Ray Vs the Meaning of Life

by Michael F Stewart

  To my granddaughter, Crystal Saintbury, I leave nothing ’cept my truck. You’ll need it to pack up your ma and uncle and git. I’ll get a flying truck when I return.

  To my grandson, Raymond Saintbury, I leave everything else. You don’t have much of a chance, but we’ll see if you pass the test.*

  The page goes on to list “everything else.” The trailers, the sheds, my mom’s trailer, Uncle’s, and the land—there’s more of that than I’d figured.

  To my grandson, Raymond Saintbury, I leave everything else.

  But I’m just looking for the little asterisk and what it means. It’s two pages in.

  *To be confirmed. If at the end of one month Ray can tell Sam Peregrine the meaning of life—see sealed letter for correct answer—he gets everything. ** If he fails, then he gets nothing and my children split the rest. Until such time as I is given a new body. One of you might go and surprise me.

  “Didn’t any of you read the whole thing?” I ask.

  “The part where you get everything?” Mom asks. “Yeah, I caught that.”

  “Only if I can figure out the meaning of life!” I say. I start scanning the note to find the meaning of the double asterisks I spotted.

  “See—don’t matter,” Uncle Jamie says, and it would have been nice if he had explained what he meant a little earlier.

  Mom snatches the will back from me, digs into her pocket, and snaps on a flashlight.

  After a minute she starts flicking the pages with her fingers. She smiles with not only her mouth, but also her eyes, nose, ears—even her neck wrinkles grin. “Ha!” she shouts and then knuckles me in the shoulder. “As if, right? As if, huh? Put that gun down, Crystal, you’ll go to jail.”

  “So he doesn’t get it?” Crystal asks.

  “Nope, gets it only if he tells Sam Peregrine the meaning of life.”

  Crystal’s face screws and then slowly relaxes.

  “What’s the double star mean, the asterisks?” I ask.

  Mom studies the will for a minute before folding it back away. “Don’t you worry about that, won’t make a difference anyways.”

  I catch her glare and turn to Uncle Jamie.

  “Don’t look at me,” he says. “I didn’t get to any double asterisks before Muriel went and burned my copy.”

  My mom backs away as I approach with my hand out, and she stuffs the will into her bra, from which I’ve never seen anything return except a seemingly endless supply of Kleenex.

  “What’s the meaning of life, Ray?” Crystal laughs. “Video games?”

  “Wrong answer, Crys,” Mom replies. “The will says life, not virtual life.”

  They both laugh.

  I flush red. I have no idea what the meaning of life might be, but as they walk off with the will, laughing away, I really wish I knew. I wish, but I don’t even know where to start. What I do know, having seen the whites of all their crazed eyes, is I need to get out of Sunny Days or it will be too late for me to figure anything out.

  One way or another, it’s Ray versus the meaning of life, now.

  Chapter 6

  It’ll be a long night with Grandma in my trailer. Everyone else goes back to the fire, all shouting mean laughter and poking fun and sparks into the night. Noise carries out here. They took my will with them, and I never did figure out what came with the double asterisks. Without the cable I used to plug Grandma in, I can’t even go online to search for the meaning of life.

  There’s a small part of me that floats on the ceiling. The trailer park. A million dollars. It’s mine? A million dollars is too big of a number for me to conceive of.

  Grandma’s still on my bed in her body bag, wearing a nightgown. Her wiry gray hair is teased out. I have her hair, all crazy curls, but mine’s mud brown. She’s tough to look at. Rigor mortis has set in and her arms have curled at the elbows to stretch out like a zombie waiter or something. I try to push them down, but they’re stiff and the hands cold and bone-white. My trailer’s so small that I have to lie down beside her to sleep. I pull the blanket to my chin and then I pull it to hers too.

  Sleep doesn’t come.

  Critters rustle about in the leaves and ramble across my rooftop. I can hear the leaves fall and the crackle of the fire even though it’s down near the office. My office. But that’s not really true, is it? Not yet.

  “Grandma?”

  There’s no answer, of course. I shudder and draw away. I can’t believe she’s gone.

  Last night before our gaming binge, I’d helped her with her wood, and after, had tea. Or at least, I’d had tea sweetened with honey and milk, and she’d opened a new bottle of champagne. Grandma didn’t like to drink alone, so it was my nightly duty to be there.

  On her TV table, a small glass jar held black fish eggs. She dipped her shaky pinky into it and sucked the eggs off before washing it down with the foam only half settled in her glass. Her trailer was behind my mom’s. A silver bullet-shaped job, smaller, but you could tell it was nice when she first bought it. In front of the trailer were stacked three cords of uncut wood. That was what Grandma needed help with, not the champagne. She had trouble balancing the log that needed chopping atop the big, wide chopping stump, but she could still pop a cork.

  I held the wood with my finger while Grandma peered down and squinted as though the whole scene swam. She hefted the axe and brought it down with enough force to bury the axe blade in the stump. If I timed it right, I’d release the log just as the axe struck. It wasn’t so bad with the first couple of chops but with each cut, the piece I held shrank. And Grandma always took the same hard swing no matter how small the piece was that remained.

  While she was swinging, she told me things I needed to do, and the shining axe blade made it really difficult to say no. Once you’re in a rhythm of saying yes, it’s tough to keep concentrating on what someone’s saying when that axe glints and arcs down toward your digits.

  I try to remember now, because I’m fairly certain she’d said something like, “Yer seventeen now.”

  “Yes.”

  *wince* Chop.

  “You don’t know what life’s about, RB.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  *wince* Chop.

  “You’re old enough to know it though.”

  “Yes.”

  *WINCE* Chop.

  “Told the others the same thing at yer age.”

  “Yes.”

  “But none ever listened to me.”

  “Yes.”

  *omg* Chop.

  “The meaning of life is as simple as . . .”

  That’s about when I faded out because to hold the little piece of kindling that remained, I had to rest my finger over top of where she’d hit. I wasn’t thinking about the meaning of life, but deciding that my new nickname was about to become four-finger-Ray.

  Blah, blah, blah. “You listening to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Chop.

  Two matchstick-thin pieces fell to either side of the stump. The axe handle quivered.

  “And there you have it. That’s the recipe for the meaning of life. What d’you know?” She looked at me with a rare smile. “One of yous listened. Maybe you will amount to something after all.”

  I may not know the meaning of life, but I have all my fingers. What had she said? What’s the recipe for the meaning of life? I’d give my finger for it now.

  I clench my eyes shut, but nothing comes to me. It doesn’t seem fair. Poor Uncle Jamie—he deserves the park more than I do. He’s her son! I never expected anything. Sure, my mom’s mean, but it doesn’t seem fair to her either.

  In bed, I turn to Grandma. “Do you mind, Grandma, if I let the others have the park? Make them give me a few thousand dollars so I can pay first and last month’s rent on a new place in town?”

  It had been the cost of living keeping me here. It’s hard to move out when you have no money to pay first and last. No job to sign a lease with. Not unless you want to move onto the streets, and then how would I st
art my gaming career? Until now, staying at the trailer park made sense. I have been slowly building a base of fans. One follower even “tips” me every so often with real money.

  I swallow hard, panic building in my stomach. I don’t have enough tips to pay rent.

  I am in trouble. If I find the meaning of life, I’ll own a trailer park my grandma wants me to keep running. That sure doesn’t sound like the meaning of life to me. But if I give up without getting anything, then I have to move to town and get a dumb job and live who-knows-where.

  I push myself onto my elbow. Grandma’s mouth is open like she wants to say something, but her eyelids are down. “Not really fair, you know? Handing me the park after Mom’s worked so hard for it. Said she’d pay for education, maybe. Maybe she’ll put in a new playground or a big water slide. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  I start thinking of sliding down a slide like that. And mini golf with one of those windmills you have to get the ball past; maybe Grandma’s statue could be part of the course. She’d like that.

  I sigh. It won’t happen. My mom might sell the place, no matter what Grandma wanted. Besides, it’s not that sort of trailer park.

  The park’s busy during most summers, but not with the folk you’d expect. Not families taking a break from the city heat. The only tourists who stay are lost, and they don’t stay long.

  Business is mostly from a group we call “jacks.” It’s the miners who come and work the mines north of here. Lumberjacks who cut timber. They dig or haul all day and come back to drink and burn something on their grills before heading back out the following shift. Jacks don’t have much free time, and they don’t worry about leaves in pools or mini golf.

  Giving the park to Mom and Uncle Jamie is still the right thing to do, especially if it means I can move out and start gaming. Grandma just went a bit crazy at the end and changed her will. I swing my legs out of bed and pull on a sweatshirt, tucking my feet into boots. With the decision made, I head toward the fire to tell them, feeling better and smiling already at the thought of their reactions. A few grand ain’t too much to ask.

  And I start floating again, without the weight of needing to figure out the meaning of life, because it’s heavier than it sounds.

  Chapter 7

  They’ve added wood to the fire. Everyone sits well back. Salminder has left for his trailer; he’s tired a lot lately. The newlyweds are gone, too. Those who remain laugh so hard they don’t hear me approaching.

  “I’m gonna make a rocket!” Uncle Jamie says. “A rocket that everyone in a thousand miles will see when it bursts.”

  “Willing to guarantee that explosion at any rate,” my mom says.

  “I want an ATV, heated seats. And a new truck,” Crystal says.

  “Gonna sell this place and head to Las Vegas. Always say you need money to make money, and I’m gonna prove it,” my mom replies.

  “Where am I gonna go if you sell?” Uncle Jamie asks.

  “A half a million dollars, Jamie, I don’t care where you go! Or you could buy me out. Besides, where you getting the money for your rocket if you don’t sell?”

  “That’s not what Ma wanted.” Uncle Jamie frowns.

  “Ma’s dead, Jamie—we’re not.”

  “I’m coming with you, though, right, Mama?” Crystal asks.

  “Here’s the way of things,” Mom explains, going sober. “When my ma’s dead, I get her stuff. When your ma’s dead, you get my stuff. And I’m gonna win all sorts of stuff in Vegas, so yer the lucky one.”

  Crystal grins as if imagining all she’s going to have decades from now.

  It bugs me that Tina’s still sitting with them. Every time I glance her way my chest hurts, and I imagine what it would be like to press my lips against hers.

  “One more month,” my mom says. “One more month, and then we’re done. No more toilets to scrub. No more showers. No more trailers to clean and yahoos to keep quiet.” She lifts her glass. Uncle Jamie tosses another one of his tiny bags onto the fire.

  “Sounded like a fart, that one,” Crystal says.

  At the edge of the firelight, I hesitate. I remember the way my sister’s rifle scope trained on me. A rocket, gambling, a new truck. They’re deciding what to do with Grandma’s money. The inheritance will go up in smoke in a few weeks. When Grandma comes back, she’s coming back to nothing. But it’s not my money, right? I don’t want an RV park.

  Maybe this is the push I need to leave here even sooner. I’m qualified to flip burgers. I can game nights and, when I’m making enough money at that, I can game full time. One day, I’ll have a million fans and people will send me pizza whenever I say I’m hungry, just to keep me at the screen. There’s gotta be places to flip burgers in town.

  “How’s about you don’t need to wait a month?” I say. The only sound that comes after is the snap of sparks. I hustle into the quiet to sit on the log beside Tina. “What if I tell the lawyer I can’t figure out the meaning of nothing and you get the park?”

  Uncle Jamie tosses a packet into the embers and it farts pink.

  “Pretty,” Tina says. “How’d you make it burn pink?”

  Uncle Jamie shrugs.

  “Where’s the hitch?” my mom asks me.

  “No hitches,” I say.” I just want a few thousand dollars, enough to start in town.”

  “A few thousand dollars.” My mom snorts. “You want money?”

  “That’s it.” I smile, feeling better.

  “Don’t you understand, Ray?” Mom digs into her bra and holds up the will that says I get everything. “This says you get nothing.”

  I look to Uncle Jamie, but he doesn’t meet my eye.

  Crystal says, “No one knows the meaning of life. Old people die wondering, ‘What the heck just happened?’”

  “If you get everything but have to do something impossible to keep it, then that’s just another way of saying nothing,” Mom explains. “Unless you know the meaning of life, that is.”

  “Grandma told me, I only forgot,” I say.

  My mom bursts into laughter.

  “People don’t have crises when they’re forty over nothing—no one’s figured it out. And you sure won’t be the first,” Crystal says.

  “You don’t want the park?” I ask.

  “Didn’t say that,” my mom replies, biting back her laughter. “But I can wait a month if it’ll cost me money to get it. Do it for nothing, and you have a deal.”

  I stare at the pebbly eyes of my mother. They shine smiling-mean.

  Crystal says, “I dunno, Ma, might be funny to watch him try.”

  Cold fear streaks through me. Clammy. Sweat. What’re my options? Give them the park, and they’ll just kick me off and I’ll be on the street. If I stay, at least I have a month to save up the Pulled Beef tips I usually spend on new gaming gear. Tina gives me a look of wide-eyed pity.

  “Maybe I’ll—” Uncle Jamie starts, but shuts up under my mom’s gaze.

  “Don’t you dare, Jamie,” she says. “The boy needs to be taught a lesson.”

  Uncle Jamie offers an apologetic shrug.

  “Okay, okay, maybe I will then,” I reply. “Can’t be so hard. There’s the Internet and everything.” It’s just words, nothing important, right? But then why does my heart hammer?

  I’ve never heard my mom giggle before, but she does now. “Can’t be so hard?” she laughs. Tina reaches out slowly and covers my hand with hers. It’s what I need to keep my chin up. Jamie pitches the rest of his sachets, and colors burst in the coals.

  “Yes! Okay, Ray,” my mom says through tears of mirth. It’s a deal. An oath. “You can keep yer month and stay in that trailer, too.” She checks her watch as if setting the timer.

  “Meaning of life,” Crystal says. “Hashtag Kraft Dinner.”

  And I know I’m in trouble.

  Chapter 8

  I wake face-to-face with Grandma, scream, fall out of bed, and then remember that I need to find the meaning of life. I clamber to my feet
and hit the button on my computer. The screen stays dark. No power strip. I can’t find the meaning of life with my computer down. And I’m not hungry enough to cook with a corpse in my trailer, so I skip breakfast.

  It’s still early as I leave the trailer and tug my gray hoodie over my ears. I tell myself to calm down. I’ve got a month. A whole month to get out of here. I sneak into one of the rental trailers, borrow an extension cord, and swap it for my power strip. Grandma’s brain freezer bleeps at the interruption but restarts.

  Back in my trailer, I swear only to game for ten minutes. Two hours later, I rub bleary eyes and hit search on Google. What is the meaning of life? After all, billions of people are on the Internet; surely someone knows. I might as well try the obvious.

  On my screen, the first search hit is a video of three women dancing the hula. They’re laden with flowers and waving their arms, smiling. Then a beaver chitters across the stage, once, twice, three times before bullets shower the scene and everyone’s dead. It’s all ketchupy. Over eighty-five million views.

  In the comments is a message from someone calling themselves “Allofyou”:

  This video’s right. There is no meaning. How can there be? When we die everything is forgotten. There is no purpose. And don’t say ‘going to heaven’ because I don’t believe in that.

  The guy sounds like he’d be fun at parties. He does have a point though. Below another commenter disagrees: So the meaning is legacy then. Being remembered.

  To which Allofyou replies: A million years from now, no one will remember Bill Gates, or Steve Jobs, or Zuckerberg or Mother Theresa, let alone you. A million years is nothing in geologic time. All this save the Earth stuff, that’s BS. It’s about saving us. The Earth doesn’t care, it’ll be circling the sun a billion years from now and ants will rule the world.

  That seems to have shut the responder up. The Hawaiian Beaver Slaughter video is creeping over another million views, which may or may not disprove Allofyou’s point. Eighty-five million views at one minute a pop is two eighty-year lifetime equivalents.