Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

“I didn’t say that. I’ve still got half a roast in the fridge. Why would we go out to dinner?”

“Leave the roast. We haven’t gone out together in a while. We can eat at the Nasgonset Inn. We always liked their Italian.”

“They have a good house wine. All right. Let me get dressed and put my face onx20.”

“You look fine,” I said.

“He’s right,” my father agreed, “you’re beautiful. And I don’t want to wait two hours or we’ll never get out of the house. Come on.”

My mother reluctantly agreed with a timid smile. Once again I grew aware of just how burdened they both were by how ugly things had become over the past few years and my part in that. This might be her last smile, the last I’d ever see. My name would be spoken with shame from now on, just like Collie’s. I almost took a step toward her, but my dad gripped her hand and led her out the door. She looked over her shoulder once and met my eyes. I watched his back muscles moving beneath his shirt as he walked onto the porch. Outside, JFK lumbered to his feet and licked my father’s hand. My mother gave the smallest of waves. Then my old man tugged her across the porch and to the car. I watched my parents pull out of the driveway.

I looked at the ceiling and listened to Grey’s footsteps. My breath hitched. I shut my eyes and tried to center myself, but too much flashed across the screen of my mind. I kneeled beside my grandfather’s chair. I had no idea what he’d seen, what he knew. Maybe he did have some shame left, maybe not. His chin was resting against his chest. I reached for the remote and turned the cartoons on for him with the sound down low. His head lifted.

I smelled Grey before I saw him. His vegetable moisturizers, aftershave, citrus conditioners, the minty mouthwash. He was ready to go out. I didn’t know where. Which woman would he chase tonight? A few thin shafts of sunlight crossed behind him as he moved into the living room. He was in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and power tie. A shiver passed through me. There was something chilling about seeing him so well dressed now.

He didn’t notice me kneeling on the floor. He didn’t seem to notice anything. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Glenlivet. He took a deep pull and then let out a sigh.

“Pinsch?” he called. “Ellie? Anyone still here?”

There was a hint of desperation in his voice. He sounded lonely, even forlorn.

He cocked an ear, waiting for a response. When there wasn’t one, he stepped to the screen door and stared out at the rest of the world. He was cool and handsome, hepcat aristocratic. He was dashing like they didn’t make them anymore, sophisticated swank and suave as he sipped his drink in the sunlight.

After a minute he seemed to soften and slacken a little. He pawed at his face. He said something I didn’t catch. It might’ve been my father’s name again. It might have been mine. His grip on the glass eased and it began to slide out of his hand. I thought it would hit the floor but he managed to hold on. His breathing deepened.

I looked into my grandfather’s eyes. He wasn’t watching the cartoons anymore. He was staring at my face.

I stood and spoke Grey’s name.

He didn’t respond. He seemed to almost be sleeping on his feet. I spoke again, louder. He turned his head toward me.

“What the hell are you doing there?” he asked. “Does he need a change?”

It was like I’d woken him in the middle of the night. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink, and straightened his tie.

The neckties. Maybe I should have known just from the necktie fetish. I thper oought of him knotting them around his fists, snapping the material in his hands. Following Collie around town on the night of the underneath, guessing what was going to happen.

Worse, I wondered if Grey had somehow actually pushed Collie into the underneath.

“You want a drink, kid?”

He must’ve been excited after our night out together at Torchy’s. He had sensed the underneath tugging at me too. He thought it might lead me to going mad dog. He’d wanted to see what I was capable of, if I was ready to be drawn down the same way Collie was. It’s why he pushed so hard for the double date. It had been Grey out there in Eve’s yard. He’d stood at the window and peeked in on me having sex with Eve. Did he want me to attack her? Had he expected me to kill her?

I remembered Grey’s hot eyes during the poker game. I remembered how he had slapped my face and looked at me like he had something to say but was unable to say it. He’d watched me at work during the game, the tension high, ready to fight, ready to snap. He saw me baring my teeth at Danny Thompson, going for his throat.

It had somehow aroused Grey’s sickness. His dementia needed a catalyst to activate it. Since I’d come home he’d been waiting for the underneath to take me down too, so that he could follow along in my blood-drenched wake the way he had in Collie’s.

Mal must’ve seen the agitation in Grey, the growing chaos. After the card game that night, he must’ve recognized how detached Grey was becoming. I imagined him finding Grey outside in the yard, holding a necktie twisted between his fists. I could see Mal reaching for his brother out of love and terror. He’d discovered him out back before, wandering the yard. I could picture Mal being as afraid for his brother’s sanity as for his own.

Maybe he knew what was happening. They had spoken quietly. I could see Grey admitting what had happened, mentioning Rebecca Clarke’s name. Then reaching into his pocket and drawing out the knife.

Collie’s knife, the one he’d yanked out of Douglas Schuller’s chest in the gas station men’s room. Staring at it in the moonlight, I could see the vastness of the truth being too huge for Mal to handle. I imagined him going to grab his brother, maybe to shake him, to hurt him, or only to clench him tightly. So physically strong that the first couple of stabs might’ve only felt like wasp stings. Once he realized he was being murdered, he might have embraced the pain, accepted it, unable to fight against the person he loved most in the world. Thinking, How is this possible? How is it possible that I’m being killed by my own brother? And Grey still stabbing Mal like he was trying to kill whatever was wrong in himself. So divorced from himself that he not only didn’t know himself but didn’t know who he was killing.

As much as I hated Collie for what he’d done, as much as I’d said that I wanted him to die, in my heart I would never be able to kill my brother.

I backed away.

Grey said, “That drink, yes or no?” He furrowed his brow at me. Not a hair out of place.

I thought of Lin’s files. Could Grey really be responsible for all those murders? Or had he only killed Becky Clarke on a dark, insane night that consumed him and my brother? I thought of Collie pleading with me, setting me in motion. Had he wanted this? Had he spotted Grey behind him at some point during his spree? Had he known about Grey all along?

amp;st #x201C;Terrier, you’re shaking. You’re pale. Sit down.”

“No, I’m all right.”

“You’re sweating. Let me get you that scotch.”

He started to move across the kitchen and I held my hand up, gestured for him to stay still.

“No,” I said.

“You all right? You sick?”

“Me? Yeah, maybe.” I checked his eyes. He was back, but did his conscience know what he’d done? Was he aware of it, or was the truth hiding deep in his head? “I need to know the truth, Uncle Grey.”

“The truth? The truth about what?”

“About what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done? What the hell have I done?”

A rush of despair moved through me. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest and held back the flood. “You killed Mal. You snuffed Becky Clarke.”