To Hell in a Handbasket

Grammy died when I was nine. We were close; I remember that. She was my dad’s and Uncle Ed’s mom, and about the nearest thing I ever had to a mom myself. Towards the end, she wasn’t quite all there. In those last months, she would stare for hours out the window or at the blank television, raving on and on about how the world was “going to hell in a handbasket.” Even at nine, I knew that Grammy was not a credible source for world news. I knew better than to take her words to heart, but there was always a murmuring sort of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach at the end of our visits. I wasn’t even sure what a handbasket was, but I never could quite shake the feeling that Grammy might be right about it.

* * * * *

Sunday, July 12, 2020

"Mmmmh."

[Sighs.]

My morning shower may just be my favorite part of the day. I like it luke-warm. Cold enough to wake me up but not cold enough to raise the blood pressure much. Equilibrium is drastically underrated, and I’ve learned exactly what my body likes to keep all parts running smoothly. I never miss my morning shower. I might even resent the hour delay this morning if it weren’t for the peculiar reason behind it.

[Squirts dime-sized dollop of shampoo into palm.]

If you were here now, you might hear me humming as I soap up my hair and sway slowly beneath the steady spray of water. After five years of tinkering with this damn shower head, I finally got the water pressure just right, and it is glorious! But, I digress. I hum because I’m thinking about fate and the turning of the tide. You see, this morning I find myself in rightful possession of $20,000! Seems my Uncle Ed overdosed a few weeks ago and left much of what he had to me, his only surviving relative. Got the call at 8:15 this morning from his executor. I answered the phone, confirmed my identity, and his lawyer told me that my uncle drew up a will over a decade ago (probably during his first mid-life crisis), and scratched my name in there more than once.

So today, I’m $20,000 richer. It’s no fortune, but I'll take it as a sign that the world is finally ready to make amends for the hand it dealt me. Please don’t think me callous; I don’t celebrate Ed’s passing. But, he lived a full life. It seems right to dispense with the guilt over what he left behind and just live as he would have lived.. Unencumbered.

* * * * *

[Turns the water off, grabs his towel from the hook, and begins drying his hair.]

Uncle Eddie. He was younger than my dad by far and only 9 years older than me. I always looked up to him when I was young. Then Grammy died. He was 19 at the time and had already been hard into drugs for two years before that. Our bad luck started then, mine and my dad’s. Dad lost his job, we lost our house, and we lived in our car off and on for a year before we got our run-down apartment. Dad grew bitter over time. When I was 15, he told me that he thought Eddie had broken Grammy’s heart and that heartbreak subsequently broke her mind. I don’t know about that, but Dad didn’t believe in God or fate or luck, so maybe he just needed someone to blame.

* * * * *

After my shower, I lotion and dress, then feed Sammy, my retriever. I eat my oatmeal with a handful of nuts. I’ve found that combination keeps me regular. Equilibrium… All small things are important. I sip my coffee as I scroll the news headlines on my phone. Another “missing person” case. “Huh.”

Sammy thumps his tail impatiently on the floor. Time for his morning walk. Like me, he prefers consistency. We often walk into town and sit outside the cafe to watch the bustle. I have always found people fascinating and usually feel rather amused by my observations. But today, I just think about Uncle Eddie. I wonder what broke him. He wasn’t perfect, but the finality of his death still makes me shudder, and I think he probably didn’t deserve to go so soon.

[Presses and smooths the outside of his navy vest. Feels the familiar thickness of his belongings nestled securely inside the inner pockets. Exhales.]

Up we get. Bagel to Sammy and we’re off. A block down, we turn right and move in the direction of home.

Four blocks from my apartment, I begin to hear sirens. I pull on Sammy’s leash and turn in the direction of the sound. We cut through a back alley and veer around a corner where Sammy halts to sniff and water a walk sign. I glance down the street to see four police cars and an officer standing on the front steps of a three-story townhome speaking with a very distraught middle-aged woman. I hush Sammy, who looks at me with his ears perked up, and I strain to hear the police say “Mrs. Mackin, when did you last see your daughter? When did you last talk to her?”

“I don’t know. I -- don’t --- know,” the woman sobs harder, and I wonder where I’ve heard that name before… Mackin.. Mackin.. . . Rose Mackin? Missing? I think of a young woman who used to work at the cafe. I feel a pang of sadness, sickness even.

That’s the third time in two weeks that the police have dropped in on this neighborhood, asking people questions, investigating some crime or other. I read about the others in the local news. My subconscious vomits the expression “going to hell in a handbasket” into the interior of my mind, and I smirk slightly before realizing the impropriety and sobering up.

“C’mon, Sammy,” I tug, and we head towards home.

* * * * *

I push the door closed, turn the lock, and let Sammy off his leash to scurry for his water bowl. I slide my shoes off and set them inside the coat closet. I turn to stand in front of the bureau mirror in my front hall and run my tongue across my teeth -- something there. I take the pocket knife from the inside of my vest, open it, and use the tip to pry a small seed from between my top incisors. One bite of bagel lodged a sesame seed between my front teeth. I should have known better.

I smile at my reflection and admire how committed my hair is to maintaining form. Every strand is in its place.

* * * * *

[Reaches back into his vest. Replaces the knife. Takes out a small, black notebook and lays it flat on the bureau. Grabs a pen from the key bowl. Opens the notebook to the second page. Taps the pen tip down the lines. Slides the pen over and behind his ear. Stares thoughtfully at the contents of the notebook].

________________

1. Uncle Ed

Age: 41

Date: 6/26/2020

________________

“Ahhh… damn.”

[Bites his lower lip.]

You know, I never meant it to go that way with Uncle Eddie. He was a halfway decent guy, to tell the truth, and the only family I had left. Maybe if he hadn’t been stoned off his rocker when I got there, this wouldn’t have happened. The cocaine has always been a terrible habit of his. That.. and his gambling.

I ran into an old friend of Dad’s at the grocery and heard that Uncle had some big winnings in Vegas about a month back. I needed to see for myself. Though I’ve generally made sound business investments, I’ve had more than my fair share of bad luck. I only asked to borrow a couple grand to cover me until a new deal came through. Ed didn’t like that. Ed said he was done with handouts. Ed had a lot to say about my life choices. Funny, that. I don’t remember ever giving him shit about the coke. To each his own, I say. But you’re supposed to help your family. Anyways, the conversation went south, and I smothered him with a throw pillow. Took the 20K from his locked bureau, along with enough cocaine to kill a horse. The coroner ruled it an overdose, seeing the coke lines along the coffee table. I read about his “accidental death” in the news. It couldn’t have worked out better for me, and I honestly had no idea he had me written into his will. Might be my luck turning.

So I pocketed the cash three weeks ago, and I became its rightful possessor today, along with a few of Uncle’s other assets: the 72” television, the billiards table, his best poker set, and two stocks in broader area casinos. Not a bad haul. I almost feel guilty about it.

If only that were the end of this story, you might walk away from this tale not utterly despising me. But no. Stay seated; we can’t exit here.

__________________

2. Lora Turner

Age: 25

Date: 6/28/2020

__________________

Disgusting, right? What can I say?.. Once I opened Pandora’s Box… mmmm.

[Shakes his head.]

I feel like I have unsealed a highly pressurized container, and the anger and urges that were trapped so long inside are hurtling out and ricocheting around me, and I can’t shut them back up! That’s why I went to the bar. To drink. I think I drank my weight in scotch, vacillating between my persistent anger at my uncle and the fate that he has led us to and a second feeling: an itch - like a question tickling the base of my skull. The question seemed to frame itself as “How far down does the rabbit hole go?”

I don’t know if what happened with Lora was premeditated. Maybe I killed her because she reminded me of Uncle Eddie, and I was still so pissed. The tickle was there, and I think I knew the potentiality as I walked her home, as she invited me up. This wasn’t the first time I’d been to her flat, and it always went the same: sex first, then she’d shoot up and pass out and I’d leave. Except this time, just like with Uncle Ed, I took the pillow and I smothered her. The papers said Lora was found two days later, spoon and syringe still on her nightstand.

__________________

3. Angie Wickam

Age: 24

Date: 7/4/2020

__________________

Angie was different. A real turning point for me. I knew when I left my house on the 4th that I needed to scratch that itch. I met her early in the night at a big outdoor party: a stranger among strangers. We drank together, watched the fireworks and talked. I must have said too much at some point, because she looked at me hard, taking a long drag from her joint, and said “You’re really a freak, aren’t you?” God, I’ve always hated that word, and I’ve always hated pot. It’s just dirty. We left together just before midnight and hiked to the quarry. Maybe I pushed her or maybe it was just a misstep. I could see the blood pooling around her on the rocks below, and I left her there. The report says she’s been missing for 3 days, but I know it’s been a week.

Where’s my pen? Ah!.. Just here.

[Bends over bureau and begins printing carefully in notebook.]

I do prefer order, and even numbers have always seemed more orderly, more balanced. Besides, I’ve learned it’s futile to try and control one’s every impulse.

__________________

4. Rose Mackin

Age: 27

Date: 7/11/2020

__________________

Hmm. Maybe I’m that handbasket Grammy talked so much about.