Dying Well is the Best Revenge

 

As he pulled into his uncle’s driveway, Peter knew that he’d rather be anywhere else at this moment, even at his mind-numbing minimum-wage job stacking cartons at Costco, than here, visiting Uncle Harry with his creepy disease, his ALS.

Peter’s mother was supposed to be doing this, not him. She was the man’s sister. Why did he have to make this dismal trip, while she took a pass? He banged his fist against the steering wheel.

She’d made him come along on previous visits after Uncle Harry got sick; that was bad enough. It had been during the early stages, when he wasn’t too far gone yet. But now that Uncle Harry was on the verge of biting the big one, it was all on him. His mother was too chickenshit to do it. Migraine headache. Yeah, right.

He had the fleeting thought that he could lie to her. He could back the car out of the driveway, go have a drink somewhere, and tell her he’d done it. He could easily make up lots of details and she’d never know the difference.

But he knew it wouldn’t work. His mother was bound to talk to one of the relatives eventually. They’d tell her he hadn’t shown up, and he’d be screwed.

He punched the steering wheel again.

There were several cars parked along the driveway, but there was an area near the garage that he could pull into and no one could block him from leaving. He grabbed it.

He was halfway up the path to the house when the front door opened and his cousin Kenny stepped out onto the porch. It made Peter stop in his tracks.

Cousin Kenny was two years older than he was and a Grade-A, certified sadist who probably tortured insects and small animals. At the annual ordeal they called the family picnic, his parents would have the two of them go off and play together, which always gave Kenny the chance to hone his skills. One time he’d warned Peter that a big, tough kid was looking for him.

“Who?” Peter gulped.

“Dick Hurts,” said Kenny ominously.

“Who’s Dick Hurts?” said Peter, falling into the trap.

“Your dick hurts!” Kenny shouted, punching him in his privates. Hard.

He never told his parents about it, nor of any of the things Kenny did. It was easy to keep secrets from his parents because they both went out of their way to avoid bad news. They asked no questions and were told no lies.

When Peter was twelve, his father suddenly collapsed in the street and died of a coronary. Since then, his mother’s aversion to bad news had gone into overdrive.

That’s why, today, he was forced to carry out this grim business on his own.

Kenny was standing at the porch rail, oblivious to Peter’s presence. He was staring ahead, his face etched in stark, brutal devastation. He looked like he’d just seen something horrible.

Peter was shocked. Was Kenny crying? Wow, he was!

Uncle Harry must be in such bad shape that it could even bring tears to the eyes of an asshole!

Kenny’s thousand-yard stare faded, and he noticed Peter standing on the path.

“Jesus Christ!” he snarled. “I can’t even have a moment to myself without some nosy-ass moron gawking at me. What the hell is wrong with you, zit brain; you never heard of privacy?”

“Hi, Kenny, nice to see you too.”

“Yeah, fuck you.” Kenny indicated the doorway behind him with his thumb. “I’m actually glad you came, Petey, you know that? Because you’re gonna get yours in there.” He again indicated the doorway. “You’re gonna find out, Petey, just like everyone else.”

He gave a laugh that turned into a sob before he could cut it off. His face went crimson. Then he stomped his way down the porch steps.

“See you at the funeral,” he muttered, elbowing past Peter. He pounded down the path toward his car.

Peter stared after him, perplexed. What was he going to find out in there, just like everyone else? Would it have the same effect on him as what he’d just witnessed?

His skin suddenly felt clammy. He’d figured this was going to be depressing, but now it was getting scary.

He slowly mounted the porch steps, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

Several seconds went by. The door opened and there was Uncle Harry’s wife, Aunt Miriam.

She was an oversized beachball of a woman, easily outweighing Peter. She flung her arms around him, nearly knocking him over with the force of her hug. He staggered backward, barely able to regain his balance and prevent disaster.

Aunt Miriam and her hands-on personality always made him uncomfortable. When he was little, she’d constantly pinch his cheeks and smother him with sloppy kisses until he wanted to scream. His parents would tell him not to complain because it wasn’t polite, and it would make his aunt Miriam feel sad.

Yeah? What about how it makes me feel? he’d always thought but never said.

Another objectionable thing was her perfume, which she must have bathed in today because it was much stronger than he remembered. It had always nauseated him, and now he was fighting the urge to gag.

She clung to him. “Oh, Peter, it’s so awful!”

“I know, I know,” he murmured because he thought it was what he was supposed to say. He wished she would let go of him already.

She finally did. “Where’s your mom?” she asked, looking around as if Peter’s mother were hiding somewhere.

He noticed how her mascara was running down her face in black streaks. Why did people put on makeup when they knew they were going to cry? Didn’t they realize how ridiculous it made them look?

“She’s got a terrible migraine,” he said, launching into his prepared statement. “It’s really painful. She wanted to be here in the worst way, but she just couldn’t make it. She said I should give Uncle Harry her love.”

Aunt Miriam frowned at this.

“Well, I hope she feels better,” she said evenly.

Then she grabbed Peter by the arm and pulled him toward the doorway. “Why are we standing on the porch? Come in, come in!”

He allowed her to conduct him inside as she went on.

“Your uncle Jack and aunt Sylvia are here, along with your cousin Jennifer.” Peter remembered them vaguely from other family gatherings but he couldn’t quite place them. “Also, Tom Seeburn.”

As she spoke his name her eyes grew wide. Her face took on a look of pure wonder.

“Wait ’til you meet him, Peter. What an amazing man! He’s been a godsend!”

Oh, great! Peter thought. A faith healer, a spiritual guru. How much was he required to put up with here?

“That’s really interesting.”

They were standing in the vestibule. To his right, through the glass doors to the living room, he could see the three relatives she had mentioned. He sort of remembered younger versions of them from long-ago family picnics. Now, they were engaged in animated, intense conversation, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying through the glass. On his left was a staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs, one of which, presumably, held Uncle Harry, or what remained of Uncle Harry.

“It’s been nothing short of a miracle!” Aunt Miriam gushed.

“Ah.”

“When your uncle Harry lost the power of speech because of the tracheotomy, we thought it was over. We thought this wonderful, loving man, whose words were such a blessing to everyone who sought his advice or came to him for help over all these years, we thought he would never speak again.”

Peter hoped the concerned look on his face was sincere enough. He nodded sympathetically.

“But then, out of nowhere, from heaven, we got a call from Tom Seeburn. It changed our lives. Tom is an immensely talented man, Peter, not only as a licensed healthcare practitioner, but as a computer genius!”

“Ah,” he said again.

“Tom contacted us because he’d been given a grant to develop a system like they used with Stephen Hawking, and he wanted to try it with your uncle Harry. Isn’t that incredible?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“The system is very similar to what Stephen Hawking had; at least, that’s what they tell me. I can’t understand anything about it, but evidently it’s an infrared switch attached to his glasses. It’s activated by his cheek muscles, which he uses to select letters, or preset words, off a screen. They come out through a speaker.”

“That sounds really neat.”

Peter idly wondered where the nearest bathroom was. Not that he needed it, but it was always nice to know where it was.

“Well, your uncle picked up the technique in virtually no time. Tom told me he learned how to do it even faster than Stephen Hawking did. And now, he can talk a blue streak. Isn’t that something?”

From the corner of his eye, Peter sensed movement at the top of the stairs. A door was opening and a man was coming out of one of the bedrooms. Peter could see only his loafers at first, but as he descended the stairs his entire form came into view.

And a very impressive form it was. Broad shoulders and a slim waist. He looked to be in his forties, with thick blond hair atop a face that was reminiscent of Robert Redford. He was wearing tailored slacks and a turtleneck sweater. Aunt Miriam beamed at the sight of him.

“Tom!” she said.

Seeburn gave her a warm smile as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“He’s doing great, Miriam, surprisingly well. Lots of visitors today, but he’s holding up just fine. I think, however, that he needs a few minutes to rest, at this point.” He noticed Peter and smiled at him as well.

“Tom, I want you to meet my nephew Peter,” said Aunt Miriam.

Seeburn shook his hand in a way that was neither too firm nor too wimpy.

“Your uncle has told me about you. He’s very anxious to see you, but I think he needs to recharge, so to speak. It shouldn’t be too long.”

That was fine with Peter. The longer it was put off, the better, even though he really wanted it to be over with.

“Why don’t you go into the living room?” Aunt Miriam suggested. “I’ve put out some snacks in there, and you can talk to Uncle Jack, Aunt Sylvia, and Jennifer. I don’t think you’ve seen them in awhile.”

“Shouldn’t they be next? I mean, they were here before I was.”

He looked through the glass doors again. They were still embroiled in what seemed to be a very serious discussion. Jennifer appeared to be crying.

“Oh, they’ve already seen Uncle Harry,” Aunt Miriam told him. “Go in, go in. Say hello.”

She reached around him and opened the glass doors. The conversation in the room cut off in mid-word and three pairs of eyes turned their gaze on him.

“This is my nephew Peter,” Aunt Miriam said. “You remember him, don’t you?”

From the looks on their faces, they didn’t, but they nodded anyway.

“Hi,” he said lamely.

“Sit down, relax. Take a load off your feet,” Aunt Miriam advised. “Tom will come and get you when Uncle Harry is ready.” She pulled the doors closed behind her as she left, and there he stood, facing these strangers.

Uncle Jack and Aunt Sylvia sat on the couch. He was a tall, thin man in his fifties with a severe combover that was losing its battle to an aggressively receding hairline. Aunt Sylvia was also in her fifties, a tiny, birdlike woman with pursed lips and small, intense eyes.

His cousin Jennifer sat in one of the armchairs and was, at the moment, blowing her nose into a tissue.

A marble coffee table was between them, with a shrimp cocktail platter and some crackers and cheese next to a large double bottle of pinot noir. The food was barely touched, but the wine bottle was nearly empty. There were used plastic cups scattered about the room.

Peter did not attempt to sit down. He stood there awkwardly. No one spoke.

“So,” he finally ventured, “Aunt Miriam told me you’ve already seen Uncle Harry. How did he seem?”

Uncle Jack let out a sigh. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

Peter began to feel nauseous again, even without Aunt Miriam’s perfume.

“Is it…is it that bad?”

“It’s worse,” said Aunt Sylvia, shaking her head. “Much worse.”

A heavy silence descended again, broken only by the sound of Jennifer sniffling.

“Look, I don’t get it,” Peter said. “I mean, everybody’s supposed to be sad and all, but this is way beyond that. Something’s going on here. What is it?”

Jennifer looked up at him for the first time. “What’s going on here is that he’s lost his mind. It’s the only explanation. Or at least, it had better be.” Her face wilted and she began crying again.

“Lost his mind? How?”

Uncle Jack looked up from the couch, his eyes watery. “This man never had a bad word to say about anyone. For all the years we’ve been alive he always supported us and did anything he could to help us, no matter what kind of trouble we got into. For all of our lives he was like a Father Confessor to us. A rock. Someone who was always unshakably on our side.”

His voice broke. He looked helplessly at his wife.

“But he’s a different person now,” she said. The intensity in her eyes deepened, if that’s possible. “He’s become an evil man.” She looked to the others for support, and got it. “A monstrously evil man. In that bedroom just now he said things to us that no decent human being should ever say to anyone. Horrible, disgusting, cruel, and destructive things.”

Peter tried, he really tried. But he just couldn’t help himself.

“Like what? Could you give me an example?”

Their faces registered shock at first. Then they hardened. The three of them looked at him like he was a piece of dog shit on an expensive rug.

“That’s none of your goddamn business,” said Uncle Jack through tight lips.

“I…”

The doors opened and Tom Seeburn came in.

“All right then, Peter,” he said with that warm smile as the others dropped their glares and took on neutral expressions. “Your uncle Harry is ready to see you.”

He wanted to run. Just bolt from the room and escape. This was like being led to the electric chair.

“Look, I don’t know if I want to…” he began, but Tom put a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “Your uncle’s appearance may be a bit disconcerting at first, but you’ll get used to it, and everything will be fine.”

His voice sounded so soothing, the kind of voice you wanted to just close your eyes to and drift off.

“Are you going to be there?” Peter asked.

“Absolutely. I’ll be there the whole time. I’m afraid I’ll have my nose buried in my laptop because I’ve got endless reports to complete, which is what happens when you’re working under a grant. But I’ll be right there in the room with you. Right there if you need me.”

Peter felt comforted, somehow, though he had no idea why. He could see what Aunt Miriam meant about this guy.

“Okay, let’s do it,” he said. He looked over at his three relatives, managing a cheesy smile. “Nice seeing you all.”

They grunted in reply. “Yeah, you too,” said Uncle Jack tonelessly.

“Shall we?” said Tom, holding open the glass doors.

As he followed Tom up the stairs, he wondered about everyone’s reverential worship of Uncle Harry. Father Confessor? A rock? Someone you could always turn to for help and forgiveness?

He’d never thought of Uncle Harry that way, not nearly. Uncle Harry was a distant figure to him, someone he hardly saw after his father died, only in those last two visits a couple of years ago.

He remembered how his mother had talked with Harry on the phone over the years, quite often and sometimes for hours on end, but they’d never visited him in the flesh. Which, of course, had been absolutely fine with Peter.

They reached the top of the stairs and Tom opened the bedroom door. Peter looked into a dimly lit room with a hospital-style bed in its center. In the bed, surrounded by monitor screens that flashed mysterious numbers and graphs, with an IV tube sticking out of each arm, was what looked like a puppet re-creation of Uncle Harry.

Peter’s throat constricted.

“It’s okay,” said Tom. “Everyone has that reaction.”

“Would you…go in first?”

Tom laughed softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. Go on, sit in that chair by his bed and let him see you. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I’ll go in first.”

Which he did, walking over to the figure in the bed and saying, “Your nephew Peter is here, Harry.”

A robotic voice answered him.

Oh—that’s great. That’s—wonderful!

It was coming from a speaker mounted on his pillow. Peter cautiously crept into the room. He hesitated, then slipped into the chair beside the bed. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Uncle Harry’s eyes were alive, but the rest of his face was dead. Except for the tiny cheek muscles beneath each eye that twitched and squirmed and, as he’d been told, created the voice coming out of the speaker.

“Uncle Harry, you’re amazing!” he exclaimed.

“Well, I’ll leave you both to it,” said Tom, moving over to a couch by the wall where his laptop resided. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” He opened the laptop and sat down.

Peter had no idea what to say. Absolutely zero. This was the weirdest…

Good to see you—Peter. I notice—your mother—isn’t here.

It was such a strange effect, like being spoken to by a mannequin.

“She has a migraine,” he answered automatically. “She sends her…”

She’s a—coward. That’s what she is. She’s—always been—a coward.

Peter certainly couldn’t dispute that. Uncle Harry continued.

In all of this family—you and—your mother—are my only—blood relatives. But I’ll—get back to—that.

“Okay.”

It was kind of a relief that Uncle Harry wanted to do the talking. Peter began to relax a bit. He’d just sit through this, and then it would be over.

All day, today—I’ve been visited by—people I’ve—given my life for. People I—never said a—word to, or a—word about, that—wasn’t encouraging and—supportive.

People I’ve—been lying to—for years. People I’ve—flattered. Idiots—who I told—were brilliant. Sociopaths—who I told—were paragons—of morality and decency.

A lifetime of—lies. Just to—make people—feel better.

And secrets. They told them all—to me. Every—rotten thing they—ever did. Every sneaky—conniving trick—they ever played—on each other. How—much they really—couldn’t stand each other.

Well, I don’t—want to die with—all those lies and—dirty secrets on my—conscience. And I—won’t—by God—I won’t!

Peter stared at him in fascination.

So, today, I—finally told everyone—what I—really thought of—them, and what they—really think—of each other.

And I told them—what their fate—would be in my—very substantial will. Which is all—they were interested in—anyway. Well, they—didn’t like what they—heard. Not one—bit.

His eyes zoned in on Peter. It was disturbing.

And now, I’m—going to tell—you.

Again, he had the urge to run, to just bolt from the room. But he knew he couldn’t, and the masochist in him really wanted to hear this, whatever it was.

Right now, I’m—looking at you, and I’m seeing— a waste of oxygen. A—totally useless—human being who—no one is ever—glad to see.

That’s because you—don’t care about—other people. And—it shows. You’re—not even good at hiding it. People can—see it in you—right away.

In the years after—your father died, your—mother and I—talked about you—quite a bit. In fact, she—wouldn’t leave me—alone. She—called me every day and—complained about—how you didn’t have any—friends. How your—grades in school had—plummeted.

I lied to her like I—lied to everyone else. I—told her you needed—time to absorb—the loss of your father. That—was bullshit.

It might be true for—most people, but not—for you. You used—his death as—an excuse. You thought it—gave you permanent permission to be—a total jerk, which is—what you are.

My father, it so happens—died when I was—young. I—dealt with it. I didn’t—throw my life away out of—self-pity. I—moved on, because no one—can change the past.

But you—you’ve already—given up. You don’t even—have a high school diploma. You—work for minimum wage. That is—when you can even—find a job. You’re—probably dealing drugs.

That got Peter’s attention. Did his mother know about his little sideline, or was Uncle Harry just guessing? For some reason, this seemed more important than anything he’d heard up to now.

Unfortunately, Miriam and I—never had children. That’s why you and—my cowardly younger sister—are my only blood—relatives. That’s why—as much as it—pains me, here is what I’m—going to do.

In spite of it all, Peter felt a tingle of excitement. What was this leading up to? Would he and his mother inherit everything? Holy shit!

I have put—twenty million dollars—into a trust fund. Within ten years from today—if you are able—to earn a master’s degree—in any subject—of your choosing, from a—top-ten university; if you can—show a valid diploma—to prove it—then you and—your mother will—inherit that money.

Peter was thinking furiously. He’d have to find out how to get a GED., of course. But to get into a top-ten university with only a GED.? Had it ever been done?

Uncle Harry was still speaking.

If you don’t—then it will all go for—research to find a—cure for ALS. To be honest with you—that’s what I’m hoping. Because—it would be a—hell of a lot better for—humanity. I’ve already donated—what would have been—the others’ share—of the inheritance—to that research. It’s a—shame that yours and—your mother’s share—will have to be—delayed for—ten years, but—I couldn’t see—any way around it.

Peter’s mind kept turning, but the more he thought, the worse he felt. Shit, it was hopeless. He’d always sucked in school. How would he even get a GED.?

That’s about all I—wanted to say, except for—one thing. I—imagine that—you’re concerned because—your father was young—when he died. You’re wondering if—there might be something—in your genes. Something—passed down to you—from your father that—will make you—die young, like he did. I realize it’s a—natural fear. So, I’ll—set your mind—at ease.

He’s not—your real father. Your mother—slept around quite a lot—in those days, so—it could have been—anyone, but it—definitely wasn’t him. I hope this—makes you feel better.

His gaze left Peter and stared off, but his cheek muscles kept moving.

I’m getting tired now—so I’m afraid you’ll—have to go. It was—nice seeing you.

Then there was silence.

Peter just sat there, unable to even begin to deal with what he’d just heard. Tears were streaming down his face, but he was unaware of it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and decompress a little?” Tom said gently. “I know it can be rough.”

Peter had to struggle to get out of the chair, and Tom had to support him for the first few steps, but he finally got his equilibrium. What the hell was he going to do? Twenty million dollars! Well, ten million, if he had to split it with his mother. But she was going to die sooner or later, and then it would all be his!

But what he was being asked to do was impossible. And his father…

He staggered out of the room and barely made it down the stairs without falling ass over teakettle. He could hardly breathe.

As Tom closed the door behind him he turned toward Uncle Harry in the bed.

“I’ve disabled the override on the laptop,” he said. “You can speak again now.”

Uncle Harry could only smile with his eyes.

Thank you, Tom—for everything. You’re a—hell of a typist.

Tom shrugged.

“I only did what you told me. I hope I expressed it in the way you would have wanted.”

It was perfect. I—never could have—looked those people in the eye—and said those words. Even—when I had a voice.

“Well, you did a great job in preparing me for it. I hope it was worth all those hours we put in.”

Not only was it—worth it, it was—divine. That’s the only—word for it—divine.

Harry’s eyes filled with tears.

Now, I can—die happy.