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“Don’t hurt him,” I whisper. “You just can’t.” I pull the knife all the way open and hold the handle between my fingers. I curl my hand up until I feel the blade poke against my wrist. I twist it until it touches the plastic of the zip tie.
“Benji, look away,” Abe says. “Don’t watch. Look away.”
“Tell us what we want to know!” Griggs shouts, digging the gun into Abe’s head again. “I’ll kill him right now if you don’t fucking tell us!”
“Please,” I try again. “I didn’t. I swear it. Please.”
Christie sighs. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
“The fuck he is,” Griggs snaps. “He’s just like his fucking father.” “Benji,” Abe says. “It’ll be okay. You know why?”
I shake my head, tears falling on my cheeks. I turn the knife until the blade is flat against my wrist and slide it up between my skin and the plastic. I cut myself, and blood trickles down my wrist.
“It’ll be okay, because I’ll see her again. My life. My love. My Estelle. I love you, boy, but I’m tired. I think I have been for a while. I’m ready to go home. I know I promised you, but it’ll be okay.”
“No,” I moan. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me here alone.”
“Last chance,” Griggs says.
“You are never alone,” Abe says. “Your father has always been with you. And you know Cal has always been with you. Always. When I see that boy of yours, I’ll tell him you’ll see him soon. And when you’re ready, we’ll be waiting with open arms.”
“Who. Did. You. Tell,” Griggs says quietly.
Nothing I can say to Griggs matters, so I say the only thing that does matter. “I love you, old man.”
“I know,” Abe says with a strong smile. “Look away, Benji. For me. Please. Close your eyes and look away.”
The knife falls to the ground behind me. I look away as my chest heaves.
“George, wait,” my aunt says, sounding unsure.
“No,” Griggs says. “This ends now.”
“I’m coming, Este,” Abraham Dufree says with relief in his voice. “I’m coming home. I’ve missed you, Lord knows I have. Our Father, who art in heaven—”
“George, don’t—”
“—hallowed be thy name—”
“I’m done fucking around!”
“—thy kingdom come—”
I squeeze my eyes shut and scream.
“—THY WILL BE
DONE—”
The gunshot is flat in the shack. It does not echo above the rain.
memories like knives
On the third day after my father’s death, I awoke from a difficult sleep. I felt
groggy, my eyes gummy and stuck together. I groaned out loud. I was thirsty. My stomach rumbled. My mouth was sour. And then everything hit me at once. He’s gone.
The thought was like an explosion in the dark, and I gagged, just once, only then remembering being sedated three times in the last three days—each time I’d awoken, screaming. Ranting. Raving. I had tried to hurt my mother. She’d sat next to my bed the first day, and I’d opened my eyes and tried to launch myself at her, convinced everything that had happened was her fault. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t rational. I was lost under a wave of black, and I didn’t know what I was doing. All I knew was that she had been the one to tell me; therefore she had been the one to make it so.
