Sax bear-hugs me from behind and Sol pins me from the front, his arms going around me and Saxon.
None of us speak.
There’s nothing to say.
* * *
Dressed in black jeans,combat boots, black open-neck button down with a black leather jacket, I stand in the rain, watching the backhoe fill in the first grave—Mom’s. Dad’s is beside hers, waiting. Her casket gleams in the rain, dark wood with shiny metal trim on the outside; mounds of rich black dirt and runny brown mud obscure the casket bucket by bucket.
Robert, the family attorney and executor of their estate, handled all the arrangements. My brothers and I drove through the night and stayed in a hotel in Boston under fake names, met with Robert for a quick, discreet reading of their wills.
Everything was left to the three of us, split equally, the house and grounds in Beacon Hill to be sold and the proceeds split between us. There’s a hefty pile of stocks, bonds, IRAs, and a host of other financial bullshit which none of the three of us give a single fuck about—it’s old money, Boston Brahmin money, and we don’t really want anything to do with it. We collectively decide to let the investments stay as they are, and just handle them later—the proceeds from the sale of the estate, liquidation of other physical assets, and liquid assets in bank accounts are still gonna amount to fucking mountain of cash. Not that we need it.
Sol and Sax already left, taking the Club Sin G-Wagen back to Vegas the moment the service was over. I told them I was gonna stay—I wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not sure why. There are plenty of cars at the house, and I technically own all of them, so I can grab one later.
After I’m done here.
I need to watch to the end.
After a few minutes, Mom’s grave is a slight rise of black loam at the foot of her headstone:Elisabeth Carey Cabot, beloved wife and mother, 1965-2022.
The backhoe maneuvers over to Dad’s grave and pushes at the pile of dirt, knocking it into the grave and onto Dad’s casket with a loud pattering that turns into thuds. I hold up my hand for the backhoe operator to stop; he does, bringing the bucket to rest on the pile of dirt and removing his hands from the controls.
I move up to the edge of the grave, staring down at the casket. “Fuck you. You fuckingbastard.” I snarl the last word.
I spit into the grave, and it smacks onto the wood with a splat, a splotch of white. It’s not enough.
Without thinking, I unzip and cut loose a stream of piss onto the casket. It’s chilly enough that my piss steams.
There.
I roll my hand to gesture for the operator to resume.
“Like that, huh?” The man says; he’s older, with short salt-and-pepper hair, and thick salt-and-pepper stubble, wearing a baggy pair of dirty jeans and a ripped, stained Patriots hoodie.
I just nod.
“I was overseas when my old man croaked, but if I’d’a been here, I’d’a pissed on his grave, too.” He resumes filling the grave.
I watch until Dad’s grave is filled, and then I turn away and walk out of the graveyard.
The rain is cold, slanting sideways, cutting against my face and neck like wet knives.
I like it. Suits my mood.
I reach a road big enough to have taxis after several minutes of walking, and I give the driver the address. I still know it, even after ten years of absence. I can feel the taxi driver’s sense of awe as he pulls up to the huge wrought iron gate.
“You live here?” He’s a Southie, I can tell from his accent.
“Used to,” I grunt.
Robert told me the code to the gate, so I hop out and punch it in; the huge black gates—ten feet tall with spear-like spikes at the top—swing inward. I hand a hundred-dollar bill to the driver and head through the gates without a word or backward glance. Another code from Robert gets me into the garage.
The sea of cars is, honestly, impressive. Dad was a serious collector. The garage is more of a temperature-controlled warehouse than a garage, containing at least fifty highly collectible, extremely expensive classic cars—the first six cars I see equal at least a million dollars.
I walk between the rows of gleaming, polished metal, touching a hood here, a fender there. Mercedes, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Pagani, Hispano Suiza, BMW, Ford, Chevy, Dodge, AMC…there’s something of everything, and each one is most likely rare in some way.
The car that catches my eye is an Aston Martin DB5—silver, just like James Bond drives in several movies. That’s the one.
