by Jack Phoenix
“I understand completely,” assured the detective, “I have children of my own.”
Elizabeth brought the detective her tea and they both sat, sipping in an uncomfortable silence. At least it was uncomfortable for Elizabeth. The detective seemed perfectly at ease, well versed in delivering bad news.
“The tea is delicious,” said the detective. “Now, it’s time to tell you why I’m here.”
The detective explained her business. When she was finished, a distraught Elizabeth called her husband’s phone, which he did not answer.
“You need to come home right away,” Elizabeth said to his voicemail. “I’m serious, it’s an emergency.”
Roderick was hoping that no one saw the police pull in. The last thing he wanted to deal with were questions from the neighbors.
The voicemail on Roderick’s smartphone had him anxious enough as he drove into his long driveway, but seeing the police car parked in front of his house sent is heart into rapid pace. There was an officer leaning casually on the car, as if waiting for something, and he gave Roderick a slight nod of greeting as he parked.
Oh, God, Roderick thought, the police are here. What are the neighbors going to think? Hopefully they didn’t see the cops pull in. What could be so bad that the cops have to be here?
“What’s going on?” he asked the police officer.
He replied, “There’s someone waiting for you inside, Sir.”
When he came through the front door, his wife threw her arms around him saying, “Oh, Rod. Oh, Rod, I’m so sorry,” as the detective approached him.
“What is it? What happened?” he asked Elizabeth.
“It’s your father,” she said, wiping away a tear, “he’s dead.”
“What? My…my father is…”
The detective introduced herself, “Mister Whithers, I’m Detective Yost. First, I just want to say that I’m terribly sorry for your loss…”
“Please,” Roderick began, “just tell me what happened to my father.”
She replied, “Of course. It appears Robert Whithers committed suicide tonight in the alley behind Saint Anne’s church near High Street and Muirwood Avenue.”
“Suicide?” Roderick fell into the chair behind him, hand at his forehead.
The gentle and unassuming tone the detective used with Elizabeth earlier evaporated.
“Yes, a result of formal investigation is pending, but it looks cut and dry.” She stated bluntly. “I can tell you that two officers actually witnessed the event when pursuing him. They saw him shoot himself twice.”
“Jesus! He shot himself?” Roderick shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “And did you say, ‘pursuing’? Why were cops pursuing my father?”
“We received a 911 call about an assault from a Diana Rivera, your father’s housekeeper, who claims that he attacked her. I’ve only just begun my investigation, but I’ve already been told by your wife and by Diana that he wasn’t well.”
Roderick wiped a tear from his eye. “Yeah, that’s…that’s true. He’s…he’s been under a lot of pressure with the new project. He’s been acting strange for a while now. Really quiet. He made a few crazy phone calls.”
“Crazy phone calls?” the detective asked.
“I never thought…he’d…oh, God.” Roderick did his best to muster a full-fledged cry, after all, wasn’t that appropriate for such situations?
Elizabeth, knelt by her husband, and embraced him as she answered the detective. “Yes, he called us a few times in the middle of the night saying that he thought someone was after him. We thought it was a stalker or something, maybe someone who is upset about the Mound project. We told him to call the police.”
“Which he did,” Detective Yost responded. “I looked over the reports. Unfortunately, he had very little detail about his alleged stalker to give us. When was the last time that the two of you saw him?”
“I saw him about two months ago. I honestly didn’t see him that often socially, just holidays and when we’d see each other at work. I haven’t seen him there for a while, though, I’ve been running things since he stopped showing up,” Roderick answered.
“The last time I saw him was at Thanksgiving,” added Elizabeth.
“So, you haven’t seen him since he made those strange phone calls claiming he was afraid of someone?” the detective clarified.
Roderick answered simply, “No.”
“I see. Well, his condition may have been far more severe than anyone realized,” she explained. “Miss Rivera claims that he assaulted her. She tells me that he’d stopped sleeping. He was constantly erratic, stressed, and was even keeping weapons under his pillow. It is not my job to speculate about his mental condition, but it is my job to collect any evidence I can, so that’s what I’ll be doing. I will be in touch with any information that I uncover. I have to be going now, I’m afraid, so I will leave you folks alone. Once again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Detective,” said Elizabeth.
“Yeah, just…let us know,” said Roderick.
Wiping his tears on his sleeve, he rose to his feet with a heavy sigh and opened the door for the detective.
“Try to get a good night’s rest,” Detective Yost recommended.
Roderick began to close the door behind her when something caught his eye. The porch lights poured their luminescence onto the police cruiser, which bounced the light back from its passenger door in a vivid white shine. And there, within that reflection, were what appeared to be three little girls standing in the driveway, right next to the police car, as though peering into the house. Their features were blurred by darkness from the white light behind them, their faces completely black; by contrast, their hair was fiery red. The girls wore identical skirts and striped socks, as though on their way to Catholic school; but in the middle of the night?
“Hey!” he yelled with the wave of his hand. “Get outta here!”
“Excuse me?” Detective’s Yost’s voice took a high pitch as she spun around, her eyebrows kinked.
“No, no, not you, I was talking to the…” he said, realizing that the little girls were gone when he pointed his finger, “kids.”
“What kids?”
“I, uh, never mind. I must be seeing things,” he said glumly as he closed the door and went back inside.
Elizabeth and Roderick stood silently for several minutes, she with her arms crossed. Her husband wouldn’t look her in the eye. There was no need to play the pretense of civility anymore now that the company was gone. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer along with a plate of leftovers that he put in the microwave. Elizabeth tapped her foot.
“I think you should go talk to your daughter,” she told him after watching him eat bite after bite without looking at her.
“I will, just let me finish this, okay? I’m starving, and I just need to get my bearings. Did you already talk to her?”
“Of course, I did, Rod. As best I could with the detective hanging around waiting for you to finally come home. He’s your father-I just think you should talk to her. I’ll go in with you if you want.”
“That’s okay,” he said, shoveling a fork full of heated green beans into his mouth.
“And considering the circumstances…let’s just put all of our other shit on hold right now,” his wife suggested. “I’m not even going to ask you where you’ve been all night…but I am here for you, you know that?”
“Thanks,” he said, finishing his food.
Elizabeth could remember a time when she and Roderick used to carry on full conversations face to face. They used to talk about little things like how her day was and how his new job ventures were going and where would she like to go for supper. Those small courtesies began to gradually slow down after they were married. They stopped altogether after Samantha was bor
n only seven months later. Even though his wife received less and less of his attention, she didn’t complain too much since he was still a good provider to Samantha. But he was acting more and more distant lately. Elizabeth knew he was concerned, but he refused to show it. She was sure he was worried that the more regrettable aspects of his family history were expressing themselves within their daughter, and this whole business with his father would simply compound those worries.
Roderick stood up, left the dirty plate and empty beer can on the table, and proceeded to Samantha’s room. He knocked three times on the door.
There was no answer.
“It’s Daddy, Sweetheart. Can I come in?”
Still, no answer.
He opened her door that was covered with construction paper artwork. His entrance startled her, and her whole body jerked. He saw her drop the doll she was working on. She was given a Raggedy Ann stitching kit by her mother for Christmas and had since stitched together, with large plastic needles, two Raggedy Ann dolls. This was her third. The first two she had sitting in a little chair together by the closet. He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and Samantha dropped the needles, motionless. She never turned to look at him as he ran his finger across the wall examining the paint job again.
“I really wish you’d let us paint this room a different color, Sam.”
“I like gold,” she said, not gracing him with a glance. Roderick had come home one day after work and found Elizabeth and Samantha in spotty trousers painting her room this bright and gaudy color. He was appalled, demanding they paint it something different, but his wife was defiant, claiming that their daughter had picked it out herself.
“It looks yellow to me. Yellow is too boyish. How about pink instead?”
“I hate pink. I like gold.”
“It’s ugly.”
“I like it.”
He knelt beside her. She still didn’t take her eyes from the floor. “Your mom told you about Grandpa?”
“He had an accident.”
“Yeah, yeah he did. How are you feeling? Do you have any questions or…”
“Is Grampa in Heaven now?”
“I’m…sure he is.”
“Then no, he’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” he went to give the top of her head a kiss, and she quickly pulled away. She’d been doing that a lot lately, not letting him or her mother touch her. “You want some ice cream?”
“No thanks.”
“Okay, well, you just tell me if you want to talk, okay? Or better yet, tell Mommy.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
There was no response.
He glowered one final time at the color of the walls as he closed her door behind him.
* * * *
“It’s called a suburb.”
“Filled with sub-humans, it seems. Creatures wishing to rise up to a higher status, aspire to claims beyond their reach.”
“They are called upper middle-class.”
“That is a contradiction.”
“Nevertheless, he’s a man with much to lose.”
“Certainly. You can see how his mistress’s interference could ruin our fun. She could take it all away before we could. Those who have more to lose have more to fear.”
“It’s decided then.”
Chapter Four
It’s night in the suburbs. Occasionally a dog barks, perhaps the hum of a few cars can be heard traveling down the street, and music escapes an open window. The Whithers’ home had a different aura at night. Its seclusion, size, and routine silence might suggest a house of dark secrets.
Sometimes the wind blowing through their open attic windows even resembled the wails of a madwoman. But the moans coming from the premises this night were from no madwoman but from Roderick, who struggled with his sleep.
As he lay in the comfort-fitted, king-size bed he shared with his wife, he struggled to let the tragic events of the day drift from his mind. He wanted to sleep and dream so badly, but Roderick’s dreams had never been fantastic. They had never been dreams of wish fulfillment since he was in want of very little. He wasn’t a man with a great deal of imagination, so no soaring in the air or enjoying fanciful adventures during his slumber. Yet a man who possesses much has a great deal to lose, and his dreams often played out in embarrassing situations—even worse than showing up naked to class—or loss. Sometimes he wished he could just dream of wealth and comfort like normal people, but he already had both.
There was one dream that frequently haunted him, and this night was no exception: He is walking through his childhood home, his father’s home, but it is completely empty. No furniture, no color, and no one else but him. He is calling for his mother, hands cupped over his mouth to direct the sound that echoes through the large house.
He stops in the hallway at the front door. His mother appears there, standing in the doorway, her back to him. She is wearing the shirt she always wore when jogging in the winter, the sweatshirt with Bugs Bunny on the back holding a partially chewed carrot. He calls to her, but she does not turn. He calls again, and she turns her head just enough to peer behind her. She spots her son in her peripheral vision through her dark hair, which blows in the wind, partially covering her eyes.
She steps through the door. Roderick begins running for her, begging her not to leave but she continues descending down the hallway.
The hallway extends as he runs, preventing him from catching her, from telling her that she doesn’t have to leave. He’ll be a good son if she stays. Suddenly, he is stopped cold by the sound of screams, an onslaught, like the chorus of a thousand shrieking voices.
Roderick awoke, his ears ringing, and sweat seeped from his skin. He then felt Elizabeth’s gentle touch on his back. He felt the tips of her fingers move up and down and then begin to sensually stroke his upper arm. He sighed and reached to touch her hand, to wrap his fingers around hers.
“Sweet,” he whispered, “yeah, this is just what Daddy needs. It’s been a while, Liz.”
He found her hand, intending to immediately guide it towards his hard cock, but something didn’t feel quite right. Her hand felt very wrong, in fact, it felt powdery and crusty. Had she been washing too many dishes and gotten dry skin? That wouldn’t explain the strange, prickly hairs. Nor the skin that moved loose to his touch, skin that was barely attached. His eyes registered the sight of a skeletal hand covered in grey rotted flesh that belonged to a decaying corpse lying in his wife’s place. But the corpse was not still and lifeless. Just as he began to gasp in fear, it moved thin strands of hair away from its lipless face, the face of his father. Its eyes were cloudy white with no pupils or retinas, and there was a perforation on each side of its head where rotting skin dangled by threads.
“Sins of the Father, Roddy,” its dusty voice grated, sprinkles of dry skin flecking off of its chin as it spoke. “Give your old man a kiss goodbye.”
As Roderick convulsed in alarm and disgust he hit the animated corpse in its sternum and pushed it away. He fell over the edge of the bed and, when he got to his feet, turned to see if the thing was still there. He saw nothing in the bed but suddenly felt a set of knuckles pound him in the cheek. He fell onto the nightstand. When he looked up, he saw the culprit was his wife standing by the side of the bed, glaring down at him.
“What the fuck?” she yelled at him.
“Jesus, what? What the hell?” he faltered, disoriented.
“Why did you fucking hit me? You could’ve seriously hurt me, you prick!”
“You just punched me! Damn, I think you split my cheek open!”
“You hit me first, asshole!”
“I was having a goddamn nightmare! You shouldn’t touch me when I’m sleeping.”
“Well,” she raised her hand
s up into the air as if surrendering and then bent down to get closer to his face, “excuse me for trying to show you some physical fucking affection during these trying times. I was just trying to cuddle, you jerk.” She stomped over to the door, grabbing her favorite pillow on the way. “Believe it or not, I still care about you. I’m still your wife, and I still want to love you despite all the bullshit, but you make it really difficult. I’m sleeping in the guest room. I’ll get you some ice for that.”
The door slammed, and Roderick, a man always concerned with appearances, turned on the light and examined his cheek in the mirror, inspecting the damage and trying to come up with a good story for how it happened.
* * * *
“Ashes to ashes.”
Chapter Five
“I tripped-hit the coffee table,” Roderick told his friend and co-worker Bob at the funeral. His cheek had already healed for the most part, but there was still the slight shade of a bruise.
In their black suits and dresses, the only familiar faces that Roderick could see gathered around the open grave were the employees of his father’s company. Now this company was his company. Robert Whithers had owned and operated the largest construction company in the state, and he also owned properties, lots of properties. A well-known developer, he owned everything from office buildings to housing complexes, making fortunes off of rent alone. The properties were acquired through the Whithers’ family, and now they would all belong to him. The only family members that remained, besides his wife and daughter, were estranged, long gone. Except for the one person he tried to keep far from his thoughts.
The weather had called for sunny skies, but they were bleak, grey. As the minister began to speak, Roderick stared at the mahogany coffin and thought about his father. He thought about the day he had graduated from college with a degree in business. Everything had seemed so bright then, open doors all around. For his graduation gift, Robert gave his son a letter opener of pure silver inscribed with his initials.
“Live right, Son,” he had advised. “You’ve got a good girl there, and you’ve got to keep her safe. Protect your family. That’s what’s most important. The world will try to take what’s yours. People will be jealous of what you have, and they’ll try to take it from you, but you can’t let them. You understand, Son? You’ve got to tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business. Your family is your family and your money is your money. Take care of ‘em.”