Читать книгу The Onus of Man - Damian Bouch - Страница 5

Hoagie panted in the passenger seat. Being a furry little mongrel, he always left quite a bit of himself wherever he went, but Peter hardly cared, given the sad state of the interior in the first place. The angle of the sun from through the window glanced off his paws and bathed his head and snout in the warm evening sunlight. Hoagie used to be fond of keeping his head out of the window, and letting his tongue hang out during car rides, but now that he was getting on in years he seemed to like being chauffeured about more than anything. The Treasure on the Hill was still about twenty miles out yet, and Hoagie would be sitting out the search, but was happy to have tagged along for a ride.

Peter had developed a comfortable habit of driving with his left hand instead of his right hand, which allowed him to eat, drink, or otherwise fiddle around during his drives. He still held his statement in his free hand, and glanced at the principal remaining, and the payment due the following week, a great portion of which is usually paid for by Gramma’s weekly busywork in the yard.

Under normal circumstances, Peter would feel frustrated at the knowledge that half the money he made each month would barely cover the interest payments. He usually felt foolish and indignant that, in his anticipation for a fulfilling career and a lavish lifestyle, he signed over to some strangers at a bank a great portion of his earnings. Peter had succeeded, every month since his graduation, in accumulating a great store of money, earned over hundreds of hours of menial labor, and he has been infuriated with every passing hour that it would all go straight back to the bank.

Now, however, Peter was playing the card up his sleeve, and scoffed inwardly at the payment due. He mused at the fact that he had made an enemy out of a deal that he himself had first initiated years ago; such emotional antics, he believed, are to be reserved for those who can not deal with the consequences of their own decisions. He just could not help slipping into a slight giggle, imagining some cubicle jockey peeing his pants in surprise, in a high-rise office building hundreds of miles away, reading the full payment, and issuing a $0.00 balance for next month’s statement!

In all reality, Peter acknowledged, the process was most likely digital every step of the way. He supposed that mortgages, being a morally indistinct agent of western orthodoxy, troubled the conscience less when their maintenance and enforcement could be delegated to automation. Still though, it helped the daily struggle to feel like he was waging a righteous war against an impotent doofus.

Hoagie began cleaning his eyes. He used his front paws to scratch out his leaky ducts. This hygienic procedure could keep him entertained for hours in his old age, but in his younger years he was much more active. The family used to cram into the minivan, with the stowaway Hoagie, and head out to Uncle Tim’s farm, where Hoagie would exhibit seemingly endless amounts of energy in chasing around rabbits, birds, drinking out of streams, and harassing livestock. Truly, the whole family got a charge out of Hoagie when he was unleashed.

Dad’s family is scattered across several states, so the vast majority of picnics, holidays, celebrations and family functions otherwise revolved around Mom’s side. Mom has three siblings: two sisters and one brother. Sherry is the eldest of the four by a great many years, and she lives in the suburbs about seventy miles from Peter’s house. She married young and had two children, but they are much older than Peter and Trini, and had moved away to establish careers and families of their own before he was out of diapers. Aunt Sherry, however, is still around for most functions, and visits occasionally. She fits customers for classy clothing at a tux store.

Uncle Tim is the second eldest sibling. He lives on and runs a farm about twenty miles from Peter. After his term of service in the Marine Corps, the young man went on to develop his own plot of land. Gramma and Grandpa, recognizing his innate abilities for leadership and limitless sense of duty, had offered to transfer the estate deed over to their son; however, Uncle Tim had different plans in mind. Reluctant to relinquish the home in which they raised their family, Gramma and Grandpa decided to keep the land and rent it out to farmers seasonally. The land Uncle Tim opted for over the family acreage was on a bed of limestone and in a valley, and so was, and still is, quite fertile.

Tim served in the armed forces in the 1980s, and duty called him to the jungles of some South American territories. While he was never loathe to discuss his service, he was always reluctant to indulge his audience with details. After a few years in the Corps, he returned to his home. He is married and has one child: Brody.

Brody is six years older than Peter, and due to their proximity to one another growing up, they ended up having developed a very brotherly bond. Growing up, Brody’s ambitions and grades were much higher than those of his peers, and his grades and accomplishments set him apart from the crowd for years. He was always highly intellectual and utilitarian, which are two characteristics that led him to a few clashes within their family of predominantly sentimental and passionate folk. Currently, he worked with a foresting outfit in a nearby town, providing assessments regarding the ecological consequences of logging, paving, clearing or otherwise assimilating plots of land.

Mom is the second youngest child. She and Dad had met soon after she had graduated from high school, and was working at a floral arrangement shop. Their relationship escalated quickly, as both of them had the same idea in mind of buying a home and starting a family. Dad’s job kept him away from home for weeks at a time, but this was never put too much of a strain on their relationship, as their hearts were truly committed to one another, and neither of them suffered wandering eyes.

The fourth and youngest of the four siblings was Aunt Marjorie, who is now dead. Though her brother and sisters before her were achieving, ambitious students, Marjorie’s school-related achievements eclipsed the standards that were set for her. She regularly, and seemingly effortlessly, outperformed both her peers and siblings at every juncture.

Young Marjorie’s talents had known no bounds, and she enthusiastically participated in nearly every opportunity that was shown to her. She took a great interest in music and the arts while still in primary school, playing multiple instruments for the school musical groups, and singing choir in the church – the first and only of their children to do so, making Gramma and Grandpa quite proud. The young child was also accustomed to athletic exhibitions, and pestered her parents to sign her up for at least one team sport or lesson for every season. She was always driven, and stayed quite busy.

As such, Gramma and Grandpa became quite involved with the all the goings-on of their youngest child. With Sherry having moved out, and the other siblings older and, though still under the same roof, all but self-sufficient, they found quite a bit of time on their hands and devoted it to cultivating and mentoring their youngest and most prodigious child.

Having taken a liking to reading and word puzzles at a young age, her conversational vocabulary was years ahead of her grade level, and more expansive than those of most adults before she entered high school. She often engaged in lecture and conversation under the guise of initiating meaningful conversation with her friends and family, and a few of her acquaintances began to notice that she procured immense self-satisfaction in such discussions. Her subconscious was involved in a positive feedback loop: the blissful high generated by intellectual superiority begot the subsequent thirst for greater quantities and more refined forms of knowledge and concepts, which further enabled her to dominate any opposition in debate.

Marjorie graduated with highest honors, and despite her haughtiness, was Gramma’s pride and joy. As the young lady was able to impress her parents and surpass the expectations of her teachers, her limitless potential and sky-scraping academics were the subject of much envy among her peers.

Aunt Marjorie’s obvious and most debilitating character deficiency was her blatant arrogance and seething pride. A glaring fault that could never be redeemed by even the most impressive set of skills and accomplishments, but not altogether unsurprising given her stratospheric level of achievements. Even at a young age, Marjorie was prone to be a braggart in the classroom, a star on the field, and a commotion at the dinner table.

Particularly devastating, a trend that began budding in her adolescence was her obsession with debate and proof; though judging by her zeal, it may as well have been intellectual warfare. Whereas most people educated in the twentieth century may be able to name a few historical or classical works in philosophy or politics, Marjorie had read and understood a stack of books on the subjects of political philosophy, various economic policies and theories, and even metaphysics before she was driving. The valedictorian spared no opportunity to correct another person in dialogue, quote historical figures, and generally flaunt the vast expanses of her knowledge base.

Gramma, then middle-aged, was very pleased in seeing her youngest child soaring above her class in academics, her mind as sharp and inquisitive as a mother could hope to see in a child. The whole family had high hopes for Marjorie. Sherry, at that time married and with children, hoped to see Marjorie in some college or university setting, where her competitive nature and whip-crack mind would be exercised in their full glory. Gramma and Grandpa, both still alive at the time, wished to see her in a lucrative, rewarding career, so that she could remain independent, as her attitude suggested she might.

Gramma was reluctant to send her youngest out of the house and into the foreign, unpredictable world of post-secondary education. Although she acknowledged the dogged determination and razor-edge wit of her youngest, she could not defeat a premonition that such drive and idealism on a campus would lead her into unusual trouble… radical groups, intellectual cults, political movements and the like. The family was not accustomed to accommodating or dealing with the fringe elements of society.

Marjorie, a spry youth as always, recognized this anxiety in the months leading up to her departure. In a brief moment of conscientious clarity, sympathizing with her aged mother, she had addressed her concerns while packing up her clothes, ready to move out and onto a campus:

“Mother, we are all sovereign individuals, free to mould and shape our fates inside the paradigms of our time and culture. Every human being is an eternal, ethereal spirit with a brief, timely command over a body, and the actions of one are not as the ripples that disperse over a pond, but rather an earthquake that sends shockwaves through land and water alike, and over great distances of time and space. Our greatest, innermost fear is coming to terms with the realization that our presence in our current and future societal contexts is influential beyond our understanding, powerful beyond our imaginations, and that the effects of our actions will be felt by generations far in the future, even as wind and dust obscure the letters on our headstones.

“I wish for you to understand, Mother, that I’m not going to college simply to acquire the means of a satisfying career and academic fulfillment. While this is true, and I do want any children I may raise to have a substantial inheritance, I pursue an idea that is much more grandiose: I want to live every day of my life with the knowledge that my legacy to future generations of the world will be a greater understanding of the world and its machinations. My desire is that human beings who are yet to be conceived will have a better understanding than us about the fundamental plight of humanity; the plots of the wicked and the hopes of the pure; the ruthless nature of the powerful and the mercy of the poor; the hedonism of the debauched and the indignation of the righteous. I want so badly to be a benefactor of this trans-generational enlightenment, and to learn at the university will accelerate my progress towards that goal.

“Do not be afraid, Mother, that I will become a martyr for an obscure cause in a faraway land. Even if I were to be tempted into such an impulsive act of sensuality, history and logic indicate that we are much more likely to make great impressions on the human landscape by living for a cause, rather than by dying for it. Of the millions of nameless victims who died at the hands of despots throughout history, only a fraction of a percentage of them have become historical figures whose works and words live on, and by these factors will I live. A better and more effective legacy is to pass on to future generations that which we have learned over our years; to consolidate our wisdoms and share our treasures are greater and more profound gestures than the noblest death.

“Of course, all the knowledge in the world would be in vain if we, as a species, had no conduit through which to filter and transmit our ideas. A clean, clear conscience is necessary to navigate the minefield of a free society, and I must make sure that the ends which I pursue do not contradict the means to which I have pledged my work and attention. I know I have been haughty and proud, and that there have been times that my pursuit of knowledge and passion for elaboration has strangled my dwindling humility. I am working on this change so that those around me will be more pleased to engage in my discourse, and so that I become a more tolerable force with you, Dad, and everyone else.

“That is the reason I am packing my bags.”

With such a vivid and memorable declaration of intent for her mother, Marjorie left home in high spirits, with her mother’s blessing and fullest confidence. She arrived on campus with a head full of ideas and an indomitable spirit. Within weeks she was involved in a variety of campus groups, was neck-deep in her studies, and loving every minute of it.

However, her mentality began to take an unpredictable turn before the end of her freshman year. Behind the straight A’s, academic commendations, and club-based leadership awards, her worldview took a turn towards cynicism and doubt. Like anything Marjorie did, though, she fully committed to its resolution.

What was peculiar about this ideological shift, however, was the stress Marjorie felt when considering it. Her passion for studies and achievement had taken a backseat to personal deliberation and anguish. Right up through finals week of her spring semester, she was consumed with her new ideas.

She decided to not return to school as a sophomore, and spent the following year in and out of various jobs, unable to keep one for more than a few weeks. No matter where her paychecks came from, she felt an awkward, inward sort of shame about the whole process of labor and payment. Quite soon, her credibility was very low, as was her self-image. Despite the absence of a career, the young lady was still quite curious and spent a great deal of her time reading, as if she were on a permanent summer vacation; though, the zeal she exhibited in her youth was quickly fading.

Her siblings voiced concerns occasionally about the state of her health and happiness, but were quite wrapped up in furthering their own careers and starting families. The bulk of lectures came from her concerned parents, but whereas butting heads with any other young adult would typically result in stubbornness and expositions of passion, a disagreement with Marjorie’s sharp wit and scourged heart resulted in a verbal tour-de-force of conviction.

During this hiatus of sorts, her family would occasionally voice their concerns or administer a short lecture. Parents and siblings alike informed her that there was nothing wrong with finding the college lifestyle dissatisfying, and that finding a job or an apprenticeship is as respectable and dignified as any tenured position in higher education. What they continually failed to understand is that this was nowhere near the heart of the issue.

One breezy, cool afternoon in late autumn of the same year, Gramma approached her daughter lying on a blanket in the backyard, staring at the clouds overhead. She cautiously conveyed her worry for her youngest daughter’s posterity, and encouraged her to try the labor lifestyle once again (“There’s no shame in it whatsoever!”). Sensing that her family’s motivational campaign would continue endlessly unless she made some attempt to stifle it, she replied with explanations of her world-bending philosophies on life and culture:

“Consider events throughout human history, Mother. When any impoverished mass of people are oppressed, their most reliable, if not most effective, means of waging war is passive, nonviolent resistance; violence and coercion are the means of tyrants and bigots. Whether the occasion warranted a large-scale occupation for a demonstration, the boycott of particular products or services, publicity and awareness campaigns, or a large-scale political movement, social change has only ever been achieved and perpetuated by the oppressed with means of passive, nonviolent resistance.

“Causes are historically preceded by sentiments that are emotionally, intuitively justified by the public. Wherever despots and tyrants have been overthrown, it was mankind’s self-evident rights to life and liberty that watered the seed of revolution. All throughout history, humanity has waged war with itself over premises of territory, wealth, race, ideology, and class. All of these conflicts, at any point throughout history or place on the globe, have been the manifestations of mankind’s frustration with their oppressors. Millions of people have died in hopeless battles believing, ‘If only I could help free the next generation from the malicious rule of these tyrants, they will live happily and peacefully.’ Warriors in ages past found conviction in the idea that personal and political freedoms will lead their children to happiness; they sought to make their inheritance sovereignty.

“Yet, even in the modern, western world, we have experienced over two-hundred years of political freedom, to a degree which most ancient peoples could hardly fathom, and our collective agony persists. Those who fought, waged and labored for political freedom in centuries past, whose sacrifices are now found in textbooks and commemorated in monuments, would be utterly exasperated at the current generation’s discontentment. Warriors and voices of dissent who lived, worked, fought and died subjects of their tyrants’ bridles expired with the only the hope that one day the world might see prosperity and peace among its peoples. We, as living Americans, are closer to living such an ideal than any previous civilization; the unprecedented technological advances of the past three hundred years have rendered our lives all but free of hunger pangs, and the most complete empowerment of the citizen has ushered in a new era of potency for the democratic process. Yet, mankind continues to lust. In ignorant spite of our historical benefactors, who began paving the way to this most privileged of societies millennia ago, we continue our endless campaigns of emotional discomfiture and material lust.

“It is this realization, Mother, that cripples my will. I departed for college believing that living at a home of academia and learning would empower me to pass on to the next generation the next steps in posterity and harmony. However, after spending time with the hypocrites, the picture I had painted for my future was washed away. What had been conveyed to me, and affected me to the point of disillusionment was not in conflicts of doctrine or worldview. The intellectual battleground between doctrines of ultimate freedom and ruthless statism is an entirely false dilemma, as both equally fail to address the inherent flaw in mankind. Preachers in the street claim to know the will and influence of God, the ultimate fate and design of mankind, and the knowledge that will free mankind from sin. Even if we assume their proselytizing was based in truth and fact, and that they did indeed hold the secret of mankind’s design in a book, I could hardly imagine a world in which their efforts are less relevant. No, it was not conflicting ideals or exclusive religions that caused my disillusionment; it was the helpless, hopeless behavior of ordinary people.

“Evidence is brought forth that we hate ourselves and everyone around us with every action we take. We are granted an ever-escalating standard of living by the machinations driving the illusion of progress, yet humanity never ceases its disastrous campaign of omnidirectional loathing. At the university, there was a significant movement of individuals who oppose the accrual of wealth, spouting such inconsistent contrivances as ‘Wealth corrodes the soul,’ and the cliched ‘Money is the root of evil,’ yet these individuals are, by one way or another, in command of enough wealth to attend an American university. Easily in possession of enough wealth to donate massive quantities of food and water to impoverished peoples of faraway lands, or donate their livelihood to teaching the deprived to read and write, I can not understand how these hypocrites live with themselves.

“They act as though their hypocrisy is a necessary evil along the path to enlightenment, and that their indulgences are overshadowed by the magnanimity of their pursuits; and while this does not go on unnoticed, never has the idea been addressed that wealth may take the form of knowledge and understanding. Still another sect of humanity advocates higher degrees of political and personal freedom. While these groups in the offices are less prone to tyranny than their counterparts beating on drums in the streets and parks, they too neglect to answer an obvious internal contradiction, which reeks of tragic irony. They preach and campaign, write articles, books, and plays about their ideals of freedom, and invest infinite energies into their pursuits. Yet, should this day of absolute freedom ever come, would they actually be any degree closer to freedom? No! Instead of being wards of the state, they shall become slaves to their lusts and fantasies. The hunger for the restoration of the right to live and let live is inevitably and invariably replaced by an endless thirst.

“Still yet, there are those among us who preach that a man who lived two-thousand years ago holds the key to eternal life, and that those who sacrifice their lives on earth will accumulate treasures in heaven. We know several of these individuals, and we met many of them at church, on the seldom occasions we went. These folks wage a campaign under the guise of selflessness and compassion for their fellow man. However, the core of their conviction reveals that their lust is not absent, but has only been replaced by a desire to live in a fantasy world, in which they will rightfully claim what they stored away with their righteous acts during their mortal lives.

“Mother, all of mankind participates in the war on themselves. I am only a conscientious objector to the material hysteria that plagues mankind, and dooms us to shallow lives. Though life is meaningless, there is no reason that I may not try to live mine in true liberty, and this is what strips me of my desires; for labor, for belongings, for motivation. Those who provide a drug addict with additional sludge with which to poison himself are called ‘enablers;’ I refuse to enable human suffering and addiction by laboring to produce articles that humanity uses to engorge themselves, thereby perpetuating the sick illusions of freedom, happiness and prosperity.”

With the conclusion of this episode, the mother of the distraught young lady was at a loss for words. She grasped the fundamental idea that prevented her daughter from pursuing fulfillment, but had not even a clue as to how to change her daughter’s heart. Despite the longing that she felt to reassure her youngest child, and tell her that the world is not such a depraved place to live, she was stonewalled by the doctrine that had been laid out before her.

Marjorie had become more and more frustrated during her stay with her parents. Her monastic devotion to her ideals became so relentless and all-encompassing that everyday tasks began to involve drawn-out, internal conflicts. Shopping for groceries, she would picture the farmers and canners slaving away at their jobs with the hope of securing themselves higher levels of material or financial wealth; this she could not abide, and endured guilt induction at every check-out line. When she found herself at a department store, she was experienced overwhelming pity for the people she witnessed shopping around; she pondered how so many people can live their lives thinking only about what their next retail purchase will be, and her pity multiplied.

As everyday life became more and more of a struggle, Marjorie was naturally less and less functional. She eventually had to move out; not so much because she longed for independence after so much time at home, but because she could not bear to see her own family chasing after norms which she understood to be nothing more than deceptions and frauds. Her heart tore when she imagined her own mother and father, her own benefactors whose generosity and compassion were what she knew of divinity, laboring and slaving away in the pursuit of a phantasmic satisfaction. Discovering the existence of a self-sustaining, agricultural-based community not far from her hometown, she immediately inquired about their ethical standards and codes of conduct.

The young idealist left home and all but disappeared for many years, only occasionally making contact with the family. Her parents were forced to make due with a letter or phone call every few months. Much to their dismay, she never called from the same place twice, and her letters never included return addresses. Neither did she divulge many details regarding her living arrangements or relationships, though she did claim to be staying in different cities all around the United States. Although she managed to express her concern for the family, and inquired faithfully about the goings-on of her siblings, she never made a return trip to visit.

Some fifteen years later, Marjorie made her way back to where she grew up, dreadfully sick, malnourished, and desperate. She reeked of smoke and oil, and quite apparently had not kept up with her hygiene for quite some time, as dirt and blemishes obscured her face and inflamed her ears. Hair was knotted and matted down to her worn, patchy peacoat. Below the bottom hem of the jacket, two bare, skinny legs held her body aloft. Scratches, scars and scabs wound around her legs from her knees to her ankles, which wore mismatched deck shoes.

After spending so much time with rare phone calls and letters as Marjorie’s only forms of contact, Gramma was equal measures thrilled and horrified at her daughter’s unexpected appearance. It was on this day that she returned.

Peter’s knowledge of Aunt Marjorie was all hearsay and old photographs. Mom had a way of withholding sensitive information from him and Trini while they grew up; she would usually shrug her shoulders, and the intonations of her voice would exhibit unusually frequent spikes. He was able to tell that neither Mom nor anyone else in the family really knew much about their estranged relative. Regardless of the scarcity of information on this particular subject, it still seemed to be a sensitive topic, so Peter made a point never to mention her.

He was sixteen when he received a call from Gramma, who sounded alarmingly distraught, asking to speak with Mom. Peter’s curiosity could hardly be contained, as his grandmother was generally so cheerful. Mom’s expression went quickly from neutral, to concern, to shock. Then, she left the house for the rest of the day, leaving Peter only with the command to make sure that Trini gets something to eat and completes her homework.

Three days later was Aunt Marjorie’s viewing and funeral. Peter and Trini sat towards the back of the parlor, already having paid their respects to the stranger in the box at the front. Gramma was most upset, having lost her youngest child; at this time, Grandpa had already been dead for a few years, so she was denied the consolation for which she longed most desperately. Aunt Sherry, Uncle Tim, and Mom were gathered around their mother, providing the best comfort they could in such an odd situation.

Peter and Trini had never met the woman. Her pockmarked face and sunken cheeks provided clues to a story with over a decade’s worth of missing chapters. Though she was the youngest of the four children, she looked like a withered up old woman. Her hair had been cut quite short by the mortician, they overheard, because it was unmanageable otherwise. Regardless of this fact, it was thinning out and patchy, revealing a pink, scabbed scalp underneath.

The parlor was scarce, as the only people who showed up were there to show their support for Gramma in this most trying of times. In hindsight, this was not surprising; Aunt Marjorie had spent fifteen years in a communicative blackout; most of the folks who knew and cared about her had been completely out of contact with her. The minister stood formally alongside the wall of the parlor, awaiting the time that he might begin his duty.

Brody joined his younger cousins in the back of the parlor. Their older cousin, at this time, was finishing up college, and reluctantly complied with his father’s wishes to make a special trip home for the sake of making an appearance at the funeral. He was wise and dutiful beyond his years, being ever studious and self-sufficient. His demeanor was confident and professional.

There was little noise in the parlor to cover up a private conversation, but Brody decided against discretion. “You know, I remember her a little bit from whenever I was very, very young. She left before you kids were even crawling around, but I can remember her just a little bit.”

Peter was not sure how to continue such a discussion, so he wanted to keep Brody talking. “What do you remember about her, exactly? Did she ever do anything fun, or anything like that?” he inquired.

The older cousin gazed at the ceiling briefly before answering. He had always displayed his confidence through his demeanor and vocal intonations, but was still very particular about choosing words. He replied, “You know, I really don’t. I couldn’t have been much older than five or six when I last saw her, so I only remember seeing her; I don’t really remember much about her personality or what she did with us. I don’t remember her being very talkative, but again, I was just a kid. One time I guess I do remember, we were having dinner at Gramma’s, and I remember her sitting out on the patio with Grandpa. I walked out through the sliding doors and he shooed me back in right away. Ha ha! He always was a bit curmudgeonly. But no, nothing about Aunt Marjorie sticks out in my mind.”

Trini shifted around in her seat. She was only about ten years old at this time, so she was still short enough to let her legs dangle and swing below her. Though she hardly knew the person at the front of the parlor, she understood the gravity of the situation enough not to be pestering her mother.

After an hour and a half, the family began taking their seats in the front few rows. Not too many visitors came through; a few old classmates came to pay their respects, and some extended family that Peter only saw every few years or so made their appearances. Gramma was really the only person showing any emotion; Aunt Sherry, Uncle Tim and Mom were apparently stuck in awkward funks between pity for their own mother, and relief that such a perpetual anxiety has been relieved from their conscious pondering.

With only a half-hour left for viewing, a man came in and paid his respects up front, and looked at the board of pictures hanging near the door. He had a trimmed beard and a suit, and Peter noticed some tattoos creeping out from underneath his cuffs. Uncle Tim introduced himself, and then brought the stranger over to the family for further introductions. Brody made his way to the front to eavesdrop on the group; Peter and Trini, curious at the appearance of this mysterious man, followed suit.

They were able to listen from a few rows back, and missed only a minute or so of conversation.

“… and I left the group after that little ‘revelation.’ It was nice and whatnot, living in and contributing to an entirely self-sufficient community is quite an experience, but a few years into the excursion things became a little bit too Koresh-esque, even for me, so I bailed. Even though there wasn’t any kind of creed or code of conduct to make it a formal cult, it got a little creepy. Found some work in the city, and I was able to stay in touch with Marjorie. Unlike most of the people who were there, the friendship between her and me was more than circumstantial, and we genuinely enjoyed one another’s company – this, of course, I didn’t find out until after I left.

Gramma and the rest of the family were all ears. The man continued, “Did you know she had a kid?” Gramma gasped and covered her mouth.

Wow, another cousin and not even Gramma knew about it, Peter thought to himself. What kind of trouble was she getting into?

“Yeah, turns out one of the fellows at the camp and her had a kid before she left. Assuming she was truthful about the matter in her letters to me, she hightailed it out of there and left him with a baby. Don’t think poorly of her because of that; I’m sure the cult of personality was at an all-time high at that point, so staying there was dangerous. Really a no-win situation for anyone involved, but worse even for a pregnant woman.”

Such consolation did not seem to dissipate the shock. He continued his anthology to his captivated audience. “After that she moved to the city, too. She was living in some charity home, ‘Father Ferapont’s Welcoming Home.’ That was about four years ago, now. I would visit her a few times a year, and I’ll be totally honest: she didn’t look good after that. She was violently addicted to using. No idea where she got them from, but she got them, alright. The caretakers at the house kind of recognized her as a hopeless case. She stayed there for maybe a year, until she was such a danger to everyone they had to kick her out; this I found out one day when I went to see her – yes, about three years ago, now – and she was nowhere to be found. They did tell me about how she left, though.”

Gramma was crying softly, and though Mom offered to escort her outside, she was adamant on listening to the man until he reached the end of his story.

He continued, “When I asked about her, they called me into the little office they kept on the downstairs level. They told me she never gave them any references or details on family or friends; only that she ‘escaped from a madhouse’ and wound up there. That being as it was, I was her only known contact, so they divulged as much information to me as they had. She got heavy into drugs for the few months leading up to her departure from the Ferapont home.

“She would get high in her room by herself. Since they kept all the keys in the office, when she wouldn’t respond to knocks or shouts, they would unlock her door and find her passed out. She didn’t move in with much in the way of belongings, but they flipped the room a few times looking for drugs. There were no opportunities for her to get to rehab, because the Ferapont home had a reputation for sending nothing but repeat cases, and with the budget tightening for that sort of care, they had to make due with in-house counseling. Almost a completely volunteer force; most of them weren’t qualified for that line of work. According to the records she, for the three counseling sessions, she showed signs of wanting to kick the habit. It couldn’t really be called ‘relapse’ because there was technically no ongoing treatment, inside a few months’ time she relapsed four times. The fourth and final time involved her tearing apart the downstairs rooms – kitchen, living room, dining room, pantry, laundry – looking for drugs she had stashed previously. They had her arrested and kicked out, and after flipping the downstairs those in charge found nickel bags hidden in the most obscure of locations, and turned it in to the authorities. According to the on-site counselors, Marjorie had begged them to let her stay, and cited that she hid them in hard-to-reach places because she wanted to quit. Unfortunately, they couldn’t bear the risk of her hurting any of the other tenants, so she was evicted.”

Peter distinctly remembered this element of the story: the conundrum of hiding the drugs to quit, instead of disposing of them altogether. He supposed he would never understand the mind of a user despite any books or degrees that could be acquired. This puzzle would occasionally float into his mind as he pondered the subject; he imagined himself in the shoes of an addict, with a strong desire to quit, and trying to decide what to do with a remaining stash of drugs.

“That was three years ago.” The stranger had reached the conclusion of his story. “I have heard nothing from her since she was evicted, and nothing about the child since I left the camp. The Ferapont house contacted me with the news on her passing as it was published, and now I am here.”

Small talk ensued while Mom and Aunt Sherry led Gramma outside. Brody gave Peter and Trini an inquisitive look by raising his eyebrows, but Peter was unsure of what to say. To him, the whole story sounded like something that was only ever on TV, so he let the subject of discussion drop.

What would even make for a condolence? Peter was dumbfounded. He was used to an occasional death in the family, but this was an entirely different scenario. His estranged aunt’s prolonged absence put the grieving process in an entirely different light.

Brody furrowed his brows, and addressed the two siblings. “You know what? It’s gotta be really weird for them right now. Especially Gramma. On one hand, her daughter died way before her time. That’s close family we’re burying today. We never knew her, but remember that she grew up with everyone else. Her childhood happened completely, and everyone else here was a part of it.”

Peter had been pondering what the stranger in the casket had been like growing up with people he also knew and loved, like his own Mother and Uncle Tim.

Brody continued, “But on the other hand, all those years of wondering, ‘Where is my daughter? Is she safe?’ and never having any conclusion are now over. Gramma will no longer ever have to prepare a holiday feast with the empty hope that Marjorie will miraculously show up. I don’t even have kids, and neither do you guys, that I know of,” he elbowed Peter in the ribs, “but you know how you have dreams and nightmares about things that concern you? Like tests or sports or friends or anything like that? Imagine having the same set of nightmares about the mystery of one of your children. For fifteen years. That is a relief if I can imagine one.”

Peter conceded the point to his older, wiser cousin, who continued his point, “Thing is, right now, they probably don’t know whether to make heads or tails of it! First they’re sad that this person they grew up with has died, never to be seen again. But then, this long-gone-but-not-forgotten source of worry, and her miserable campaign is over.”

Brody reclined back into his seat. Uncle Tim remained towards the front of the parlor, having some small-talk with the very informative stranger. Peter was unsure how to feel… it was a strange feeling.

Normally, he could think back to a time he was growing up and decide from this instance how to behave or act in any particular scenario. He imagined Mom’s piercing gaze and how at that moment he knew exactly the difference between right and wrong. For this though, he was inconclusive.

He had been about ten years old for this seminal directive of conscience; Dad was home for a few weeks and Mom had prepared a delicious dinner of grilled tuna steaks and sauteed vegetables for everyone on a balmy Saturday evening, towards the end of summer. They had just finished eating, and Dad was listening to all of Peter’s stories about elementary school, Trini was picking through her food and Mom was soaking it all in.

Trini, four years old at the time, and a little squirt even then, was paying more attention to annoying her brother than eating her food. Peter was explaining to his parents that he wanted to try playing clarinet or saxophone for the school band, but he did not want to skip study sessions after school to make the band practice. Trini was complicating the task.

Dad imparted his advice, “I think the band is a great idea. If you do want to play an instrument, your mother and I can lease one. You’re so young that you don’t know what you like yet, so you should try out as many things as you can, while you can. Before you get old enough to commit to a handful of things, anyways.”

“Yeah Pete, before you get too old!” Trini chimed in through a mouthful of food.

Mom provided her wisdom as well, ignoring the interruption. “I’m sure the teachers and the band instructors have dealt with kids who want to stay at study sessions and play in the bad, too. It won’t be a big deal for you to work out a deal with each of them and explain your schedule.”

Trini’s cheeks were bursting full when she piped up, “Yeah Pete! No big deal!”

She was hushed, and the conversation continued. Mom and Dad exhibited near-infinite patience when dealing with his sister; this was something he never shared with them, even as he grew older and into the roles of protector and friend. He was livid by the end of dinnertime, given the continuing interruptions aimed at him.

Mom had concocted a fruity, refreshing dessert for everyone: jumbo-size chocolate-covered strawberries, fresh from Uncle Tim’s. Eight in all; two for each person. Trini excused herself to go to the bathroom and wash her hands free of tuna grease, presumably because she knew it would not mix well with strawberries. After a few minutes, she disclosed from upstairs that she was staying in there for an “emergency,” as everyone else was wiping strawberry juice from their chins. Mom went up to help, and Peter helped his father clear the table.

She had returned downstairs, explaining that Trini would be down after she changed her clothes. Must have been quite an emergency, Peter said to himself. Dad went upstairs to investigate. Mom was washing and drying dishes and silverware while Peter brought out everything from the table, when he came to Trini’s dinnerplate and saw her two perfect, untouched, chocolate-covered jumbo strawberries. He eyed them up like a predator.

Mom won’t even notice they’re missing if I clean the plate before I take it up, he thought. Plus she wouldn’t even be able to finish two of these because she’s so young and small. He thought about her expulsion of food particles over the table in between two engorged cheeks and a meal full of interruptions. She doesn’t really deserve them anyways, with how she was behaving during dinner.

It was at this time, looking up from the strawberries to the doorway into the kitchen, that he saw Mom looking over her shoulder, her hips at about a corner turn behind her and both hands still in the sink, with suds running up her forearms. She’s reading my mind! Her eagle-eyes pierced into his soul, and forever told him the difference between doing what’s right, and doing what’s wrong.

This was a universally applicable lesson as he grew older. When a substitute teacher was dozing off in the chair on a test day in algebra, everyone seized the opportunity to share answers; Peter saw Mom’s gaze. Clive, his best friend and inherent troublemaker, once asked Peter’s help in setting off a series of firecrackers in the school bathroom during a testing week; Peter saw Mom’s gaze. Skylar, shortly before leaving for college, took a bottle of wine out with them while they were driving around one night; Peter saw Mom’s gaze.

Peter sat in his chair, between his cousin and his sister, staring up at the casket, considering what his cousin was saying. He thought back to his Mother’s piercing gaze, and if she was looking at him right now, what would that gaze implore him to do? Of course feeling sad would be natural, but for him, this was really no different than seeing the grandparent of a classmate in the obituaries. He felt bad for his Mom, and the rest of the family, sure; but he recognized that it was the same feeling he had for a classmate with a dead grandparent.

What about the relief aspect? Now, the whole family, all these people for whom he cared and loved, no longer had to worry about their estranged sister. Gramma would no longer be haunted by nightmares of irresolution concerning her youngest daughter. Did Mom’s gaze discourage him from feeling relief? For the first time in his life, he did not know.

Brody shared another irony: “And get this! Just get this: we both know that everyone up in this family has an inclination towards sympathy… even my own dad, with all his Marine corps experience hardly entertains a pernicious thought. When they start to play with the idea that they don’t have to fret about their long-lost sister anymore, they’ll feel guilty for feeling good about it! Oh dear…” Brody sighed with an exasperated smirk, “Maybe they all would have been better off had she just died anonymously, somewhere that’s very far away.”

Shortly afterward, the minister began to perform his duty for the deceased. Brody rolled his eyes, but remained seated for the service.

This was six years ago.