Sick & Tragic Bastard Son

by Rowan Massey

  Mom brought me a sandwich around noon. I hadn’t had any breakfast and I was ravenous. Nothing can stop a growing boy’s appetite.

  Sitting on Liam’s bed, she watched me eat for a little while, playing with her fingers in her lap.

  “Listen,” she said, glancing at the open door. “He shouldn’t have done that. Nobody should ever hit you, understand? He lost his temper. I know he’s sorry, but you know your dad; he’s not going to say so.”

  It was a lot like the sorts of talks I’d gotten during the divorce. I tried to just eat my sandwich. I didn’t know if Dad was sorry or not.

  “Clay?”

  I tore my attention away from my food. She was giving me a searching look. Her hand reached out for my plate, and I gave it to her, even though I wanted to finish it. She placed it on the bed beside her and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.

  “You have to tell me exactly what happened,” she said, looking me steadily in the eye. It was nice to have her looking right at me with compassion. Maybe she wasn’t assuming I was some sort of monster. That was all I needed in order to let my confession spill out in full. I talked about the kittens and how sweet they were, how much I wanted to save them. When I told her about what I’d done to Liam, I did my best not to sound like I was making excuses.

  It was hard to explain why I’d been driven to climb that enormous tree. Her eyes widened, and I saw a flash of anger when I talked about how hard it had been to accomplish, and how high I’d gotten. I skipped to falling asleep on the ground. Only when telling her that part did I see how strange it was to be able to sleep that way at all. It sounded like a lie. My voice trailed off and I started to fiddle with the hem of my shorts.

  “And then you finally thought to go check on your brother?” she asked, trying to keep her tone in check, but failing.

  No, I hadn’t thought to check on him at all. I’d only come back to him by accident.

  “Mom…” The corners of my mouth pulled down. I didn’t try to hide my shame. I saw her hand clench. She stiffened, and I wondered if she wanted to start hitting me too, but she didn’t touch me. She sat there that way until she was able to compose herself.

  I hunched over. The three strikes on my back felt like they were radiating heat. If there was something I could do for the pain, I didn’t know what. Although I wanted to tell her how much I was hurting all over, I bit my lip and kept my mouth shut.

  “Did anybody tell you what the doctor said?”

  “No.”

  “When a child gets-” She drew a hand down her throat. “Gets abused. Well, they called CPS. Do you know what that is? It’s like calling the parenting cops, basically. We told them we would separate you until…I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. I don’t think they will, but if they send a social worker to talk with you, just be honest.”

  I nodded. The information was overwhelming. Did that mean I was a criminal? Could they arrest eleven-year-olds? Were my parents and grandparents in trouble for what I did?

  “Just obey Grandma and Grandpa until we come back to take you home. I think we’ll probably have you stay here until school starts. I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “Okay,” I said, and added, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, but you made horrible mistakes, Clay. You’re not that stupid. You were hiding some kittens, and I can understand that, but the rest? I know you knew you were doing wrong. An entire afternoon of being very, very bad…I don’t know what’s going on with you.” She seemed to run out of energy for the conversation and sighed before getting up and leaving without another word.

  I stopped listening for footsteps and conversations in the house, and opted for getting under the covers and pressing the pillow over my face. That way, I couldn’t hear or see anything. The punishment Dad had inflicted on my back burned horribly, which I deserved, so the pain made me feel better in a way. I smothered myself, fists clenched in the pillow’s fluff, until my instincts wouldn’t let me hold my breath any longer, then I’d let myself gasp in a few lungfuls of air. I did it over and over. I tried not to scream, but in the end, I did. The sound was easily muffled. I was alone in my pain, just as Liam had been.

  ◆◆◆

  It was possible the floor was paper, and I was about to fall through at any moment into a slimy, black abyss. Once the image entered my mind, I had a frightening sense of the darkness directly under my feet. It was hungry for me.

  I’d never been so aware, minute by minute, of my vulnerability. In contrast, I remembered climbing the tree and being invincible in some way, even after I’d looked down. I hadn’t ever feared that I could be badly hurt, much less hit by an adult.

  After my parents left with Liam, I spent a few days alone in my bedroom. After the first day, I’d mustered the courage to ask what my punishment was and was only told to stay in my room. I wasn’t given any entertainment. Going to the bathroom was my only relief from those four walls, but I didn’t let myself linger, afraid I would be reprimanded.

  By the time Grandpa came in the room, I was so eager for something to finally happen, I wasn’t afraid of what might come next. He looked me over and didn’t seem to see what he wanted to see.

  “Let’s go,” he said gruffly. “I got work to do and you’re helping.”

  When he jerked his head in the direction of the hall, indicating for me to follow, I nodded and fell into step behind him. I did so trustingly. If I was in for more punishment, so be it, so long as I didn’t have to stare at that ceiling any longer.

  We trudged downstairs to the tiny room beside the living room that served as Grandpa’s study. Since the space was almost as small as the closet, I stopped in the doorway. I’d never gone in. There was nothing there that would interest a child, unless you counted the fact that it was where Grandpa kept his guns.The door was usually locked for that reason, but guns had never been an interest of mine. I was familiar with the distant crack of gunfire, since there were hunters in the woods sometimes, but it had never sparked my curiosity.

  He opened the gun cabinet with a key and took out a big gun. It was a Winchester lever action rifle. I remembered that much from overheard conversations. Without looking at me, he braced it on his hip and started loading cartridges. He then laid it on his desk while he grabbed a vest from a nearby shelf, along with two orange hats. He put the vest on and filled its pockets with bullets, then handed me one of the hats. I put it on without a word, but my insides were shaking.

  Many times, Grandpa had tried to convince my mom and dad to let me learn to hunt with him, but they’d drawn the line. Why had they changed their minds? Or had Grandpa made the decision alone? I hoped he wouldn’t make me fire it. I didn’t know what scared me more about going hunting with him: the fact that he was angry at me, the fear that something would go wrong and I’d get hurt, or that an animal would bleed and die in front of me. There were other fears as well, but those were the ones buzzing through my mind.

  Instead of heading out the back door and heading into the trees where I’d done what I’d done, we went out the front. I asked no questions, only stepped into the afternoon heat directly behind him and followed him to his truck. It was already unlocked, and I climbed up inside. The interior was baking hot. I cracked the window, but it offered only a modicum of relief.

  We drove off the property and headed down the old road. From summers past, I knew the patterns of the fields of crops by heart, but they’d changed somehow. Everything had changed.

  Not ten minutes had passed when Grandpa pulled the truck onto a side road. The transition was bumpy. The well-worn dirt road was full of pot holes, which he made overly abrupt and impatient attempts to avoid. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement, and turned my head to see the pack of dogs for the first time. My stomach pitched when Grandpa made a satisfied grunt. He slowed and parked the vehicle. When he got out, I knew I was supposed to follow him but I was frozen. Would he be so cruel as to just shoot them? Wasn’t that different from killing dee
r or raccoons?

  I jumped when he slapped his hand onto the metal and called for me to get out. I could only obey. Out under the sun, I watched the pack where they loosely wandered at the edge of a row of trees between two fallow fields. Grandpa lifted his rifle almost casually. There were four dogs of the same size. I couldn’t tell from that distance what breed they might resemble, but they didn’t look like anything special. Three black and one yellow. The yellow barked at us and headed our way with a sauntering gait. I had the urge to meet it in the middle of the field and greet it like I would any other dog. That was what I would have done under other circumstances.

  Grandpa sighted them for half a minute, while I stood there cringing, shutting my eyes and opening them, clinching my fists and flexing my fingers wide. Then, I experienced the sound of a gunshot up close for the first time. My hands went to my ears. I stumbled backwards until the hot metal of the truck caught me. The yellow dog went down and disappeared behind the grass and weeds. The others scattered quickly. He looked down the barrel at his targets but didn’t shoot again since they managed to head behind the trees. Grandpa turned slowly gave me a passive expression.

  “Get a trash bag out from the back of the cab,” he said.

  I nodded and hurried to do as he said. What were we going to put in the bag? Had someone left garbage around? No, it was for the dead dog. How had he known where to find the pack? Why did he want me to come and help, if he was going to shoot them himself? Nervous questions continued to plague me. The scenes transpiring in my life were too stunning and rapid. I couldn’t take in the death of the dog. There hadn’t been time to become attached to it or the others before Grandpa had pulled the trigger.

  Back in the truck, I gulped down my nausea while picking through all the junk in the back of the cab until I found a blue box of big, heavy duty plastic bags. They were the kind used for raked leaves. I pulled one out and hurried to hand it to Grandpa, but he was already heading across the edge of the field. Most of the aches of my body were gone, but my shirt was sticking to my damaged back, and sweat soaked the forehead of my hat. It trickled down my neck. It was an effort to move around in the sweltering air after sitting and laying still for days. I tried not to show my exhaustion, and ran to catch up with him, my ankles wobbling a little painfully on the uneven ground. The closer we got to the dog, the more nervous I became, but I wouldn’t disappoint him by looking weak.

  The dog’s eyes were open and slightly lidded, and its tongue hung out of its open mouth. I schooled my features, trying to hide my horror. Maybe something dank and hollow had swallowed me through the floor after all. Maybe this was hell.

  I’d rarely seen any dead animals; only roadkill on the highway. I wasn’t a particularly outdoorsy kid until I got to climb a tree, and we lived in a quiet and tidy suburban area. There had been no time to expect it to be like anything specifically, but I couldn’t have imagined the way the body was as still as stone. It was too much. I turned away. Shooting a dog in broad daylight as if it were nothing seemed obscenely forbidden. Looking around, I saw no signs of other people, but I still felt exposed. I scanned the road.

  “One of the neighbors called me,” Grandpa said. “We wouldn’t have to do this if animal control would get their act together and hire somebody. They only have one part-timer, and he doesn’t give a crap enough to do his job way out here.”

  He took the bag from me and bent over laboriously to slip the plastic over the dog’s head and neck. “Help me get her in,” he ordered.

  Despite my determination to take my punishment, it was too much to ask. I couldn’t. I shook my head and pressed a hand to my stomach, trying to settle the boiled sensation in my gut. He stood up and took his hat off to drag a sleeve over his forehead. He looked at the orange hat in his hand before putting it back on.

  “The hats aren’t really necessary,” he said, as if confessing something more serious, but he didn’t look at me. “Just don’t want to teach you bad habits.”

  Something about his tone told me it was his version of telling me he understood. I stared down at the half-covered dog while we stood quietly. He didn’t say anything else, but he did look down at me, finally, and he seemed to be waiting patiently. Eventually, I took his small peace offering. I had to trust that he had his reasons. I stepped close to the dog and took her dirty paws in my hands. Internally, I was whimpering, but outwardly, I forced myself to be less emotional. The fur was like any other fur I’d touched, just dirtier. After pulling her legs into her soft belly, I tugged at the bag until she was covered. Looking up at Grandpa when I was done required letting the sunshine in my eyes.

  “Tie up the end and drag her to the truck,” he said. He turned and walked away.

  I did as I was told, feeling terrible about closing her up in the plastic because I thought it would be dark and scary inside. A live dog would panic at such treatment. Knowing she was dead and gone only eased my mind a little.

  The distance to the truck felt as if it had doubled. On the way, the bag caught on something and tore open, but the gap was only a few inches. I kept going. At the truck, Grandpa had opened the tailgate. I helped him lift the body onto the truck bed next to various tools that I didn’t have the presence to get curious about. From the shape and density of the flesh beneath the plastic, I could tell that I had her head in my hand. What if I touched her open eyes by accident? The body rolled and almost flopped out of my arms, but I managed to grab on hard enough to get her loaded into the truck. I stepped away, trying to suppress the sickness and shaking in my limbs.

  I didn’t know where we were headed next. I didn’t ask. The ride back to the house was tense. Now and then, I snuck a look back through the window to check on her. It was a ridiculous thing to do, but I couldn’t seem to resist the urge.

  “Clay,” Grandpa said, “what you did to your brother was a perversion of your morals. I don’t know where you got the idea that animals are as important as people, but they aren’t. They’re just animals. Just cats. Just dogs. It’s no different from the chickens and cows we eat every day. You’ve got to learn. People come first. I’m trying to use this problem with the dogs as a lesson. Understand?”

  I nodded, but I’d lost all solid understanding of the world. Anyway, he was wrong in that I hadn’t been putting the kittens above Liam. It had been an accident. I would take responsibility, but I didn’t see anything wrong with my morals.

  I glanced back at the fluttering plastic bag again. How long would it take for the body to start cooking in there? Could the meat of the dog really be like the meat of a chicken? If it was the same thing, then I was made of the same thing too. I rubbed my arm, and for the first time, I thought in depth about the fact that I was made of meat and bone. The thought was surreal. I imagined being shot, dragged off and skinned, chopped up, cooked into a casserole, and eaten casually at dinner by a happy family of cannibals.

  Grandpa pulled us off the road and onto the long driveway, but he stopped the truck before getting a dozen feet towards the house. Following his lead, I got out and helped him unload the dog. He had me drag it a ways from the gravel, and onto a dirt patch in the overgrown lawn. Fetching a worn shovel from the truck bed, he handed it to me along with a pair of work gloves. I was to be the undertaker.

  The gloves were too large, but I wore them dutifully. The leather was textured in a way I didn’t want to think about. I didn’t even know how skin got turned into leather. I’d never questioned it.

  “Dig right here,” Grandpa said, picking a specific area and pointing at it. “You want about three feet. Don’t want her friends to try and dig her up in the middle of the night. Last thing we need around here.”

  I usually would have been eager to dig a hole. My backyard at home was pocked with my ventures into the ground. I’d always been a big fan of days when I was allowed to play in the mud for hours on end. This was different. I reluctantly stabbed the shovel into the dry earth and stomped on its edge. The job was basic enough to help me work the tho
ughts in my mind as well as the dirt under my feet. Each shovelful tossed to the side was a question processed, an answer accepted or rejected. There was always a satisfaction in getting a few inches deeper, closer to china, or molten lava, or some version of an afterlife for the wicked. My mind didn’t stray far from the dead animal nearby, or from Grandpa’s watchful presence. He fetched a water bottle for me, and I drank half of it, pouring the rest over my baking neck. Sunburn would be added to the injuries my skin was enduring.

  “That’s good enough,” he said eventually, breaking my rhythm of stabbing, pulling, lifting, stabbing, pulling, lifting. Part of me didn’t want to stop. I’d left the house weak, but I would return with a much more satisfying form of fatigue.

  I dragged the body one last few feet to dump it into the hole. It landed with an anticlimactic thud. I stood and stared at it a moment, slouching and resting my cheek against the wooden handle of the shovel. If it had been a family pet, we would have said a few words, but because the dog had been homeless, no one would grieve her.