Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

We were in the mall, moving past the huge plate-glass window of Fireside Jewelers, when she unlaced her fingers from mine and stopped in her tracks.

She glanced at me and gave a grin. I returned to her side and we stood shoulder-to-shoulder and stared through the window together.

She had her eye on a half-carat diamond bordered by twin sapphires. Not too expensive so far as these things went, but more cash than I’d ever dropped on anything in my life. My fingertips itched.

“I can get it cheaper,” I said.

“You can’t steal an engagement ring.”

“Why not?”

“Is that the question you’re asking me? Why you can’t steal my engagement ring?”

“Nope.”

We stood there for what seemed like a long time. I held her to me. Moments like these, I thought I could go straight. I wanted to offer our children a life, a future, something besides a house full of decades-old loot that nobody wanted. I imagined the ring on her finger. It looked like it would hurt if she brushed it against my back while we were making love.

We stepped inside. She tried the ring on and held it up and I kissed her finger and I kissed the piece of ice. I thought I had just enough cash in my wallet to at least make a down payment. I was wrong. They wanted twice as much. Kimmy reluctantly took the ring off but she remained giddy. I put my hand to her belly. My girl inside wasn’t moving yet.

I reached for her.

Sweat slid onto my lips and I heard voices in the backyard. The taste of salt reminded me of kissing down the length of Kimmy’s back that night while she giggled and eyed me over her shoulder and said, “That’s it, that’s it, worship me like a dirty goddess. Kiss me like I’ll die tonight.” I coughed and thought I should go to the window, I should see who’s out there, but I wanted to return to my girl. I rolled over. I pressed my face into the pillow. The voices stopped and the breeze carried only the scent of storm.

I leaped out of bed to the sound of screams. I hit the stairs and jumped down three at a time. JFK rounded the corner, barking insanely. I’d never heard him like that before. He knew something I didn’t. My mother hung wilted against the back-door jamb, hunched over but with her knees angled outward like she was about to push out a baby. Beyond her, my old man was hauling something heavy across the yard, gasping, struggling, the way he had when we’d pulled up tree stumps together. JFK circled and chewed at his hindquarters. I watched my father dragging Mal’s massive and rigid body through the dirt, guts trailing behind. His brother’s dead weight was too much for my dad, and his eyes flitted in a wild panic as he searched anywhere for help. His wet gaze finally landed on me but he was too out of breath to say anything. He mewled what could’ve been my name. My father had finally lost control. I took a step off the back porch and my knees nearly went out from under me. My mother moved to me, turned away, and tightened her arms around herself, her eyes shut tight. Grey hurtled from the back door like a ballet dancer, covering an unbelievable distance in four or five bounds. He was in a white T-shirt and boxers, which were immediately soaked through with red. Grey’s voice cracked to pieces as he shouted, “Call an ambulance!” It was too late for that. It was too late for anything. My mother wailed in response. Dale appeared at my side. She wasn’t sobbing, but the tears ran into her mouth. “Don’t move him. You’re disturbing the… the… forensic evidence. The police-” My father and Grey dragged Mal on his back, flattening the grass and digging gouges in the rain-softened earth. Mal’s head bounced across the ground, which made his tongue jut and withdraw like he was testing soup that was still too hot. His eyes were half open and perfectly focused. He seemed puzzled, a little uneasy, but not too concerned about any particular thing. His face tilted and I caught his gaze. He still had something to tell me. I rushed forward and tried to help and they batted me away. I reached for my cell phone to call Gilmore and realized I was naked.

It rained like a son of a bitch the day we buried Mal. Some of his old grifter and heister cronies showed up and stood there in the downpour, sipping from flasks and sobbing.

The young priest knew our family’s reputation and went full out with a morality lesson as he stood over the open grave. He had thick glasses spattered with raindrops. He had trouble reciting certain passages and stumbled over the words, misspoke them, chased after them, his voice rising dramatically. He reached for hellfire but stammered too badly to get the proper rhythm down.

Dale hung back with Old Shep. He was in a wheelchair and dressed to the nines, and she kept her hands on his shoulders. He wore a white fedora that my mother had placed on his head to keep him warm, and the rain ran off the ends of it. Within the etched sorrow of Dale’s face I thought I could see a hint of anger. Butch was a no-show.

Beneath her umbrella, my mother let out occasional gasps of disbelief. I thought I could almost hear my father’s heartbeat above the wind. I kept a watchful eye. I was afraid that my old man might strangle the priest with his own rosary.

Gilmore stood behind my mother like he was one of the family. I knew it was insane to think he was a killer, but he reminded me so much of Collie that I couldn’t let go of the fear and suspica ›herk glafor mion. There were at least five officers scattered through the cemetery, all carrying the same umbrellas and pretending not to survey us. The cops had given us hell for moving Mal, but they seemed to accept that my father and Grey had simply been too upset to think rationally. We spent four hours answering questions. They collected all the knives they could find in the house, which was maybe half. If my family had been trying to cover up the crime, there were a thousand square miles of marsh from Sheepshead Bay to Fresh Kills where we could’ve tossed the corpse.

I stood in Grey’s suit and ill-fitting shoes. I wore one of his raincoats as well. I hadn’t knotted it properly and the tails flapped in the wind. Lin showed up and mostly hid herself under her umbrella. She didn’t introduce herself to the family and I didn’t do it for her. I probably should have, but the timing couldn’t be worse.

Victoria and Eve each held on to one of Grey’s hands, the three of them stooped beneath Grey’s umbrella. Eve met my eyes once and gave a sad smile. I nodded back.

Somehow we got through the service. They lowered Mal in and everyone passed by and tossed roses into the flooded grave. His grifter friends threw in other bits as well. Coins, photos, goodbye notes they’d written, pocket Bibles. They were more emotional than I would have guessed. A few were openly crying. One fumbled his way toward Grey and nearly knocked him over. Another drew my father into a wild bear hug. My mother appeared to know them both and whispered and consoled them until they clumsily moved off.

The rain hissed like water in a pan simmering on a stove. I was tired of the noise.

Grey’s hand trembled so badly that when he walked past the grave and threw in his rose it fell short. His knees started to buckle and he nearly went headfirst into the hole. My father and I both rushed to him and kept him on his feet. Victoria wrapped an arm around his waist and he clopped back and laid his head against her shoulder.

Large puddles had formed at the edge of the grave. Grey’s rose swirled around twice before a stream carried it to the lip, where it hung and quivered before finally dropping away.

The image had an impact on me. The deep-red flower disappearing into the black pit. I knew I would have sporadic dreams about it for the rest of my life. Because it looked to me as if, at the last instant, the rose had been snatched into the grave.