by SF Benson
I dropped to my knees but refused to cry. Tears were for little boys and innocent youth. I wasn’t entitled to either.
Grandpa knelt beside me, ripped away the note, and cradled her body. He prayed over her the entire way back to the truck. I closed my eyes and pushed the battered images from my mind. I needed to remember my mother with a smile on her face and her bright green eyes full of life.
It didn’t work.
We picked up Bobby’s bloodied body from the curb, his chest riddled with bullets. Grandpa fell to his knees and lowered his head. It started as a whimper and quickly grew into deep, agonizing sobs.
What happened to being brave? Didn’t it mean no tears?
I tore my head away. The sounds emanating from Grandpa hurt my chest. My lungs constricted and spots flashed in my vision. I lowered myself to the curb and dropped my head.
Time stopped, and I felt broken. My father and mother were gone.
Why couldn’t I wake up from this nightmare?
My parents did nothing to deserve their deaths. They helped people. People who couldn’t do more for themselves. For God’s sake, they took care of strays—animals, people. It didn’t matter to them. Who hated them enough to want them dead?
We still needed to find Shiloh. I silently prayed we wouldn’t find him. It might mean he was still alive. Hurt but alive. I held onto the hope as we continued looking.
Grandpa walked with his rifle readied to take down the first evildoer who crossed our path. My foot landed on something soft. I glanced at the ground, crouched low, and saw the leather bracelet.
I ran my fingers along the layers of black leather strips. It was a simple cuff Shiloh and I made together when I was ten. I had one, too. My stomach lurched, and I puked all over the asphalt.
I hadn’t heard Grandpa walk up. He carried Shiloh’s battered body and rasped, “I got him.”
My world officially ended. Nothing would ever be the same.
I dragged my feet back to the truck. Grandpa covered my family’s bodies with another tarp, closed the tailgate, and headed to the driver’s side. Before I got in, I caught a glimpse of Cindy standing in the front yard.
I closed the truck door. “Give me a minute, Grandpa.”
Words weren’t necessary between us. She wrapped her arms around my waist and just held me. Her embrace was what I needed.
No judgment came from her as my grief poured out of me. It was the last time I’d shed a tear for my family.
“There is no justice
You hurt those you claim to love
Can you not see beyond your own veiled truth?
Screw patriotism!”
—from “Spoken Words on War” by Civic Minded, 2018
“We gather here today to celebrate the lives of Shiloh, Rebecca, and Robert Jones, who have now returned to their home with Our God, The Father,” began Father Flannery. He praised God and asked for His mercy.
I stopped listening.
Ruby didn’t come to the private service. The doctor admitted her to the hospital. Her distress over Shiloh’s death was endangering the baby. No one provided an escape from my distress.
“Let us go in peace to live out the Word of God.”
Mass ended, and the first notes of “Amazing Grace” filled the church. Cries and hushed voices surrounded me as the gathering plodded past the gleaming mahogany coffins, thankfully closed.
How would I say goodbye to my family? It wasn’t like they were going on a vacation and we’d see each other soon.
Faces, familiar and unknown, shuffled from the polished pews and made their way toward me, ushering words of sorrow. I focused on other things—feet whispering across the musty carpet, the smell of burning candles and incense. Anything was better than the multitude of regrets drifting past my ears.
“Asher.” The gentle, loving voice embraced me like a warm blanket. I looked up. Mama Sibley, my favorite grandparent, spread her arms wide. It was like coming home. She was a free spirit like her daughter.
Sibley Harris Winters earned disdain from my other grandmother. Grandma hated the woman’s badass reputation, assorted visible tatts on her neck and wrists, and her penchant for inappropriate clothing. Her gray-streaked black hair floated around the straps of her red short dress.
I hugged her tight.
She rubbed circles on my back. “I’m so sorry, baby. Steve and I want you to come back to New Mexico with us.”
Steve was Mama Sibley’s new husband. The man was cheesy—slicked back dark hair and a shiny suit stretched over steroid-induced muscles with a too-perfect smile. Steve was a former bodybuilder turned entrepreneur. He loved my grandmother and indulged her many career whims—she never stayed in anything for long.
“I’d like that,” I muttered. Michigan held nothing for me other than Cindy. Without my family, I wasn’t sure I could stay even for her.
“We’ll talk later,” she said and moved along with the other mourners.
A man wearing a tailored suit with salt and pepper thinning hair, a scraggly beard, and a potbelly approached me. His steps were agonizingly slow. I nearly said something rude before realizing it was Papa Clark, Mama’s Sibley’s first husband and my biological grandfather.
Years of binge drinking, junk food, cigarettes, and sleepless nights had taken a toll on his body. The stench of whiskey greeted me first. Part of me envied his ability to escape the pain. He stopped with his hand extended—a little too formal, unbefitting the circumstances. “Son, it’s been a spell.”
The last time we had seen each other was five years ago at the funeral of another family member. Then Mama Sibley divorced him and Papa Clark moved to Ohio. Recently, he retired from his position as a banker. He never remarried and lived alone.
Clumsily, I shook his hand. We weren’t close. I didn’t appreciate how he preferred spending time in a bar instead of with his family. “Yes, sir.”
Papa Clark’s rheumy eyes raked over me. His voice shook as he said, “You look like Rebecca when she was your age.”
There was nothing I could say, nothing I wanted to say. So, I watched him hobble off.
And the mourners kept coming. Did they show up to make sure my family was dead?
Where were these people when someone dragged my brother through the street, gunned my father down, or pummeled my mother’s body? I didn’t want nor need their sympathy, but I couldn’t leave. Grandma drilled me before the funeral—shoulders back, chin up, accept the offer of condolence.
I was ready to leave when the last mourner stopped in front of me.
Cindy.
Her beautiful blue eyes were bloodshot. She wrapped her arms around my neck. I was too broken inside to return the gesture.
“I’m so sorry, Ash.” Her warm breath grazed my skin. Ordinarily, her touch would have comforted me. In that moment, I felt nothing. She sniffed. “If there’s anything you need—”
“Thanks, but I don’t need anything,” I said flatly.
She whispered in my ear, “Call me later, Ash.”
My girlfriend tried to ease my pain, but I pushed her away. The best parts of me died with my family. The only thing I could offer Cindy was a shell of my former self, not good for anyone or anything.
After the funeral, more mourners gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I tossed my suit coat on the sofa, loosened my tie, and walked toward the noise coming from the kitchen, where my grandparents were arguing over where I should live.
“Of course, he should come back west with us. There’s nothing here for him,” Mama Sibley asserted.
Grandpa folded his arms across his broad chest and shook his head. “He needs to stay where he’ll get a good Christian upbringing.”
“Are you implying I’m not a Christian?” Mama Sibley’s voice raised.
Grandma tapped her sensible shoe on the linoleum. “Asher is impressionable at his age. He shouldn’t grow up around pole dancers and women who chase after men half their age.”
Wrong words to say.
Papa Clark entered the room. “Sibley, I’m inclined to agree with Ed and Bernice. Asher is already settled in here. He’s in school. For God’s sake, let the boy be.”
No one asked me what I wanted to do. I had had enough of their words and went outside. Cindy was on the stairs.
“What are you doing here?” I said, a little too caustic.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “You need me.”
“What makes you think—”
“Asher Nicholas Jones, you’re not above needing someone. You can’t bottle up your feelings. It’s not healthy.”
I nodded. She was right, but I didn’t want to talk about anything to anyone. “How’d you get here?”
“Mom dropped me off. We told Dad we were visiting Ruby.”
We walked down the stairs together, and she curled her fingers around mine.
“How is Ruby?” I hadn’t seen her since we broke the news to her.
“She’ll be okay. Doctors are monitoring the baby. They’re not discharging her until after the birth.”
“Another month?”
“Yes.” Cindy raised her eyes and smiled at me. “Talk to me, Asher.”
I dropped her hand and continued walking down the street.
“Asher, wait!” She rushed up to me. “This is serious. You need to talk about how you’re feeling.”
“You want to know how I’m feeling?” I yelled and stopped moving. “I’m pissed. Those assholes, like, took my family from me. And now, my grandparents are arguing over where I should live.”
Cindy stared at the ground and asked, “You’re leaving?”
I shrugged. “I might. There’s not much keeping me here.”
Her quiet sniffing got my attention, and I quickly realized my blunder.
Shit!
I gathered her in my arms.
“Please don’t go, Ash.”
In the end, I stayed in Michigan. Mama Sibley said I could visit them during the summers. Papa Clark said he’d be good if I called him from time to time. I don’t think we spoke again after that day.
Visitations, phone calls…none of it mattered to me. My life changed in a matter of weeks.
Grandma and Grandpa weren’t the lenient guardians I grew up with. They wanted me to do chores—daily, weekly, and monthly—and implemented a strict curfew of five thirty on weeknights. On weekends, the federal six o’clock curfew was enough.
“Why the hell do I have to be home so early? I’m not a kid.”
“Watch your language, boy,” Grandpa said and continued reading his paper.
Grandma turned away from the sink and placed a paper in front of me.
“Are you kidding me?” I said when I realized it was a list of chores.
“Responsibility makes a man out of you,” Grandpa informed.
I crumbled the paper in my hand and tossed it to the floor. “No way. I don’t do chores. Never have. Never will.”
My grandfather shook his head, picked up the paper, and smoothed it. “Here’s the deal, young man. Either you do as you’re told or you lose your privileges. Hanging out with friends? Gone. Seeing the Miller girl? Gone.”
A chord resonated within me. I wouldn’t give up seeing Cindy. She was the lifeline I needed. Fortunately for me, she stuck by me. We spoke on the phone daily. We saw each other as much as possible. Grandma believed I was checking in on Ruby and the kids—little Becky came into the world early.
“Fine.” I snatched the list from his hand. The words, scrawled across the lined paper were tantamount to slave labor. Mama Sibley would never have expected me to do the things they were asking—trash duty, dishes, laundry, yard work, car detailing.
Grandpa cleared his throat. “About the Miller girl…”
“What about her?” Contempt attached itself to my voice.
He frowned. “You need a proper chaperone with her. We don’t need you repeating family mistakes.”
I knew he meant Shiloh. My grandparents hadn’t said his name since the funeral. Referring to my brother like he was a stranger was wrong.
But, hey, nothing was right regarding my life, and it wasn’t going to change.
“Babies murdering babies. Killing strangers…”
—from “Spoken Words on War” by Civic Minded, 2018
December 2019
Seeing Cindy was the only thing I looked forward to each day. Grandpa had me slaving away before and after school. I wanted to quit JROTC but stuck with it to avoid more chores. Although Grandpa was re-evaluating my learning to be a proper officer, he stayed off my back.
My relationship with Cindy intensified after the funeral. I had a feeling the chaperone requirement came up because my grandparents sensed it. Thankfully, Ruby became our appointed guardian. The kids kept her busy, giving us plenty of privacy.
Most of the time we spent time together in the Miller basement. Spending time alone with Cindy wasn’t smart. It was asking for trouble.
Apparently, so was America. By the end of the year, the riots progressed into a full-fledged war. The middle class, tired of self-serving politicians and their rhetoric, cried foul and came out swinging.
We were watching movies in the basement. I had one arm around Cindy’s shoulder. The other one kept wandering over her body. She kept pushing my hand away.
“Damn, girl, what’s with you?” I snapped. She’d never turned down any of my advances before.
“Is that all you ever want to do?” She pouted and folded her arms across her chest.
Honestly? Yes. It kept me from thinking how messed up my life had become. “You never had a problem with it before.”
“Well,” her voice shook slightly, “we have a problem now.”
I rubbed my neck and sighed. “What are you talking about?”
Cindy’s cheeks flushed and her eyes glistened. “I missed my period.”
“So, you…” Oh, shit! “How far along?”
“A month.”
The news sucker punched me. I exhaled loudly. “You sure?”
“Yes.” She avoided looking at me.
Talk about repeating history. Call me stupid. I sat next to my pregnant girlfriend on the same couch where Shiloh knocked up Ruby. Making matters worse, Shiloh could turn to Bobby when it happened. I had no one in my corner. Grandpa would skin me alive.
Common sense said we couldn’t keep it. I was fourteen. Cindy was fifteen. Neither of us was ready to be parents. And I didn’t have the money to take care of it myself. What the fuck would we do?
I reached for Cindy’s hand and squeezed it. “Do you think Ruby would help us?”
“Help with what?” Ruby stood at the foot of the stairs. Little Becky was in her arms. Her eyes darted between the two of us. Cindy returned her gaze with tears in her eyes.
“Holy shit!” Ruby leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She looked over at me. “Really?”
“’Fraid so.” What else could I say?
“Let me put the baby down. Meet me in the garage.”
After she put Becky down, the three of us gathered outside. Ruby turned the radio on to WRIF and blasted it. She led us into a corner away from the front of the garage.
Cindy sat down on top of a crate, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Ruby?”
Her sister whirled around. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”
Ruby paced the floor. I felt like I should say something, anything to defend ourselves. “Ruby, it’s not—”
“Didn’t I say not to speak?” she yelled. “You two didn’t learn a damn thing from us.”
“Ruby, we—” Cindy started.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Ruby’s eyes were cold like a couple of pale-blue marbles. “Only thing I want to hear from you two is goodbye.”
“What?” I said.
“This is over. I’ll
take Cindy to my doctor.”
“Doctor?” Cindy stammered. “I can’t have an abortion. We’re—”
“Not telling a soul,” Ruby shouted. “You’re too young to have a baby.”
It was the only thing I agreed with, but it wasn’t her choice. “We appreciate your offer, but I’ll, like, take care of this.”
“You?” Ruby asked with a small, derisive laugh. “I don’t think so. Besides, this is on me. I was supposed to chaperone you two. I failed. This is my mistake to fix.”
If Shiloh taught me anything, it was to man up and take responsibility. Cindy and our baby were my burden. I’d find some way to take care of them. If Grandpa wouldn’t help, I’d call Mama Sibley.
“No.” I pushed my shoulders back and put an arm around Cindy. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
Ruby rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a game. I’m raising two kids without their father. I’m sure as hell not raising another one.”
I faced her. “We didn’t ask you to raise our child.”
She got in my face. “No. You only want me to pay for your mistake. Then what? You do it again?”
“No, it won’t happen again. We—”
“Won’t be seeing each other anymore,” Ruby announced.
Cindy began crying.
I inhaled deeply and then exhaled. She wouldn’t take away the last remnant of normalcy I had. “That’s not your call.”
Ruby clasped her hands in front of her. She lowered her voice and reasoned, “You’re too young for a relationship like this. In a few years, you’ll see I’m right.”
Her words reminded me of what my father said the night he died. I didn’t want to hear it when he said them, and I sure as hell didn’t want to hear them from Ruby.
“No. We’ll, like, accept your help, but we keep seeing each other,” I demanded.
Ruby pursed her lips and shook her head. “This isn’t up for negotiations, Asher. You two are breaking up. Now.”
“Noooo,” Cindy screamed.
“That’s not fair, Ruby.” I moved to comfort Cindy, but her sister cut me off.