Moments of Madness

“I bet’cha didn’t know that your grandmother’s name was Jill.”

He hadn’t. Jim was only a teenager when she had died, more occupied by the many new and exciting ways to fry the brain with needles and pills, and enchanted by the overwhelming number of anti-war songs heard from street corner to street corner.

The old man shifted in the bed toward his son, who was sitting at its edge. Jim’s dad was dying and had rejected all hospitals and nursing homes for the familiar comforts of his own home. He’d lived there for the better half of 60 years, and though Jim grieved, his father’s warmth emanating from the sheets reminded him of better times—and so Jim was momentarily soothed enough to be contented. It had been a trying week altogether, but Jim felt he could at least enjoy this moment.

“Jim,” his father said, “I don’t know when the others are supposed to arrive, but I have to confess something...something horrible.”

Jim went into a cold sweat. He had his own horrible confession to make, but had only intended on sharing that insight with his father's headstone.

”Son,” his dad tried to swallow, but his dried throat rejected each attempt. Jim grabbed a juice box and promptly held it to dad's mouth. Jim was only slightly disgusted by the sprouts of gray hairs that hung from his father's ears like wiry weeds, and the plumped, mounded moles that decorated his neck. He was his father, after all, and Jim would love him even if he were to grow horns and hooves.

Slight tears collected in the tattered skin-pockets beneath his dad's eyes, and his cold hand gripped Jim’s tightly.

“You remember when I told you kids that your grandma passed away in her sleep some 40 years ago?” Jim felt his throat knot and he squeezed his dad's hand nervously. “Well, truth is...I killed her. She was lyin’ there in bed and I gagged her good.”

His father was crying now and Jim asked the only question he could think of to stop those maddening sobs.

”Why’d you do it?”

Jim didn’t actually give a rat’s ass why his dad had done it. He hadn’t even known his grandma, and in some sinister way--a way that made his face blush--he felt relief by his father's deed.

The old man shrugged and coughed drool onto his collar. “She was there, I was there...it seemed to make sense.”

Jim hadn’t prepared for the guilt that began to bubble in his stomach. Without even thinking, he whispered, “I have a confession to make, too.”

His father dried his eyes with the frayed end of the bed sheet and looked at his son with a bit of surprise.

“I killed ma’,” Jim whispered, “I killed her good...last night...stabbed her several times.”

His father simply stared at Jim blankly. This made Jim nervous, for he’d expected him to cry. He couldn’t read the blankness of his father's face, nor could he translate the unexpected gentleness of his moistened eyes.

”Pops, I’m sorry,” Jim whimpered, “I’m so sorry.” He leaned inward toward his father and rested his head against his chest.”

The old man was unnervingly calm. “Why’d you do it, son?”

Jim sniveled and snorted, then patted his teary face with a blanket. “I don’t know,” Jim said truthfully, “it just...seemed to make sense.”

His dad nudged Jim off of his chest, and offered a faint smile. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

Jim straightened and calmed himself. He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. The room smelled of musky death, and Jim supposed the irony was appropriate. He couldn’t understand why his father was taking this all so well, but he supposed that a dying father could appreciate that the two of them had found that they had something new in common...something very unique.

”It was late last night,” Jim began. “Ma had gone to her room to sleep alone. When I was sure she was asleep, I crept into the room with a blade I’d found in the kitchen. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her breathing—quick and sharp breaths. I moved slowly across the room and stepped on someone’s hand! I thought it was odd that she was sleeping on the floor, but when I heard a loud grunt I started stabbing. I stabbed her once and then she began to fight back. She hit me with some hard metal object...hurt like a son of a gun...then she moved to the bed, I think. She kicked me a couple of times before she did, but once I stabbed her three or four more times she stopped moving altogether.”

Jim's father looked away for a moment, and then took Jim’s hand.

”Then what happened? He asked.

”Then I split...ran out of the room as fast I could.”

”It’s alright, son. It’s over.” His dad was smiling, but Jim thought he saw some grief in his eyes. “We’re not to mention this to any of your siblings when they arrive.”

Jim meant to nod in acknowledgment, but was too stiffened with guilt. The two sat silently, hands clasped tightly together, for several minutes. Jim had hoped to share a meaningful moment with his father before he’d passed on. However, this was certainly not what he’d had in mind.

Then, the door tilted open and Joe’s head peered through its crack. “Hey bro, hey, Pops,” he said. “It OK if I intrude?”

Father grinned brightly, as though everything was once again right with the world. Jim supposed that perhaps everything was, in a way, though he still felt a fizz of discomfort from the whole ordeal.

”Hiya, kid Joe,” dad beamed. Joe hated being called “kid,” which was precisely the reason why dad always called him that. Joe didn’t seem to mind this time, however, and entered the room to give his dad a hug. Joe pulled a chair beside Jim and began talking to dad. Jim was mostly silent throughout the conversation—his mind elsewhere.

“Jim...Pops,” Joe began to stammer, “I’ve got something to tell you guys. You won’t like it, but if I don’t tell you now...”

Dad looked at Jim nervously, and then looked back at Joe. “Son, what is it?” He asked.

“I...I killed Ma...killed her last night, while she was in bed.”

Dad and Jim’s eyes widened and the two exchanged a confused glance.

“I went into her room late last night...it was so dark. She wasn’t there, though, it was just me an’ the dog...so I waited for her with a shovel I’d grabbed from the garage. Finally, the door opened and Ma walked in. I crept up to her. I was sort of crawling and she must’ve known I was there, because she attacked me with a knife just after she stepped on my hand.” Joe uncovered his sleeve to reveal a bloodied bandaged wrapped around his right upper arm. “She got me once pretty good, so I hit her hard with the shovel.”

“What happened next?” Father asked.

“Next?” Joe’s face had gone flush, while the hairline of his forehead began to damp with sweat. “Well, I don’t think Ma was quite dead yet, because she tried to choke me—but I slipped through her fingers and fell onto the floor. I was a little dizzy, but I was OK. Then I got the hell out of there through the window by the far side of her bed.”

“So how do you know she was dead if she attacked you after you hit her with a shovel?” Jim asked.

Joe considered this, and finally shrugged. “I got her pretty good. I guess I figured the blow hadn’t taken full effect yet. I’m sure she’s dead, though.”

Jim was astonished. He hadn’t been alone in that room. Remembering the shovel, Jim felt where a soft but shapely lump had ripened on the summit of his hairless head.

“I just don’t know what to do, Dad.” Joe began to cry. “I’m so sorry...I didn’t mean to do it.”

Dad smiled much the way he smiled after hearing Jim’s confession.

“That’s OK, son...it’s quite alright. Tell me why...tell me why you did it.”

Joe stopped crying. “I don’t exactly know...it just...seemed to make sense.”

Jim wasn’t surprised by the answer.

John and Jay, the twins, were the next of the siblings to arrive.

“Git outta bed, ya lazy good-fer-nothin’,” Jay scorned rowdily. “I know yer fakin’.”

Jim thought the twins had always had the misguided delusion that they were in someway comical. To Jim, however, they were never anything but idiotic, and he grunted at the sight of them.

“How’s the ticker, Pops,” John set a box of chocolate covered cherries on the table next to him.

”You crazy kids,” Dad smirked, “you know I can’t have that stuff.”

”Who said they were for you?” John grinned back at him, and then in a more serious tone said, “And why can’t you have them? Because they might kill you?”

Dad shook his head and laughed. He seized a chocolate cherry and popped it in his mouth. Brown juice streamed down the lines of his cheeks as he chewed.

“By the way, Father,” John said, “We did what you asked us to do. It’s all taken care of.”

Jay’s expression hardened and he elbowed John in the lower back.

”What, Jay-Jay?” John said. “The rest of them don’t know what I’m talking about.”

”What are you talking about?” Dad asked. His face was half-blackened by chocolate and cherry mess. Joe grabbed a tissue and began to wipe his his father's face, but Father swatted at each attempt.

“We killed Ma, just like you asked us to.” John shot Dad a confused look, while Jay shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“You killed Ma?” Dad muttered.

“You asked them to kill Ma?” Jim gasped.

Father looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, your Ma was going to rewrite the will so that you kids got nothing when she died. Plus, she was always a pain in the ass.”

Joe looked very confused.

“What are you talking about? How could you two have killed Ma? What exactly happened?” Joe asked.

John’s shoulders sunk, and his eyes began surveying the room nervously and rapidly.

”It was late last night...very dark. We went into her room...waited in the closet for her. When we heard the door open, we waited...she crept around and we heard some noise—a loud bang and a groan—we figured she had tripped on something. I’m not sure why she hadn’t turned on the light, but she seemed to be OK because she was moving more quickly after that. We carefully crept out from the closet and Jay strangled her.”

Jay interrupted, “She fell hard on the floor when I let go. I never killed anyone before.”

”There was still movement,” John continued. “I figured she was convulsing, or twitching, as bodies can do right after a person dies...so I kicked her just to be sure.”

Joe’s lower lip hung wide, like it had been loosened from the jaw.

“This doesn’t make any sense. How could you all have been in that room?” Jim said, ignoring the confused stares from the twins. “I mean, if I only stabbed Joe once, then who was I stabbing...?

Jim was cut off by Judy’s screams. The youngest of the siblings had finally arrived and she was carrying a bloodied dog in her arms--Max. Her white dress was covered with red splotches, and her face shined with a glaze of tears.

“I found him in Ma's room,” she cried. “Someone killed Max! Someone stabbed him! Who would do such a thing?”

None of the brothers responded. The room was silent apart from the shrill screams of Judy.

Finally, Dad sighed and said, “Ah, mercy. The woman lives.”

Suddenly, the door shut hard behind them, and Jim noticed how warm it had become. A note slid under the door, and Joe fetched it up and read it.

“It’s from Ma,” he said. “I don’t get it. All it says is ‘I’m sorry, but you’re all just too dangerous for me’.”

Black smoke flooded the room almost instantaneously. Joe tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He cried as he pulled away his burned palms.

The large, old house was three stories high and overlooked a cliff...and they were inconveniently on the third story. Ma must have known that jumping out the window wasn’t an option, though John would try. Jay would try breaking the door down, but that would only let in a gale of red flames.

Jim remained quiet next to his father, while the other siblings wheezed and coughed and dropped to the floor one by one. Dad took Jim’s hand and the two sat silently as the room filled to blackness. They sighed and shared the moment.