The Day my Father Croaked

  “So you’re tryin’ to bump off the old man, eh?” hissed the slimy character across from me, his words punctuated by his thick New York dialect. His name was Jerry Stone--a crook if I ever knew one. If anything shady went down in the city--drug deal, prostitution, murder, you name it--you’d have the odds in your favour betting Jerry’s involved. His life was the height of hedonism and decadence: weekly cocaine-fueled orgies, cockfights, dog fights, hookers, maybe even hooker-fights. Any debauchery you could think of and he’s your man. So why was I meeting with the unsavoury b*****d? Simple. It was because of yet another unsavoury b*****d: my father.

The old lecher was rolling in dough, but did I ever see any of it? Not a damn penny. He’s always been miserable and cheap, especially to me and my younger brothers. His own sons! Yet he cycled through his young girlfriends (most of whom were less than half my age) as often as Jerry went through his packs of Marlboro Reds. Then he met Cindi, a twenty-year old bimbo who was working as a bartender (or a stripper) at some dive downtown while she struggled to make it as an actress. Now that I think about it, that’s the same description of every one of Dad’s exes. For some reason I can’t understand, my father decided that Cindi was the one. They planned on getting married in a few months, and sweet Cindi was pushing for an earlier wedding. I knew exactly what that meant: I’d never see a dime of my inheritance.

Jerry took a last puff of his dying Cuban cigar and tossed its remains in his ashtray. Without hesitation, he reached for another.

“Jesus, Jerry,” I said. “You trying to kill yourself?”

“We’ve all gotta go someday, pal,” he said, waving his cigar around like a madman. “So I’m goin’ out in a blaze o’ f*****g glory. What’d that goddamn singer say? Better to burn out than… How’s it go? Ah, f**k it.” He trails off in a fit of coughs. How the b*****d had managed to elude lung cancer his whole life I’d never know.

“Moderation. That’s all I’m saying,” I tell him. I know it won’t make a damn difference. This guy was almost as stubborn as my old man.

“What the f**k’s moderation?” Jerry says; he bursts out in knee-slapping laughter. “ ‘Sides, why should I take life lessons from a guy who’s trying to pop off his pappy. Nah, I don’t think so.”

His words stung. I wasn’t a bad guy. I wasn’t trying to kill my father because of money… Well, not just because of money. The truth was, I hated him. The hatred I held for him had festered over the years. Long, long ago there was a time that I actually loved him--though that may seem incongruous now that I’m figuratively holding a gun to his head, waiting to pull the trigger. That was before my mother died. She was the glue that held the family together. When she passed, we all fell apart. A year after she died, the old f*****g goat (I am referring, of course, to my dear father) brought back a thirty-something strumpet he presumably met at some swinger’s club (I can present no evidence to attest to this, but it is my educated guess). That was when my hatred for him first began to spread, like cancerous cells ready to divide and grow. I remember my young mind wondering whether or not he ever loved my mother. I was left to take care of my younger brothers while my father ran around with his young girlfriends like some randy frat boy. That was when my hatred for him became a full-fledged tumor. From then on, I knew that I didn’t give a damn if he lived or died… Until now. I wasn’t a bad guy. I had been mistreated my whole life--abused even. If the world wasn’t going to deliver my father’s just desserts, someone had to.

“Can’t say I approve Mikey-boy,” said Jerry, waving about his cigar. “Killing your own dad… That’s fucked. There’s even a word for that s**t.”

“Patricide?” I suggested. He laughed loudly and gave me a tough punch in the arm.

“That’s the one,” he said. “You smart b*****d.”

How could Jailbird Jerry judge me? He’d bumped off more people than I could count on all my fingers… And toes. He had met my father once; I thought he’d understand, of all people. He was making me impatient--all I wanted was some assurance. I wanted to be sure that, by the end of the week, my father would be dead.

“So you’ll do it?” I asked. Jerry blew a ring of smoke and nodded.

“Course I will,” he said. “That all you care about Mike? Thought you just dropped by for a nice chat.”

“When?” I asked. I was getting edgy. “It has to be soon. Within the week.”

Jerry’s usually affable expression became serious and he leaned forward. The glare he gave me sent chills down my spine. The guy was intimidating. I didn’t know many people who could spend more than an hour or two with the guy. His temper was volatile. I was always careful choosing my words around him.

“It’s an art, Mike,” he said, with an edge to his voice. “You don’t rush an artist. You don’t rush greatness. F**k your week, I’ll do it when I do it.”

I couldn’t argue with him; he was out of his mind. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years that’s proven to be invariably true, it’s that there’s no arguing with a madman.

I met his eyes for as long as I could stand it, but I had to cede. When I looked away, I could see his stern, dedicated gaze in my periphery. As soon as I glanced back the hedonistic nutjob let out a barking laugh and smacked his fists down on the table.

“You’re too serious sometimes, you f**k,” Jerry laughed. He stood up and slowly walked around the table to my side. He grasped my shoulder and leaned down toward me. He had a damn tight grip. I could feel something hot on the nape of my neck. It was his cigar, resting just behind my neck!

“I’ll try and get it done quickly,” he said, leaning in dangerously close to my face. Close enough that all I could smell was nicotine and whiskey when he exhaled.

“Good,” I said. “Now get your damn cigar away from me. You’re gonna light my hair on fire.”

Jerry apologized profusely (but not sincerely), and offered me a drink. I refused, naturally. I wanted to spend as little time as possible with this despicable fellow. I escaped Jerry’s place (or, as I referred to it, his hall of hedonism) as soon as I could. When I reached my house I received an extremely unwelcome surprise. My old man was waiting outside my place, leaning back on his silver Aston Martin. As usual, he was accompanied by his nubile, silicone-injected girlfriend.

“Mike!” he exclaimed, waving his chubby arms around wildly--as if I couldn’t see him. “Mikey-boy, get over here.”

He stretched out his arms to bring me into a hug. I grudgingly agreed and forced a smile.

“Dad,” I said, through clenched teeth. “Didn’t know you were dropping by. What a… Pleasure.”

“Your father cares a lot about you,” Cindi chimed in. God she had a nasally, high-pitched voice. I’d have to remember to buy earplugs later. “You should call him more often.”

“I always call,” I lied--nothing wrong with the odd lie. I was altogether an honest person. “But you never pick up. Or maybe your old ears just can’t hear the phone ringing. Might have to throw you in a home soon.”

“Heh,” my father chortled, holding his plump belly like some lascivious Santa Claus. “There’s my boy, showing his sense of humour. Heh.”

“What are you two visiting for?” I asked. My father squinted his bushy, grey eyebrows.

“Hmm?” he said, looking around with a confused expression. I wasn’t kidding about his bad hearing.

“I said, what are you two here for?” I reiterated myself--I was used to having to repeat myself with him, but it didn’t make it any less annoying.

“What?” he responded. “No need to whisper out here.” He laughed. I shook my head; if I spoke any louder I’d be yelling. Thankfully--or not--Cindi stepped in.

“Is it a bad thing your father wants to visit once in a while?” she said. She stepped right up to me and pressed her finger into my chest. Great. Now I was being lectured by a woman less than half my age.

“Of course not,” I said, lying again. “Just caught me at a bad time. Why don’t you come back around tomorrow?”

In a desperate attempt to escape my father and his delightfully principled harlot, I shuffled up the steps toward my front door. Cindi over-emphatically shook her head and thrust out her hips with the level of sass I’ve come to expect from my Dad’s girlfriends.

“You’re going to take his s**t?” she said to my father, pointing to me. “You gonna take that?”

My father began to turn red; he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-drenched forehead. He pointed his sausage finger at me and shook his head.

“Now come on, Son. You’re offending the girl,” he said.

“He’s offending you,” Cindi cut in.

“You’re offending me,” he said. My father was about as bright as an asphalt road at night. It was shocking that he had been capable of running the family company.

“I’m really in a rush,” I said. “Come back around tomorrow and we’ll have a visit.”

“Huh? What?” said my father, confused. “We’ll come back tomorrow; looks to me like you’re busy.”

He turned around and hobbled back to the car; Cindi strutted along next to him. She gave me one last glare before she sat in the passenger’s seat--she couldn’t miss that opportunity. Before my father left he shouted one last thing to me.

“And remember to call your brother! He misses you.”

I groaned as Cindi’s window rolled down and she stuck out her infuriatingly pretty face.

“Gotta start treating family like family,” she said. “They’re all you got, you know.”

She was about to say more, but I cut her off as I shut the door of my home. I’d had more than enough of Cindi for one night. When I got in I let out a big sigh. This was my one place of refuge from my family. Once I was inside, I was in safe territory. Even if they came over to visit, I could hide and pretend I was not home.

I grabbed a bottle of cider and hopped down on the couch to relax. There was nothing worth watching on the TV, so I just lay on the couch and enjoyed the peace and quiet. It felt pretty damn good. Just then, my cell rang. I wanted to let it go to voicemail, but my curiosity got the best of me. I pulled the phone out and took a look at the display: “Roy”. My little brother--the middle child. Damn it, I wasn’t in the mood for more family. I almost threw the phone, but my consciousness got the best of me.

“Hey Roy,” I said, answering it. “This isn’t the best time to call, I’m pretty busy.”

“Don’t give me that, man.” said Roy. “I bet you’re lying on the couch with a beer, doing nothing.”

“You’re completely off the mark,” I said. I glanced at the drink in my hand: it was a cider, not a beer. I really wasn’t in the mood to talk, but what could I do?

“Whatever,” said Roy. “But you’ve gotta call more often, or visit once in a while. When was the last time you came out here? I think it was Michael’s wedding last year. What the hell, man?”

Michael was the youngest of the three of us brothers, and the first to get married. I’ll admit, I was a little jealous of him. Everything seemed to just work out in his life.

“I call all the time,” I said. “You’re never home. You and Dad both do the same thing. And you’re upset with me? I’m the one who should be upset--my own family never giving me the time of day.”

I could hear Roy sigh on the other end of the line.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Why don’t you visit sometime this week then?”

“I’m booked,” I said. “This week is just crazy for me. I don’t know if I’ll even have time to catch a breath. Too bad you’re going to Linda’s party on Thursday, because that’s honestly the only free day I have.”

“You’re in luck,” he told me. “Linda’s moving her party to next week, so Thursday’s great for me.”

Just my luck. Why had I made that comment? It was gambling with nothing to gain and everything to lose. I had just played a game of Russian roulette and lost.

I paused for a moment before speaking. There was nothing I could say to get out of it. My leg was caught in a bear trap that I had set up myself.

“Great… Looking forward to it,” I said. “But I’ve really gotta get going, Roy.”

“Yeah, no problem bro,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve got important business to get back to.”

He hung up the phone and I leaned back in my couch, relaxed. I took a big gulp of my cider and propped up my legs on the end of my couch. I just wanted a night of rest, with no distractions.

The phone rang again.

“Son of a b***h,” I cursed. Why did I even have a phone? I grabbed the damn thing and prepared to toss it across the room when I caught a glimpse of the name of the person ringing me: Jerry. I had to answer this: the call I was waiting for.

“Jerry?” I answered; I was greeted with a harsh cough.

“F**k, Mike,” said Jerry, still coughing. “I have to kick this damn habit.”

“That’s not what you said earlier,” I laughed. “I used to be a smoker too, Jerry. I know what it’s like.”

Jerry chuckled, but then all was silent. It felt like a minute and neither of us spoke. When he finally spoke up, I almost jumped at hearing his voice. I thought the reception had cut out.

“Mike,” said Jerry gravely. “Nobody’s with you? Good. It’s happening tomorrow, Mike. You’ll have to get the dough together by then.”

Already! The guy worked quickly--I didn’t think it would happen until the end of the month. This was better than I could have hoped for.

“Jesus, Jerry,” I said, “you’re fast. Sure, I’ll have the cash. Where do you want to meet up?”

“Your Dad’s place, four o’clock.”

I wanted to say something--to tell Jerry there was no way in hell I’d go over to my Dad’s place right after the deed was done. Before I could say anything I heard the click on the other end of the line as Jerry hung up. I cursed and tried to dial him back, but there was no answer. I knew he was there!

I stood up and paced around the room a few times. It was done. There was nothing I could do to stop it now. Not that I wanted to stop it. Still… The gravity of the situation was finally beginning to hit me. If Jerry was caught, I’d be caught. I wouldn’t be the one to put my Dad in the ground, but I’d be every bit as guilty as Jerry. I was beginning to sweat and shake with anxiety. Was all of this worth the risk?

I didn’t sleep that night--there was no way I could. Not with what was in store the next day. I tossed in bed for a while until I gave up and put on some late-night TV. There wasn’t much to watch, but it didn’t matter. The television was just a distraction--an ineffective distraction. My mind kept returning to the same place.

The next day was a nightmare--my worry and lack of sleep had taken their toll. My visage was pallid and grotesque, and I could barely keep my eyelids from drooping down. Still, when 3:30 came around, I became as alert as I’d ever been. I paced around the house for a while and, when the waiting became too much, decided to drive over a little early.

My Dad’s house looked the same as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought to myself. I drove through the gate and up to the front door of my father’s excessively ostentatious mansion. This was it. I felt in my pocket for the bundle of cash and sighed in relief when I felt it. I hopped out of the car and stepped up to the door of the mansion.

The door was unlocked. I stepped inside and looked around, expecting to see a gruesome scene inside. It was not at all as bad as I expected. No blood, no gore. Clean, really. At the bottom of the spiral staircase lay a corpse, face-down, sprawled out in a contorted position I didn’t think was humanly possible. Yes, it was my father.

A part of me felt almost… Sad. For this was the man who had raised me as a child. He had cradled me in his arms when I was a babe, played catch with me when I was an awkward, gangly boy. The man who had helped me ride a bike for the first time. And now this man was dead. I felt my eyes well up. Then I remembered how easily he had gotten over my mother. How he had never shown me any generosity despite all the money he continually stashed away like some disgusting packrat. No, I would not cry over this man.

“Yo, Mikey,” someone called. Jerry was leaning over the balcony at the top of the stairs, eyeing me. “No going back now. You got the cash?”

Of course I did; why would I show up without it? I’d have to fly all the way to China to get away from Jerry--and maybe he’d manage to track me down there. When I met Jerry at the top of the staircase I nodded and held out the clump of cash I’d been hiding in my pocket. He grabbed it and, with a sly grin, nodded towards the bathroom down the hall.

“Threw in a freebie,” he said. I knew exactly what he meant. Cindi and my father were inseparable--my guess is she wanted to be around the day my father croaked so she could take his money and run. There would be no running for her now. She was slumped over the bathroom sink with a hole in her skull.

“You know,” called Jerry from the hallway. “I spoke with your brother today. Roy. Long time since I’ve spoken with him. Sounds like you ain’t the only one with familial difficulties.”

“Sure,” I said, finally peeling my eyes away from Cindi. “We all hated our rat b*****d father.”

Out in the hallway, Jerry was leaning nonchalantly on the railing. He reached for his pocket--where he always kept a pack of cigarettes--but his fingers twitched away as if in reaction. He chuckled and shook his head.

“F**k this habit, Mike,” he said. “You were right. It’s gonna get me caught one day; I can’t go leaving my ashes all over the room.”

He shook his head and continued. “Anyway, I was going on about something… S**t, what was it? Roy, that’s right. From the sounds of it, you lot are gonna get a heap of inheritance from this. Shame you have to split it in three. That’s a big chunk off right there.”

What the hell was he suggesting? I grabbed the smug b*****d by the shoulders and shoved him against the railing.

“I’m not killing my brothers,” I said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Nah,” he said. “Course not. Patricide’s one thing, but… Damn, I’m sure there’s a word for brother killing.”

“Fratricide,” I told him. He laughed jovially and clapped me on the shoulder.

“That’s the one. Too smart for your own good sometime.”

I had to get out of this place. Jerry was crazy for wanting to meet here. If someone walked into the yard or knocked on the door… Jesus. I had to leave. I hastily bid Jerry adieu and marched toward the front door. When I was a few feet away, he called me. Unbelievable.

“One last thing, Mikey,” he said. “I mentioned your brother had some family problems too. Well it wasn’t due to your old man. You’ve gotta call him more often, Mike.”

How many times did I have to hear that? I spun around quickly to get in another word… And came face to face with the barrel of Jerry’s pistol.

“Roy says hi.” Click.