The Butcher's Son

by Grant McKenzie

  As a silent partner, Ian was able to concentrate on what he enjoyed most: his clients, the children.

  Jeannie McCabe, his boss’s oldest daughter, answered the call in a chirpy tone. It was good to hear the reawakening of delight in her voice. Jeannie had been absent for over three months, volunteering overseas in an elephant sanctuary, struggling to come to terms with a terrifying ordeal that fell firmly at Ian’s feet.

  Absently, Ian rubbed the scars on his stomach that had cost him a foot of intestine.

  “Hey, Jeannie.” Ian forced his voice to sound bright. “Just checking in.”

  “How did Noah’s funeral go?” she asked.

  Ian winced, not wanting to share the whole truth. “I left him some Lego. You know how much he loved it.”

  “He did.” Jeannie laughed. “He knew all the characters’ names from those movies, too. When he was in here waiting for you, he would test me to make sure I wasn’t just pretending to like them. Did his parents place his Brickowski backpack in the coffin?”

  “It was a closed coffin, but…” Ian decided to lie. “I’m sure they did.”

  “Good. I can’t imagine him going anywhere without it.”

  “I was planning to head home unless anything’s come up that needs my attention.”

  “Nothing urgent. Molly called in to say if you didn’t want to go tomorrow that was okay with her. I assured her that you would be there. You also have that meeting with a new family in the morning. Judge Rothstein recommended you personally, so I have a feeling it’s a tense situation.”

  “I’ve got them in my calendar.”

  “You also received calls from two different law firms. Both said it was important that you call them ASAP. I gave them your cell number.”

  Ian glanced at his cell. The phone icon showed he had 4 new voicemails.

  “I had it on silent, but thanks, I’ll get back to them.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. It’s probably just more divorce BS.”

  Jeannie giggled and then quickly apologized. “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at your divorce. It’s just, I was reading something the other night, and do you know where BS comes from?”

  “Bulls?”

  “Yes, but…the term actually comes from the Latin Bulbus Stercum which refers to ‘anything said by a politician.’”

  Ian laughed, knowing Jeannie didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

  “They were thinking too small,” he said.

  *

  The neighborhood where Ian and Helena raised their daughter contained everything a young family needed: walking distance to good schools, a nearby playground, duck pond and park, plus friendly competition to see who kept the most pristine lawn. Everyone had a fenced back yard, a cedar deck off the kitchen, and a gleaming gas barbecue. Once a year, the Good Neighbor Social Committee even threw a potluck block party. Bring store-bought potato salad at your own peril.

  Pulling into the driveway, its dimpled concrete surface marred by an oil stain left behind from his previous vehicle, Ian noticed the For Sale sign had been resurrected and re-planted on his front lawn. Whoever had been charged with the task had added four tensile-steel cables for extra support just in case its earlier removal had been caused by a rogue tornado rather than a Scotch-fueled pity party.

  “Well, I guess that’s one voicemail I don’t need to listen to,” Ian muttered to himself as he climbed out of the van.

  The neighbors, at least, would be happy to see the realtor’s sign back in place. Its presence offered the opportunity for a whole and happy family to move in, thus restoring balance to the cul-de-sac.

  Though they wouldn’t say it to his face, Ian’s continued presence scared them. His neighbors needed to forget Emily’s death almost as much as he never could. No parents wanted to have a constant reminder looming over them of What If. What if it had been my child? Would my marriage survive? Would I?

  Too much internal rumination can widen the cracks that lie beneath the surface of every relationship. Plus, even though they all knew what Ian did for a living, no family neighborhood wanted a single man living alone in a large, empty house.

  Ian was stopped at the front door by a manila envelope taped to the glass. The envelope was stamped both Urgent and Confidential in red ink.

  With a sigh, Ian tucked the envelope under his arm and unlocked the door. Inside, he kicked off his shoes, hung up his damp coat, and headed for the kitchen.

  The three-bedroom, two-story house was as empty on the inside as it appeared from the outside. Helena had bought most of the furnishings, knickknacks and assorted ornamentation that turned a house into a home, but she had taken virtually everything with her when she left.

  Ian’s only inherent possessions were an old rocking chair that had belonged to his grandfather — though why he kept it he wasn’t sure — a box of favorite LPs, and his Gibson acoustic guitar. He didn’t even own a turntable on which to play the records, although with vinyl’s unexpected resurgence in popularity he had been thinking of buying one.

  Sitting at the small bar table where a family-sized one had once filled the space more eloquently, Ian opened the envelope. Inside was an Order of Eviction written in Lawyerish, a language so overwrought and dense that dollar signs dripped off every letter; commas cost an additional five dollars per, while semicolons and bullet points could run twenty-five dollars each. This letter contained a lot of semicolons, but as a lawyer herself, his wife was able to purchase them in bulk.

  After translation, the meat of the four-page letter could be summed up in two words: Get Out.

  Although Ian’s name was on the title, the house had been an overly generous, albeit emasculating, wedding present from Helena’s parents, and Ian was no longer someone for whom they needed to hide their disdain.

  Putting the phone on speaker, Ian rummaged through his food cupboard while the missed voicemails played.

  The first message was Helena’s lawyer, informing Ian of the letter that was taped to his door. In addition, the lawyer told him in a perfectly civil tone if he was to leave by his own volition and sign away his rights to the house, his client was prepared to offer him a generous and immediate one-time settlement fee of half its current value.

  Ian found a can of baked beans, which he opened and dumped into a pot on low heat.

  The second message was from Helena.

  “So sorry about the eviction, Ian. Father really wants to get rid of the house. He says your presence is making it too depressing for buyers. You should take the deal and get yourself an apartment or a condo somewhere. It can’t be easy for you living there. Emily would want you to be happy. Please think about it.”

  In the back of the freezer, Ian discovered a plastic bag containing the curled remains of two slices of bread. Carefully, so they didn’t crumble in his hands, he removed each shock-white slice from its transparent shroud and popped them both in the toaster.

  The third message was from a woman representing a law firm he had never dealt with before. Her voice put him in mind of silk cloth wrapped around a razor blade.

  “This message is for Mr. Ian Quinn, no middle name or initial recorded. If you could please return this call at your earliest convenience, it’s concerning a matter of some importance.”

  When Ian’s toast popped, he laid both slices on a plate and spooned the warm baked beans on top. Normally, he would have buttered the toast first, but he used the last of it a few weeks earlier and had yet to get around to shopping for more.

  The final message was from the same woman as before.

  “Mr. Quinn. Sorry to be so persistent, but could you please call me as soon as you get this? The matter concerns your father.”

  Ian froze mid-spoon to stare at the phone in confusion, unsure if he had heard the message correctly.

  His father?

  Ian didn’t have a father. As he told Jersey earlier, he hadn’t had one in his life for more than thirty years. His father wasn’t there when Ian b
ought his first car — a complete, oil-burning clunker that barely lasted three months before the engine seized; he wasn’t there when Ian graduated high school or when he struggled to find a career that provided more than a paycheck; he wasn’t there when Ian fell in love, or when he got married; he wasn’t there when Ian, alone, buried his mother; and he wasn’t there when Emily came into this world, nor when she left it.

  The lawyer had made a mistake.

  His father was dead. Ian buried him a long, long time ago.

  *

  “Quit fidgeting back there,” yelled his father, the stress of the day making him tug at his eyebrow with manic determination, the bald spot above his right eye more apparent with every pluck and twitch.

  Sitting in the backseat, Ian struggled with the collar of his new shirt, the knot of his tie so tight that it was difficult to breathe. He didn’t know why he had to wear a shirt and tie to the funeral, his grandfather never would.

  The only uniform his grandfather wore consisted of baggy brown pants of some indestructible material, a white T-shirt that always looked stained even if he had just pulled it fresh from the laundry, leather boots with the toes worn down so far that steel caps glistened through ragged holes, and his apron. The apron was made of durable brown leather and reached from his shoulders to just below his knees.

  Ian was fascinated with the apron. The thick leather was stained by the slabs of meat his grandfather manhandled, its dense grain scratched by a thousand cuts from the knives he wielded like an Irish Samurai. Although Ian rarely saw his grandfather without it, he had once spotted the apron hanging from a hook in the back room of the butcher’s shop. In the dim light, it looked fiercely alive.

  Despite his fear, Ian’s curiosity was greater. He approached the apron and attempted to lift it from its hook. He wanted to prove to himself that it was only a piece of clothing and not the magical creature the other kids whispered about, a demon skinned by his grandfather and worn for protection, an evil spirit that needed to be fed the souls of young women to remain loyal. They had seen those women enter the store, never to walk out again.

  The apron’s weight was far greater than Ian imagined.

  Grunting with exertion, Ian used his legs to hoist the stiff apron skyward. For a moment, everything was okay. The apron had slid off the hook and he held its full weight in his arms, the weight making his muscles tremble, but he was happy. He had accomplished something great, something the other kids would have been too terrified to try. When his grandfather returned, he would be so proud to see—

  Ian’s legs suddenly buckled under the weight and he fell to the floor with the apron crashing down on top of him. Beneath the foul-smelling leather, the seven-year-old panicked and his imagination took over from reason.

  He could feel the apron trying to devour him; to absorb his flesh unto itself; to drain his blood and—

  His grandfather had pulled the garment off him with one hand and stared down at the terrified boy.

  “How many bloody times?” his grandfather had yelled. “What I do here is man’s work. You are not yet a man and if you keep mucking around like this, you’ll never be.”

  At the funeral, strangers said nice things about his grandfather. Some even pinched his cheeks and told him how lucky he was to have such an important influence in his life.

  It was in that moment when Ian truly came to the realization that adults told lies. He had suspicions before, but the funeral cemented it. He didn’t have a single memory of his grandfather being anything but a mean old bastard with a fiery temper that could rattle the very bricks out of their mortar.

  Nobody would ever dare tell his grandfather to quit fidgeting over a starched shirt collar that was trying to strangle him to death.

  “I don’t like funerals,” said Ian. “They’re stupid.”

  “Nobody likes funerals,” answered his father. “But they’re important.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re a way to show respect.”

  “But why? Grandpa isn’t there.”

  “Your grandpa’s watching.”

  “From where?”

  “Heaven, of course.”

  “Grandpa doesn’t believe in Heaven. He told me. He said he’d rather be cut into steaks and sausage meat when he died than be sitting on a cloud with a harp. He also said a bad word before the harp.”

  Ian’s father chuckled. It was the only break his sour mood had seen for the whole day. “Maybe so.”

  “Is Abbie in Heaven?” Ian asked.

  His father’s sour mood returned, and Ian’s mother turned away from her husband to stare out the window.

  “Is she?” Ian pressed.

  “Goddammit, boy, I’m driving. Give it a rest.”

  “I was just asking because if she is in Heaven, then—”

  “Enough!” his father yelled.

  Ian jumped in his seat at the forcefulness of his father’s voice. Tears were building behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had lifted the butcher’s apron. He was stronger than anyone gave him credit for.

  *

  GIVING HIMSELF time to think, Ian finished his beans on toast before picking up the phone and calling Helena.

  His estranged wife answered the call on the second ring.

  “Ian,” she said. “I hope you’re not angry.”

  “No, it’s fine. You’re right. It’s time I moved on. The neighbors can barely stand to look at me now, never mind invite me over for a barbecue. I heard Lloyd built a hi-tech man cave in his garage, big-screen projector system, surround sound, mini bar, the works. Dave across the street had to practically sneak over there last week to watch the ball game. He kept throwing furtive glances at the house as he skirted by to make sure I didn’t see him.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “No, it’s just life. Nobody wants to party with the dad whose daughter was killed. It’s a downer.”

  “If you need help moving—”

  Ian chuckled. “Thanks, but everything will fit in my van.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that I would help. I just meant for you to call a mover.”

  Ian laughed louder as Helena joined in.

  “Send the papers over to the office and I’ll get them signed.”

  “Will do. And, Ian? Thanks for not making this difficult.”

  “I figure I’ve done enough of that already. How’s your father?”

  “He’s spending more time at the gun club than the golf range these days.”

  “Ah. Noted. So I take it you’re not dating much, then?”

  Helena’s laugh was like dew — both delicate and magical.

  “One other thing,” Ian added. “Have you heard of the law firm Ragano and Associates?”

  “Sure, real old school firm. Roberto Ragano is the founder, a tough lawyer who handled a lot of the top crime cases back in the day. His granddaughter, Rossella, handles most of the work these days. Why?”

  “Nothing, really,” Ian lied. “Just received a call from them about a work thing, but I’ve never dealt with them before.”

  “From what I hear around the office, the granddaughter is quite striking, but she has very sharp teeth and likes to eat her prey whole and alive.”

  “So just a regular lawyer, then?”

  “Ha-ha,” said Helena dryly.

  Ian was still smirking when he hung up.

  *

  After plugging in the kettle, a post-dinner ritual that had become reflex rather than conscious thought after a decade living with a woman who quenched her craving for chocolate with meditative green tea, Ian thumbed through his phone until the list of recent calls appeared.

  He tapped the number from Ragano & Associates, and listened to it ring. To his surprise, instead of an answering machine, the call was answered by the same woman who had left the message.

  “Ragano and Associates.”

  “Uh, yeah, this is Ian Quinn. You left a message for me.”

  “Mr. Quinn, thank you f
or returning my call.”

  “You piqued my curiosity.”

  “How so?”

  “You mentioned my father. I don’t have one.”

  “But you did, at one time.”

  “Thirty years ago.”

  “His name was Jack Quinn, no middle name or initial?”

  “It was.”

  “Can we meet?”

  “When?”

  “I was just going to grab something to eat. We could meet in my office in half an hour?”

  Ian hesitated, the strain of the day pulling him more toward a glass of single malt and reading a few chapters of a novel he was enjoying, but curiosity won out again.

  He asked for the address.

  5

  The offices of Ragano & Associates were housed inside a heritage building in downtown Portland. In terms of sheer mileage, the building was a short trip from Ian’s office at Children First, but it was a much longer distance when it came to prestige. Ian’s Old Town office sat on the less desirable side of the street.

  From the outside, the three-story building maintained its turn-of-the-century elegance with Victorian moldings and lead-paned windows; everything restored and repainted in heritage colors. The front door was formidable, made from inch-thick panes of hand poured glass, the circular flaws within each panel giving it both unique character and added distortion for privacy, set within a solid frame of painted hardwood.

  Ian pushed through the heavy door and entered a short lobby. A directory on the wall informed him the law office he sought was on the second floor. Ian climbed the stairs and located the office, its frosted glass door adorned with a hand-painted sign.

  Since he was expected, Ian tried the handle and found the door unlocked.

  When he entered, an attractive woman with solar-eclipse hair looked up from behind her desk in surprise. Her eyes were large and bright and a startling robin egg blue…they were also smiling. The reason for the smile was, perhaps, the juicy meatball sandwich clutched in her hands and the smears of crimson marinara sauce dripping from the edges of her mouth.