The Birthright

He went down so easily.  

Here, the new dawn's haze of fog that makes everything look silvery-blue dissipates quickly when the sun arrives. The biting chill that held the frost loses its strength, leaving a glum, rusted landscape, no longer dressed in the mystery of the waking hours. Five o’clock in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I was awake at that hour. Maybe I never had been, not intentionally. Not before, and certainly not since. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the hour, but then again, he was nothing if not hard to read. Without words, we made our way through the brush to a clearing where the ground was firm; any further, it would begin to squish beneath our feet until it eventually turned into a swamp.  

I stopped walking when he did, and in silence, we began. Didn’t know his name. Didn’t need to. That would have changed everything. It was slow and painful at first, but we soon found a comfortable rhythm, during which an odd trance came over me, a euphoria, you might say, that intensified with each movement. We were quiet, not that we needed to be; there wasn’t a soul within listening distance. Yet, in its serene waking moments, the day seemed to ask that we not disturb it more than necessary.  

As we neared completion, I stopped, removed myself, and pulled a handkerchief from my back pocket. The stranger wasn’t finished yet and kept going. Standing above him, I wiped myself off, returned my handkerchief to its pocket, and enjoyed a deep breath of the wet morning air. For a moment, I stood with closed eyes, a smile, and every muscle in my body feeling beautifully fatigued.

After another deep breath, I raised my arms and swung hard, hitting him squarely on the back of the head with my shovel. He collapsed with a thud into the grave he had unwittingly been digging for himself. With a burst of energy, I replaced the dirt over the man’s convulsing body, heavily packing the earth and stomping on it over and over, just to be sure he stayed put.

It’s disturbing how quickly you can move on from an unthinkable deed once you’ve done it, perhaps even more disturbing than the deed itself. It ignites a power and a sense of invulnerable determination, and why not? You’ve just done the worst thing that anyone could ever do. Once that line is crossed, there isn’t a shred of fear left in your mind. Unlimited arrogance is the merit badge of butchery. In an instant, there is nothing you can’t do, and no consequence capable of deterring you. You may even find yourself eager to put your newfound power to the test. 

As I returned to the house, I thought about the men who preceded me. Every tree and rock in those sunlit woods had originally belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather. Since then, without fail, each man’s death passed the property to the next in line, father to son. Very soon, it would all be mine—the roads, land, woods, house, and the unmarked grave of a nameless man. Soon, but not yet. I wasn’t finished.   

It wasn’t planned. Planning is rational; life is not. Just one day earlier, I had no idea what I was about to do to secure my birthright. 

The old man picked up the television remote and threw it across the room, hitting me on the back.

“I said I need new batteries!” he barked with disgust. On his gaunt and wrinkled face, a thick, white mustache completely obscured his upper lip; my grandfather looked like a deflated walrus. “Lazy dolt. Christ, what a waste of space you are.”

After replacing the batteries, I gathered his breakfast dishes and went into our outdated kitchen to wash them while he did what he did best—sat on his ass and watched television. Most days, it was one courtroom show after another, fueled by a steady stream of coffee and then almost hourly belts of whiskey as the evening approached. To my grandfather, alcohol was a food group, and he would frequently drink himself stupid.  It was up to me to deliver him to his bed each night before he passed out, and then, of course, I had to help him the next day when he awoke angry and wet. 

Periodically throughout the day, I was treated to the grating sound of his throat as he tried to dislodge the wet phlegm that had collected there—a nauseating noise that could be heard throughout the house and even outside in the yard. If I was lucky, he might drift off into a long nap; however, more often than not, it was the end of the day’s alcohol that sent him into unconsciousness, giving me the break I needed.

After refilling his coffee, I was ordered to tend to his feet. The old man couldn’t do anything himself, or more accurately, wouldn’t do anything himself. He needed constant maintenance—nail trimmings, ear wax, haircuts, bathing—but there was no telling what he would want on any given day. I sat on the floor in front of him, and he raised a leg, which always led to a disgusting display of the ancient nakedness beneath his robe, presenting his gouty foot for me to begin the nasty task. When I finished one foot, he thrust it at me, knocking me back, cackling as I prepared to work on his remaining yellow claws. I never allowed myself to react, no matter how badly he treated me. I knew better than to open that door. 

If it hadn’t been for my sainted belle of a grandmother, I might have grown up emulating him, or I might not have grown up at all. She was such a genteel and loving woman, but it always seemed that life had misplaced her. I never got her to share how she ended up in the armpit of Arkansas with such an angry, bitter goat. At some point, their only son, my father, escaped, I suppose with my mother, leaving me behind. Without a lifted finger from her husband, my grandmother raised me. She wore a sadness that I think came from powerlessness. That woman deserved so much better than she had ever received, even after her life had ended. 

When she died, he abruptly became the sole guardian of a twelve-year-old, and the cottonmouth she encountered in the yard would live to see another day. In a way, it was the property that killed her. We were too many miles from medical care, and my grandfather didn’t know how to treat anything. I remember watching, horrified, as he clutched his lifeless wife, commanding her to stay, and held her through the night while he slept. The following day, I awoke to find him gone. I was alone in the house with my dead grandmother, with no idea if or when he would return. I loved her more than anything, but her lifeless body terrified me. There was nothing I could do but cower in the next room, alone with death hovering in the air.  Hours passed. When the old man returned, he shot me a look as if I were the fanged killer, collected her body, and left. Later, he returned alone. He never spoke of her again. 

Throughout my life, I watched as he morphed from dismissive to unkind to relentlessly cruel. Soon, no day was complete without his shrieking, and it was hardly a unique occurrence when he struck me. Still, anything he gave, I took. I learned early on that countering his vitriol with kindness wouldn’t work; I’d have an easier time trying to pet a scorpion. There was no point in trying to be nice when it would never be returned. As it had been hammered into my brain, it was his kingdom, and I was just a drudge in his castle. 

If I’m a failure, it’s what he made me. I never completed high school, which was his decision. I have no friends—again, his decision. Every chore came with his instruction to “figure it out,” so I taught myself to drive, cook, and do laundry. While he aged, I had to figure out how to cash his pension and social security checks, shop, and attend to his needs. I could have run off countless times, left for the shopping, and never returned. But I refused to run. If the reward is good enough, you can tolerate almost anything. Sooner or later, the weather will change. 

Aside from the demon who spent his days tormenting me at every commercial break, it was a decent place to call home. That’s if you don’t mind being planted in the nowhere of Arkansas, where the only man-made sounds to be heard were the ones we made ourselves. Backwoods, for sure, but nothing hillbilly about it. No truck on blocks, yard junk, unruly pets, or dirty kids running amok. And it was a real house, too, not a trailer or ramshackle cabin. To call it isolated is generous; we were surrounded by acres of dense woods, marshes, and streams. No one ever needed to visit for any reason, and that’s good. As far as I know, the roads, if you can call them that, weren’t on any map, so without a guide, you’d soon be riding aimlessly into the Ozarks.

The old man was dying. Finally. You could practically see the life draining from him, a little more each day. He chose to do so at the slowest possible pace, of course, probably to inflict as much torture on me as he could, but at least he was on his way out. I don’t know what happens inside a man’s brain when he realizes he’s not long for this world, but after years of reclusive loneliness, it sort of made sense that he was so unhinged. I almost felt sorry for him. I doubt there are many around who would recognize his name.  I’m not sure even he knew who he was some days, but that could have been the liquor.

As his only living relative, you might think he would respect family tradition and prepare me to take ownership of the property before he got too old, but no. Not that it mattered much. Soon, he’d be gone; it would be mine. I might decide to sell it. That land was worth enough to give me a normal life.  

The old man gave me a job.  

“Tomorrow, go on over to where the bus stops in Quitman. A man will get off at three o’clock. Bring him back here.”

“What’s his name?”  

“It don’t matter,” he snapped.

“Well, how am I supposed to know it’s him?”

“Just how many fucking men do you think get off the bus at Quitman at three o’clock on a Tuesday?” He glared at me over reading glasses. “You got any more questions? Christ. He won’t speak much, and that’s fine, you hear? Don’t you be up his ass about anything, either.  And make sure you stop and get more whiskey.”

He often reminded me his business was none of mine, even though, from banking to shopping and now collecting a visitor, I was the one getting that business done.  

The only person who got off the bus in Quitman climbed into my old pickup truck at eight minutes past three. He was tall and fit, wearing jeans, a button-down shirt, and a few days of stubble. At first, I thought he was around 60, but I couldn’t be sure. His eyes were shielded by aviator sunglasses, like two-way mirrors. He said nothing, just nodded at me and smiled. 

The long drive back was quiet. At one point, he noticed the half case of Jack between us and took one of the bottles, opening it. After a healthy swig, he turned to me, holding out the bottle as an offer.

“No, thanks,” I told the stranger. “I’m good.”

He sat for a long while, still facing me, but it was impossible to know exactly what his eyes were seeing behind those glasses. It felt as though he was studying me, and as soon as it became clear I was uncomfortable, a slight grin appeared on his lips, which he opened to take from the bottle again before replacing it in the box. This stranger exuded an annoying aura of self-satisfaction. I didn’t trust him.

“We’ve got business,” my grandfather informed me. “After we eat, we’ll get down to it, and you’ll leave us alone. You get to your work while we settle our debts.”  

We took our meals in separate locations: the old man sat in the TV room, the stranger sat at the kitchen table, and I was on the side porch, where the windows allowed me to keep an eye on both. Later, as I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, our guest was led into the study, a room that was off-limits to me and always locked to make sure. Settling debts, he had said. What debts? Nothing I could conjure in my mind would satisfy my curiosity. The house wouldn’t let me discover what was happening either. Any attempt to approach the study door would elicit a scream from the dry, creaky floor; in that house, eavesdropping was a fool’s errand.

Later, as I poured the whiskey, I was informed that the time had come. My heart began to race. My grandfather always intended to go out on his own terms before becoming a vegetable trapped in a failing body. I knew the day would come, but not so soon. I had no objection, though. Let him end it, and then his sour, crinkly body will become the earth’s problem.

I had my instructions already; they were given years ago and regularly reiterated. I was to prepare a spot in the middle of the property and lead him to it. There, in any manner that pleased him, he would end his life, leaving me to complete the burial.

“He’ll help.” The old man gestured to his visitor, who tossed back his drink. “You’ll do it early, at dawn. Do what he says. No questions.”

That night, I lay awake, frantically wondering why it was necessary to involve this outsider, who seemed to be fine with the task at hand. He must have owed quite a bit for the old man to add digging his grave to the bill.  

After a long walk in the dark of the morning, we reached the clearing. The stranger pointed down, indicating where it would be. He still hadn’t said a word, and I wasn’t to question him. We stabbed the ground with our shovels and worked ourselves into numbness, but I didn’t stop once. An adrenaline high kept me going as I anticipated the pleasure and relief I would get from watching my grandfather depart this world. Each scoop of earth was another step closer to my freedom. No amount of work to get there was too much. 

I watched him dig, still wondering why he was there assisting me. I grew nervous. What would happen after the job was completed? It seemed unlikely that he would get back on a bus and return to wherever he came from, not with all he must know. I replayed his visit in my mind, analyzing each moment for clues.

Suddenly, panic. From the moment he arrived, he seemed overly comfortable, even satisfied. Then, a thought. Maybe the debt wasn’t his. Maybe the old man owed him. But what was worth a bus ride to the middle of nowhere to collect?  

The property. Of course. That must be it. That’s why I was kept in the dark about their business. The old man had been saving one final way to fuck me on his way out. But I wasn’t about to let that happen, not after all I had been through.

That’s when my shovel met his head. I didn’t plan it. It just happened—a reflex, as quick and uncalculated as a smack onto a biting mosquito. 

Back at the house, the old man waited in his robe and boots. He smoked a nasty cigar and drank the top-shelf whiskey he had saved for the last day of his life.  

“What the hell took you so long?” he snapped. “You’re tracking mud in. Goddamn imbecile. Where is he?”  

I couldn’t believe the anger he was going to carry out of this world. I didn’t expect him to find a heart, but who wants to go out like that, so full of misery? 

“He’s out there. When you’re ready.”  

“Damn right, when I’m ready,” he declared before taking a long swig from the bottle. “Let’s go if we’re going.”

He was already a little drunk, taking sluggish steps, the bottle in one hand and a container of pills of an unknown type and origin in the other. It took quite a while at his speed to get to the grave. The second grave, that is, which I had prepared alone. 

The damp, open cavity awaited. The old man stepped out of his boots, pulled off his robe, and sat down like a nudist, dipping his feet into a swimming pool. He drank. The sun lit a cloudless sky overhead, but he was not interested in taking a few final moments to enjoy what he was about to leave.  

“Where is he?” he barked, looking around.

“He can’t have gone far. I’m sure he’s here. Somewhere.”

“Well, I can’t wait forever. Help me.” The miserable goat took my arm and lowered himself into the hollow. He took a massive swig of whiskey and started gobbling the pills straight from their bottle, stopping regularly to wash them down with a big glug. He began to cough quite a lot, and I worried he might retch them up, but somehow, he settled, pleased with himself. Suddenly, I heard a steady splatter. That nasty pig was relieving himself as he continued to drink. Unbelievable. He looked like the ass end of a horse, with no concern over what was falling from him. Pissing into his own grave.

“Won’t be long, thank god,” he slurred. He took a final swig, finishing the whiskey, a little escaping his mouth at the corners and running down into the folds of his saggy skin. Still clutching the empty bottle, he stumbled while attempting to lie down and collapsed in a drunken heap. With one look at the pathetic scene, my heart held back a few beats. That was it. He was still alive, but no matter what, he was never getting out of that hole again. I kicked his boots and robe into his pit of drugs, drink, and piss. His breathing became labored as he positioned himself face up. “Tell him… Tell him they should have locked him up.” The old man then let out a comically long groan and spoke through the final stupor of his life.  “Tell him I’m ashamed of him. Tell him I said he was a lousy son.”

It was only a split second before I realized what he was saying, but it felt like hours. My stomach turned to stone. His son. My father, dead at my hands. I was as disoriented as my grandfather. I had always been told my father was dead. It was true now, but only because I had made it so. 

It was the old man’s drunken gurgles—all incoherent nonsense—that pulled me out of my thoughts. The drugs would soon finish him off. With all the anger and horror of that moment, my exhausted body called on its overworked muscles to scoop up the heavy soil again. 

“Tell him yourself,” I said. “I put him down there next to you.” I released the shovel’s heaped contents directly onto his head just as his eyes and mouth sprang open wide, reacting to my confession. 

In only a few hours, I managed to bury my father and his father, in each case piling the soil onto them before they were even dead. I never returned to that spot again. No doubt the seasons have since worn down the land, and the weeds, shrubs, and grass have grown and died and grown again, leaving no trace of the twin graves for the naked eye to find. I’ll take what I did to my own grave, wherever that may be. I may have years to go, but there is nothing to look forward to, and there never will be. Not with what I survived and what I did in return. The worst of my life was gone, as was the best. Never would there be a better feeling than the day I stood atop two low mounds of earth in that field near the marsh, finally alone and acres from anywhere that wasn’t mine.