The Sinclair Heir

by Scott, Eliot

  His chest lifts with a heavy breath, and slowly, he walks closer. I reach for his hand when he’s near enough, and I hold it in mine while he sits on the rock with me, his body turned so he isn’t forced to look in my eyes. He’s avoiding, and I know I’ll need to force him to confront this hurdle. I move closer to him and cup the side of his face, nudging him to look at me until our eyes lock, and the absolute terror reflected in them practically drowns me.

  This is about my parents—about the day my father died. This is his misplaced guilt, and it’s what I always knew but never told him.

  “Stop punishing yourself,” I say in a soft voice.

  His face tenses and his jaw flexes in resistance. “Jojo, you don’t know what I’ve done—seen—participated in to hurt you.”

  “Alex…”

  I turn into him more and grasp at the plain, white T-shirt he put on before we came out here. I hold the cotton in my fists and plead with his eyes. Alex smells like amber and the woods around us, and I’m dizzy from his nearness, but I’m also heartbroken for this burden he’s carrying. It was never his. He didn’t earn it. It was forced upon him by a father so rotten and evil that he could give Satan a run for his money.

  “Alex, I think I know…” I say. His eyes flicker and bounce between both of mine.

  “You don’t,” he insists.

  But I cut in again with, “I. Do. Know.” I swallow the grit and pain down. I knew then, the moment Alex held me, crying as I cried over my father’s death. I knew, but I denied it, because everything hurt me too much.

  “Alex you didn’t kill my father; you simply didn’t save him.” Alex’s entire body grows tense, and I add, “You wanted to, but you just couldn’t.”

  “Jojo, I’m so sorry.” His shoulders sag and his eyes begin to water. I bring his lips to mine and press a kiss against the saltiness, then kiss his head as I pull him into me, cradling him as his arms cling for me.

  “I wasn’t smart enough…never fast enough. And my father was always one step ahead, playing me—betraying us all. That day, he lured me to the wrong side of the silo; it was like trying to stop a hurricane from hitting land.” His body quakes, and I hold him tighter as he clutches me like I’m a life raft.

  “I know,” I choke out. “I know.”

  We rock, and with my face hidden from his view, I cry too.

  “It was all part of your father’s sick scheme. And whatever went down that day, you must know that I forgive you, even though there is nothing to forgive. My dad…what happened and how he died…that wasn’t on you.”

  “But even still, Jojo.” His voice is rough—harsh and hurting. “I can’t forget it. I can’t get the image out of my mind, and I think, because of that, even if you forgive me, I will never be able to forgive myself.”

  “You must. You were a kid. I was a kid. The feud was bigger than both of us. But it’s over now. It’s over, and if you can’t move past this, then you and I can never win. Please, Alex. Please. Tell me about that day, because what I’ve imagined is far worse than the reality. I know it is. Tell me my father’s last words.”

  He shakes his head no and my lips press on the top of his head as he shudders out a rough but clear “Okay.”

  6.

  Alex, Junior Year, The Day Things Changed Forever.

  Inside the granary, Father’s voice has reached that inhuman shriek that always scares the shit out of me. Only, inside this closed space it’s bigger and monstrous—like an echoing surround-sound theater, bouncing off the walls and slamming cannonballs of hate into each of us.

  It's the voice that comes when Father wants to hurt someone. It comes with fists, punches or elbows that blast me, or Grady, and at times even Mother, across a room, into car doors, into pavement or walls. This time, maybe because he can’t reach any of us, Father slams the wrench against the granary wall, making us all jump with each reverberating whack.

  But then he stops. He seems to calm himself for a long moment. When he speaks again he's transformed from ranting maniac into something much worse. He’s grown into this trembling and quiet force. This is the state of being I've learned is scarier than when he's beating us. His voice morphs to match the man. This is the calm before the storm that brings hail and lightning. This is the preface to destruction.

  “Mr. Wallace and I have made a new deal today. Haven't we?"

  Mr. Wallace nods at my father once, then locks a pleading gaze onto me for a brief yet endless moment.

  The gaze says Mr. Wallace is locked in to whatever this “new deal” might be. I think he's promised not to speak, not to fight—not to do anything to upset my father—because, fuck! I think he's trying to save me.

  He wants to save me so I can somehow do the impossible. He’s wishing for me to save his Jojo, just as I’ve promised him I’d do all along.

  He knew this day would come.

  Can’t he see into my eyes the way I can see into his? I can't do what he wants. I’m afraid and I’m helpless and stupid and there’s no way I can protect anyone! I shout back at him in my stare, keeping my eyes wide and boring into him with every desperate expression I can muster. I can't save Jojo. I can't save anyone or anything—not you, not me, not her, not anyone. I can't do it!

  I plead more, shaking my head. I plead with him to help me.

  Fight. Fight hard. I obviously don't have what it takes. Please, Mr. Wallace. Fight!

  Mr. Wallace answers me with the a second, and nearly imperceptible, head shake and Father, when he sees the silent communication happening between us, holds the wrench up close to the man's face, shoving it up against his forehead, as though he wishes he could crack Mr. Wallace's skull with it.

  I wince, waiting for the blows, as does Mr. Wallace.

  Surprisingly, that first blow never happens, and when Father walks away to begin loosening the bolts that hold the ramp Mr. Wallace is standing on, Mr. Wallace rips his gaze away from me and lowers his head and sighs, staring down at the sixty-foot depth of grain that will soon swallow him up.

  He’s waiting for it to be over now.

  No! No. No!!

  My body begins to hurt from the inside out. My chest aches from holding back my screams. Mr. Wallace’s shoulders slump. The sight hurts so badly I can hardly hide my expressions behind the hard mask my face has been morphing into since he turned away from me.

  I picture Jojo’s face and from there, from deep inside myself, I find the strength to keep it all hidden.

  I have to save myself, because I have to save Mr. Wallace's daughter.

  Jojo.

  Not my Jojo.

  Not anymore.

  She can never be mine again.

  Not after today. Not after this. I’m no longer her ‘true-love’ because I’m now a monster. A Sinclair. Like them. But maybe, if I follow all the rules, if I don’t rebel this time and I accept what and who I am, maybe I can still be Jojo Wallace’s protector. That…that would be enough.

  “Boys, take note.” Father’s chuckling as he shouts out to us. “I’ve promised Mr. Wallace a whole bunch of shit here today. He and I have our own contract," Father's rantings go on, “and, unlike you, Alex Sinclair, my fucking shit-excuse for a son, I'm a man of my word. Yes, I am."

  Father flips his head and sears me with a scathing look so hot, heat burns into me, even from this far away.

  "I've promised this man that we shall not kill his dear Jojo or her mother—not outright—though it would be fun. I've also promised that they will not find a bloody and battered man half buried in a ditch with his face bashed in, which is why I didn’t smash in his skull just now.”

  Father sighs like he’s full of regret before turning back to grunt as he works methodically, loosening each of the bolts. They come undone, one by one. He slides them out of the wall carefully. I know these bolts well, and there are only eight holding up the end of the entire walkway that’s supporting Mr. Wallace.

  Father’s now removed six.

  Mr. Wallace knows, too.


  "I've promised that if he goes quietly, his family will seek solace in the idea that he died in an accident, a sad and terrible accident, instead of everyone in Tacoma having to wake up and wonder who in our town is a murderer. A clean death will also keep the grain clean. We’ll fish him out all nice and clean, and the Wallaces can eat this winter, too.”

  Father takes all of the bolts he's unscrewed thus far and drops them all into the grain, letting them sink in. The grain husks puff up into a little cloud of dust as gravity pulls them in slowly and steadily like rocks tossed into quicksand until they disappear. When they're gone, Father pauses again and turns back to me with a point. "Alex, apologize to me, and to Mr. Wallace, like a man. Own this. You fucked up. I’d planned to kill him eventually, but your endless rebellion is why he dies today instead of later. You kept trying to fuck me over, and because of that, you stole from Mr. Wallace. You stole his time.”

  I take father’s direction immediately. “I’m sorry, Father.” I respond woodenly, heart falling through my soul and out my feet. It sinks slowly through the three hundred feet of grain inside this metal granary, falling like lead through the earth, all the way through to the blackness that I’m becoming.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Wallace,” I call out loudly. This apology…this one, I mean.

  I hope Mr. Wallace can hear it in my voice—see it in my eyes.

  I'm so fucking sorry. Sorry…sorry…helpless…

  Mr. Wallace flicks me a lightning fast glance, but keeps his head down.

  “Stop looking at him, boy. Look at your father!” Father’s voice grows rubber-band taut like he may start shrieking again. “Tell me you're done fighting my will and my plans.”

  Father’s eyes are twin ice stones of cold, cold hate.

  "No more, Sir. I'm done fighting your will and your plans. Completely done.”

  When Father gets the second-to-last bolt out, a deafening creaking and a groaning pierces the air as the entire far end of the walkway that's holding Mr. Wallace bends with a screeching howl as the metal folds downward in this graceful arc.

  Father seems surprised by this, as though it was unexpected, and he leaps back onto the portion of the walkway that is secured while Mr. Wallace lunges and grips onto anything he can, shifting his weight to stay on the walkway as the thing moves further down, then pauses, hanging perfectly over the center of the silo’s grain storage area. Father’s obviously elated at how dramatic everything looks. And Mr. Wallace’s eyes show panic for the first time. My eyes rivet on him, and because I know him so well—because he and I are so similar—we’re both analyzing if there's a rope or anything at all near, something jutting out of the smooth metal walls of the granary he could maybe swim to or cling to until he could get a breath.

  But like me, he knows—there is nothing.

  Father and Grady must have removed the safety and rescue ropes each walkway boasted only days ago.

  As if it will help, I hold my breath as Mr. Wallace dangles there, making no sound. I suppose he’d promised my father he wouldn’t, but I sense his silence, like mine, is his own type of rebellion, because we both know my father would love it if this would erode into me and Mr. Wallace screaming, begging and crying. We all watch Mr. Wallace’s strong hands turn red as he grips the metal.

  Strong hands turn red and start to slip.

  The place grows so quiet the sound of a cellphone receiving a text startles us. Father pulls Mr. Wallace's iPhone out of his pocket. “Fuck. I nearly walked away with evidence." He makes this tsk-tsk sound as he pauses to read the text.

  “Oh...it's your lovely daughter. Jojo. Texting from your wife's phone, reporting that she left her phone at school. She and Mom are on the way home. Do you want them to grab you a burrito? The usual? Hmm?"

  Father puts the wrench under his arm to blink at Mr. Wallace while he lets out a groan of frustration as he's now trying to climb back up, but his legs fail to hook on, and the walkway groans and dips to a perfect vertical angle.

  "I'm going to say that you do want one. If I'm hungry, you must be famished." He reads his response out loud as he types. "Yes, honey. Please. If Mom's not too tired. I'm still doing the bolts up in the granary. Almost finished. See you soon."

  Father winks at me, and then he flings Mr. Wallace's phone into the wheat. It lights up for a brief moment before it, too, sinks under. As it disappears, the phone dings the text response from Jojo, and Father pouts, adding cruelly, "Do you think she responded, ‘I love you, Daddy?’”

  He turns his back on Mr. Wallace then slams the wrench into the last bolt. “Grady, meet me down at the bottom and get my car started. We need to be long out of here when those bitches pull in."

  "You want me to just leave Alex here? What if he manages to rescue the guy?”

  “Are you questioning me, Grady?” Father asks, his voice all ice and threats for my brother now as the last bolt cracks in half and the metal walkway falls in, bringing Mr. Wallace into the grain with it. “Alex can't get around to this side to help him in time, and he won't anyhow. Because he knows what he's supposed to do this time. Don't you, Alex?"

  It's not a question. It's a bomb to my heart. A threat to all that I hold dear.

  "Yes, sir,” I answer him, swallowing down a thousand razorblades. I’m unable to hide the tears streaming down my face as Mr. Wallace stops struggling completely. He told me once that should anyone fall in, struggling only makes the sinking happen faster. "I'll be here. I’ll intercept them, and I'll walk with Jojo up here to help search for her father. And then, just as you asked me to, I’ll pick up all of the pieces. I'll stand by and watch her and her mother cry, and I’ll report it all back to you. Every. Single. Weep.”

  “Good. You do that. Grady, move your slow ass. Let's go!" Grady leaves me as ordered. And without another word or glance at Mr. Wallace, Father chucks the wrench at the best man I’ve ever known.

  I fall to my knees. The metal walkway has already sunk all the way in, but because it was flat and wide, Mr. Wallace was able to clamber up on it for a time, and that walkway allowed him to sink much slower than the bolts and the phone did.

  "Hold on! Can you find a way to hold on?" I'm asking him, though I know it's futile. "I'll go find a rope!”

  I stand, knowing better.

  “Don't. No time. You know that, Alex. Please stay." Mr. Wallace calls out. "Don't leave me alone. Just look at me. Give me your word that you love my girl—that you will never stop—that you'll love her forever and keep her—" his chin sinks under, and he's spitting wheat grains out of his mouth while adding, “safe. Please!”

  "I will. I will never stop.”

  "I know,” he calls back to me, beginning to cough. He’s trying to swim up into the grain and onto his back.

  I'm sobbing now, reaching towards him under the walkway on my side. My arms are miles from where his body is, where it is now going under. "I love your daughter. I'll never stop loving her. My whole life, I'll work to keep her safe or I'll die trying, sir. I promise. I won't let them hurt her."

  "Good. You're good, Alex." I think I hear him say those words, but then he's gasping and coughing as the wheat grains get deeper into his mouth. "It's not your fault, Alex. This is not your fault. My wife...your father. This feud is not your fault. Okay?"

  "It is my fault, Sir. I should have known better. Next time I'll see it coming." I shout out above his coughs and his now wild struggles as he begins gasping for the air he can't seem to find anymore. I stay there as he asked, and because I don't know what else to do for him, I say it all again. "I'm sorry. And I promise you, I will love Jojo more than myself. Jojo won't know, and I'll be by her side, and she and your wife—they will be safe. I'll do my best to keep them safe."

  “Not your fault. Tell them Alex. Tell Jojo. Love. Her.”

  He doesn't say more. He can't because he's choking—suffocating—and the last thing I see are Mr. Wallace’s eyes boring up at me.

  He’s anguished.

  Afraid to die.

  He
knows, though, that it’s happening. Yet, just like his daughter, he’s also somehow forgiving me—even when I don’t deserve it.

  I won’t accept his forgiveness. I should have been able to stop this.

  I want to die. I want to fling myself into the grain after him. But I don’t—I can’t, because I’ve promised him. Because he just said, “Jojo. Love. Her.”

  And because I do, because I love her so damn much, I stay where I am. I wait until every last scrap of his blue and green flannel plaid shirt has sunk into the grain, and until I can't hear or see any more movements of struggle under it. It takes longer than it would most men. Mr. Wallace is a fighter, even when there is no hope.

  I scream when he’s gone, howling my anguish and frustration. I cry out until Jojo and her mother pull up to the farmhouse.

  I fly down the steps, shouting for them with my face all swollen from crying and my eyes all desperate with desolation, hurt and pain, and I shake from the horrible shock my body has gone into. They believe me without question as I repeat my father’s lies.

  “Horrible. Terrible…accident.”

  7.

  Alex, Junior Year. After the Murder.

  When I’d returned home, it was ten hours since I’d last seen my father.

  Ten hours since I’d been a murderer.

  Ten hours of hurt.

  Father had been waiting for me in his silk bathrobe, smiling maniacally from his success. He’s just like a comic book villain. I could hardly look at him, but I made myself do it, and by 4 a.m., I’d reported all he asked of me. Every single blow-by-blow moment, all with a straight face despite my shock, exhaustion and horror that I was still participating like a puppet on a string.

  I delved out facts like:

  It was Mrs. Wallace who called 911 from her cellphone, right there, while sitting in her car.

  She paled and started crying immediately and didn’t stop crying the entire night.

  Every EMS outlet in the city appeared. Police, fire, ambulances. The newspaper.