“Ma, hold up. It’s okay. Gimme a few hours and I’ll be there, okay? We’ll all be there, all three of us.”
“It’s too late, baby.”
“Mom, no.”
“I’m sorry, Si. I love you.” A brief, tense moment of silence. “Tell your brothers I loved them.”
“MOM!” I shout it, so loud my throat scrapes raw.
BLAM!
Clatter.
Silence.
I hold the phone to my ear. But I know what’s happened. What she did.
The phone slips from my fingers. Hits the floor.
Sax and Sol are staring at me.
“Si?” The question is on Sol’s face. In his voice.
Instead of answering, I spin on my heel and smash my fist into the wall—it goes through the drywall and splinters the wooden stud; I’m roaring, screaming.
Sol pulls me away before I can punch the wall again; I don’t feel pain, even though I can see my fist bleeding, and know I likely broke something.
My pulse hammers in my ears, and I can’t pull a breath into my lungs.
There are no thoughts in my brain.
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 have 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—his is cherrywood. “Fuck you. You fuckingbastard.” I snarl the last word.
