Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  I had never fired a gun before—but this was the perfect time to try.

  I moved behind the car and leaned across the trunk while they were still focused on the front.

  I aimed the shotgun at them, not fifteen feet from me, pulled the trigger and hoped for the best.

  The kick of the recoil knocked me to the ground. I lay on my back there a second, dazed from the sound the thing made.

  “Jeezus, Pa, he got you. Oh fuck, Pa, where’s the gun? Jeezus fuck, he’s killed you.”

  I knew I was safe. My father was hysterical, still scrambling to find the gun.

  “Just stop,” I said.

  The old man had been blown out of the chair. He was lying on his side, clutching at his stomach, moving his bloodied lips, but saying nothing.

  “You motherfucker, you shot my pa.” His green-yellow eyes were wild, not with anger, but with fear. He had every reason to be scared. I had just blown a fist-sized hole in my grandfather and didn’t feel one ounce of regret. In fact, it felt pretty damn good.

  “What’s wrong with you? You just shot your grandfather. Ain’t you got no sense of decency?”

  “Who are you to use that word with me? That man lying there is not my real grandfather. And you are not my real father. My real father was a good man, and he died a long time ago. You aren’t a tenth of the man he was, so don’t go preaching decency to me.”

  He was shaking; he knew, as I did, that I wasn’t done. For a second, I swear, his eyes became as soft as they had on the night he burned me—when he was laughing, play-acting, showing me the paper money.

  “Son, hold on a minute. It weren’t me. It was the old man. It was always the old man.”

  He stood, hands outstretched, pleading for understanding. But the time for understanding, son, had long passed. There he was, placing all of the blame on his dying father.

  You know, son, they say a gut shot is the most painful way to go.

  I only hope that’s true.

  “Son? Tom, is it? Listen. Tom, you asked about the girls and I’ll tell ya. Put that gun away, an’ I’ll tell ya. Honest, I got nothing to hide. Really, Tom. Just point that thing away.”

  I lowered the gun to my side.

  We stood just five feet apart now, both of us on the porch, watching the old man take his last breath.

  “Whatta ya need to know, Tom? I don’t wanna go like that,” he said, pointing at his dead father.

  Darkness was taking over; I told him to turn on a light. I followed him as he reached inside the door and grabbed the lantern.

  I could see him clearly now. His face was like old leather, taut but lined. He’d taken on that skeletal form of most lifelong farmers, lean, hard, broken.

  I think he was starting to see how much I resembled him.

  “Tell me why. I just want to know why?”

  “It was the old man. Always the old man. He’d go to town and more often than not bring one back. He loved the young ones. Always did.”

  “What about you? You just let it happen.”

  “What could I do? You know what a mean sonofabitch he was.”

  He was actually trying to charm me now.

  “Look, Tom, I couldn’t have stopped him even if I tried.”

  “But you didn’t try, did you?”

  “Honestly? No. But at the end I always made sure they didn’t suffer none.”

  “At the end? At the end? What does that mean?” I pointed the barrel right at his chest.

  “Easy, Tom.” He stepped back. “Easy. You know when we . . . when he was done with them . . . I made it real quick. . . .”

  “You said we. You were just as guilty, weren’t you?”

  He stood focused on the gun.

  “Say it, you son of a bitch, or I’ll open you up just like him.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe I used them too. But I couldn’t help it.” Tears began rolling down his cracked cheeks. “I couldn’t stop myself. I had to have ’em. I mean, yer grandpa’d bring ’em home and they was so young and pretty and soft . . . I just couldn’t help it. They was here anyways, right? They was gonna die anyways. So I might as well . . .”

  I’d heard enough. “Had to have ’em” echoed around in my head while memories of two days earlier came rushing back and fractured. Images fell like ash—into the broken fingernails at the base of the column in the old mill.

  I was going to be sick, and staggered from the truth: just like my father, I had to have them, too.

  Seeing his opportunity, my father lunged. I had just enough strength to pull the trigger as he landed on me.

  We were face to face when the slug tore him apart. His eyes went blank: there was no more green-yellow rage left.

  I shoved him off but lay there, trying to get my bearings.

  I had just killed two men. I had killed my grand-father and my father, and I had no regrets. The two most evil men in my world were gone, burning in whatever hell whatever God they believed in had consigned them to.

  I hope there are rats there. Big ones.

  I got up and stared at them, cold and dead. Oddly, maybe, I felt nothing, no release or real emotion. I wasn’t appalled. I wasn’t repulsed by the condition of their bodies. I felt nothing.

  I walked back to the car where you were still sleeping, picked you up, blanket and all, and carried you over the bodies of your ancestors. I carried you into the house where I was enslaved as a child, and put you where you are lying now.

  It’s been some time now, since I started writing. I pumped up the oil lamp, out of habit, the way that I did when I was a boy out here. The lamp wants to rest, but the last of its oil burns so I can finish this for you. It’s almost daybreak, son, and you see, I grow weary. I want to join you in rest, but I can’t just yet—there’s more to say.

  I walked over to you several times while writing this, little man, just checking on you. Why wouldn’t you be safe? I had just killed two of the most dangerous men in your world; what else could threaten you?

  I’ll try to explain.

  For two days, I’ve thought endlessly about what I did to that little girl. The truth’s been right there, staring me in the face, but I didn’t want to see it. Think of it this way, son: imagine knowing you’ve got a terminal disease but refusing to see a doctor because he’ll confirm it. . . .

  Tonight, my father confirmed my self-diagnosis. I have an illness. A cancer passed from my grandfather to my father and from my father to me.

  I had to rid us all of this illness, son, before anyone else was consumed. I had no choice. I hope you can forgive me.

  A few moments ago I walked over, picked you up and held you in my arms. I stared at your cherubic face, still round with baby fat, so wondrous, so pure. Did we all begin so innocently? Did evil metastasize to make us so grotesque, so monstrous? Would our mothers, as they nursed us, if they knew . . . would they have done the right thing? How many mothers look back at the evil done by sons they’ve raised and wish their child had never been born? Would they have had the courage to stop the disease before it ever spread?

  Son, I don’t know.

  But while I held you, I know I looked at you, curly-haired, soft and beautiful, and I cried as your breath became shallower. With each moment I held you they became further apart. And then son, finally, you gasped your last breath, and joined your mother in heaven.

  You were the last link in the chain, little man. The culmination of this genetic nightmare. I could not risk passing this on to you.

  You are the most important thing in my life and I have to protect you.

  I have to protect you from you.

  I’m having trouble writing now, son. My vision is blurred with these tears and my mind is fogged by the same drugs I gave you. It won’t be long now. Hopefully I’ll begin my journey to you and your mother soon.

  When they find us later today, I will be holding you. We’re on the old wooden chair. My letter to you is beside us on the table.

  I mentioned, earlier, my preparations. Part
of that was writing another letter, directions included, to the local police. They will understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, I think. And hopefully someone will explain it to Mary.

  I can’t wait to hold you in my arms once more.

  I love you, little man.

  — Dad

  xo xo

  Acknowledgments

  Laura Hobbs and Krystal Tobias: in memorium, 2005.

  Thanks to my wife, Suzane, for putting up with my odd, difficult behavior—and for letting me be me. You keep me grounded and on the right path. To my children, Angèle and Eric, thank you for understanding that sometimes Daddy just needed to be left alone to put his thoughts on paper.

  Thanks to Jon and Jeff, two special people whose faith, encouragement and friendship have given me the confidence to write this. It never would have happened without your support.

  Thanks to Ginette, for making Hope Burned a part of her always busy schedule.

  Thanks to Michael, my editor, my friend. This journey has been made even more special because of your encouraging and gentle guidance. We will take many more trips together; let’s hope they are just as interesting and enjoyable.

  Lastly, thanks to anyone who might be reading my first novel. It’s an honor, whenever someone allows you into their world. Thank you for inviting me into yours.

  BRENT LAPORTE lives in Courtice, Ontario. Hope Burned is his first book.

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