He could feel something inside him stiffen.
"It’s Max," she said. "Jesus, I didn’t want to tell you like this. I thought for sure you’d pick up the second time." Her breath hitched. "Max died this morning. Around four-I need to talk to you. Call me back. Or stop by. You know, I’m only one door away."

She was. One door away. Dave lived next to her: half by choice, half by necessity. She needed help sometimes. Groceries. Mail. The lawn. He wasn’t going to win Son of the Year any time soon, and he knew it. But he showed up. Mostly.

He hated how often he felt annoyed by her needs. And he hated that he hated it. It was like the moral wires in his brain were crossed. Sometimes he wondered how crossed they really were. It’s not like Martha would be winning Mother of the Year any time soon, though she probably thought she would.

Still, he had a sick addiction to guilt, and his tenuous relationship with Martha was proof of that. He was born and raised Catholic, and even though he hadn’t practiced the faith since he was fifteen, the guilt and denial lingered.

Max is dead.

Dave hadn’t seen his brother for the better part of three years. Emphasis on better, as far as he was concerned. Their falling out was ugly. Max tried to patch things up, calls, letters, awkward birthday cards, but Dave was stubborn. A grudge-holding, stubborn ass.

He looked at the clock again.

Eight twelve.

He tried to cry. Tried to force the tears because that’s what you do when someone dies, isn’t it? When your brother dies. But nothing came.

Eight fourteen.

Sleep was out of the question now. And on top of that, he had to piss.

He rolled out of bed, landing in a shallow grave of laundry and fast food wrappers. He pulled on a pair of jeans that didn’t smell too bad and threw on yesterday’s shirt that could pass for clean if you didn’t look too hard at it.

After stumbling to the bathroom, he found himself in the kitchen, hunting for breakfast. The cupboards were nearly empty save for three boxes of cereal, each with a sad handful of flakes. He dumped them all into one bowl. The milk in the fridge was half gone and probably on the edge of sour. He sniffed it. Too close to call. Yesterday it might’ve been okay. Today it was a bridge too far.

He put the milk back and opened the freezer. A frostbitten quart of yellowed vanilla ice cream sat next to a depressing box of fish sticks he’d bought over a year ago. He grabbed the bucket, set it in the microwave, and set the timer for forty-five seconds. He pulled it out after thirty and called it good.

Lifting the bucket to pour it over his cereal felt wrong. Felt stupid. He set it down before the first creamy drop could fall.

"Jesus," he muttered, staring at his pathetic morning meal. Pancakes and an omelet would be nice. "What am I doing?"

He paused for a moment before picking up the bowl and dumping it into the ice cream.

"Much better," he said, smiling to no one.

The silverware drawer had no spoons. The sink had plenty. Dirty, mismatched, and crusted with regret. He often picked up random utensils at garage sales, tossed the old ones, never washing the new. Easier than cleaning. He opened a second drawer. A large wooden spoon stared up at him. It was practically the only thing in there.

He sat at the dining table, comically large bucket in front of him, comically large spoon in hand.

"Good God, man," said Max. "You look like shit."

Dave looked up. Sitting at the other end of the table was his brother. Disheveled hair, shit-eating grin. Somehow still cool.

"And you look like death," said Dave, raising the spoon to his mouth. Ice cream dripped from it before, during, and after the bite. Thick, cold cream dripped down his chin like the dignity he never had but always wished for.

Max stared at him.

"You know I’m dead, right?" he asked.

"Of course," said Dave with another mouthful. "I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. Besides, if you were alive, you’d have made some gross joke about this ice cream running down my chin."

"Would I?"

"No," said Dave. "You probably wouldn’t. Even though you were the fun one, that kind of joke would’ve been beneath you."

"You should talk to Mom," said Max, looking out the sliding glass door of the small dining room.

Dave looked out. Across the yard, Martha stood behind the chain-link fence, staring blankly. Like a ghost lost to time and tragedy.

"She was prettier when Dad was alive," said Dave, turning back to his breakfast. "Why would I want to talk to her?"

"Because she might have something important to say."

"She did have something important to say," said Dave. "And she said it. I didn’t even have to pick up the phone."

Max straightened up and put his hands on the table.

"She’s our mother," he said. "She birthed you! You sprang from her loins like a stick of butter on a hot day!"

"Gross," said Dave, dropping the spoon into the bucket.

"Not above that joke, was I?" said Max. "Seriously though. Talk to her. Ignoring me is one thing. Ignoring her is another."

"I don’t ignore her," said Dave. "I take care of her. Even after everything."

Max lifted his hands in surrender.

"Right," he said, conciliation dripping from his voice like ice cream and cereal. "Even after everything."

Dave looked out the window and waved Martha to him. She walked across the lawn with a frail stride that matched her ghostly appearance. She sat down where Max had been. Max stood quietly behind her as she spoke.

"Don’t you want to know what happened?" she asked.

"No," said Dave. He did, though. He really did. He just didn’t want to admit it. More importantly, he didn’t want to admit it to her, or hear it from her.

"His friend Patrick found him this morning. He was hanging in his garage."

Dave looked down. Ashamed that he felt so little. He wanted to care. But like the tears he’d tried to cry earlier, the empathy just wasn’t there.

Years of resentment had calcified inside him, like stone beneath his skin. Guarding him. Protecting him from hurt.

"Patrick said Max made a will," Martha continued. "Finalized it a few weeks ago. Usually wills aren’t read right away, but Max had specific instructions in the event of his death."

Dave looked up, meeting her teary eyes with his own dry ones. It was nice to know at least one of them could pretend to care.

"Really?" he asked.

"His last wishes were for you to get him and bring him back here," she said. Her dry, firm voice didn’t match the tears in her eyes.

"I wouldn’t know the first thing about transporting a body," Dave replied. He would use any excuse he could to not do whatever his brother wanted. "I’m not even sure it’s legal to move a corpse across state lines without some kind of permit. Or license. Or something."

"You just need to retrieve his ashes," she said.
Dave’s eyes widened. Ashes? What did anyone need him for then?

"What?" he asked. "He can’t just be FedExed or something?" He looked beyond his mother where Max stood with an absurd grin and a large pair of ridiculous finger guns.

Martha didn’t flinch. Her silence said everything. Even the worst son would do this for the worst mother.

"Fine," Dave sighed, throwing up his hands in exaggerated surrender. "I’ll stop by the office today. Let my boss know I’ll be gone for a few days."

Next Chapter: Two