The funeral procession had to pull over to let the ambulance pass.
“The dead has to pull over for the dying.” The siren roared, shook the car, and then faded away.
My cousin didn’t get a response.
“Mom, are you alright?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Karma, and how it doesn’t work like it should. The meanest people live forever, long fulfilled lives.” We knew who she was talking about, my great-grandfather Lester.
“Karma isn’t supernatural. It’s practical mom. The more people you piss off, the more you increase the chances of retaliation. It’s purely statistical.”
“Please Amy. Then how has he escaped retaliation; with all the people he has cheated?”
“He’s an anomaly.”
“Maybe he sold his soul to the devil,” I commented.
“Jason, you were always a smart one. Now that I can believe.”
The road leading up to the gravesite was narrow. It winded up a wooded hilltop crowded with tombstones, some modest, some ostentatious, but all of them, in some way or another equally contributing to the ambiance.
Car doors slammed as people got out to huddle around a casket suspended above the open earth, a mound of dirt piled at the ready. I watched as they helped Lester get out of the van and into his wheelchair. An angry soul, he bitched and barked commands at every passing moment. There wasn’t any recognition that he was at a funeral. My uncle Joe wheeled him across the rough terrain, struggling to push it against the slope. Exhausted by my uncle’s effort, Lester angrily waved him away. Joe left him a good distance away from the canopy, unable to get a good view of the proceedings. No one approached him. No one made an attempt to talk with the old man.
Lester didn’t age well, but at ninety-eight, how well are any of us going to look? Yet, there was something sinister to his elderly demeanor. His skin was pale and spotted, with bulbous veins pushing up through his weak exterior. He was completely bald with a few strands of grey hair. These attributes are normal enough for any man of his ripe old age, but they were shaded with an aura of mayhem by his persistent scowl. He refused to wear glasses and was always squinting, making his face look angrier than it already was.
This particular preacher was long-winded. I lost focus and started daydreaming about a collage of unrelated subjects, tossing one idea out and lingering about another idea. Oddly enough, my mind at certain points would stumble across the thought of Lester. All the sudden, I was stuck on his image. I couldn’t mentally move onto something else. I forced myself to listen to the preacher and concentrate on his words.
“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope,’ the preacher quoted.
I felt a sudden urge to laugh for no reason other than it was the most inappropriate time to do such a thing. To my horror, I heard an audible chuckle. Did I accidentally laugh out loud? No, it was Lester who genuinely found the whole affair comical.
I looked over to see how much of a scene he was about to unleash on the weary mourners. He was staring intently in my direction. He pointed at me and motioned for me to come over. I pointed at myself to confirm it was me he was trying to communicate with.
“Yes you, dumbass,” he said out loud.
I scrambled over to where he was, hoping to quell any more insensitive outbursts.
“Where’s your parents, boy?” he asked so that everyone could hear.
“Shhh,” someone commanded.
“Lester, maybe I can take you back to the van if you’re uncomfortable,” I offered.
“Nah, but I wouldn’t mind a push down the road, just so I can get away from this nonsense.”
“Sure.” I turned him around and pushed the wheelchair down the slope and onto the road. I didn’t mind much anyway. The service was coming to an end, and I was curious as to what this mean old man wanted to talk about.
“Where’s your dad? Does he hate me so much that he can’t even come to his uncle’s funeral?”
“He’s here. I just rode with Aunt Maggie.”
“Ah, another one. She really hates me.” Abruptly, he switched topics. “What are you, a freshman, high school?”
“Freshman, yes, but in college. I live on campus.”
“Oh, big man now.”
That was the last thing he said for a while as I was pushing him up the cemetery road. He was tranquil as if in a peaceful surrounding. I pushed him to the intersection and then turned the wheelchair around to come back the way we came. He didn’t resist. I repeated the same back-and-forth course several times until I saw people beginning to leave. On the last return trip from the intersection, he finally spoke.
“So, you think I sold my soul to the Devil?”
I was astonished. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you said in the car that my long life is a result of a deal between me and the Devil.”
“Who told you that, Aunt Maggie?”
“Nah, I heard it. I hear a lot of things other folks don’t hear. It ain’t as much of a deal as it is a ritual. A ritual I come by way before I ever used it. It’s given infrequently and not forced upon you. It’s a family heirloom, only given to the worthiest, but you’ve got to do some pretty horrible things to make it work. It don’t stick without a little evil.”
“Is a long life worth all that?” I inquired.
“My brother was a medic in the Army and a paramedic when he got back home. He told me he never seen anyone who was ready and willing to die. He always saw fear, always, without fail, even when they were drugged up out of their gourd. Everyone acts like they’ll be all courageous and shit, but when the vultures gather…” He stopped speaking and stared off into the distance.
“Who gave you the ritual?”
“My grandfather. He was a mean cuss. I hated him. If only he’d had the ritual that kept you young. I can truly say boy…. I’m ready to go.”
As I approached the van, Uncle Joe came and grabbed the wheelchair away from me. “I got it buddy. Thanks. I appreciate… we all appreciate you taking him away. It was the only way to maintain a little decorum.”
“Fuck you,” said Lester.
Two months later Lester died. He was cremated with no memorial service. In fact, I don’t know who even claimed the ashes. Maybe no one. I wasn’t privy to that information.
It wasn’t long after that I received some mail with a large manilla envelope. There was only my dorm address, no return address. I took the letter upstairs and tossed it on my bed. I would read it after my workout, but I forgot until later that night.
After my workout and a good long shower, I fell asleep. I was awakened by a squeaking wheel. I opened my eyes and through the hazy twilight I saw an empty wheelchair rolling towards me from the corner of my room. I quickly turned on the light. The wheelchair disappeared.
The manilla envelope had fallen on the floor. I picked it up and undid the clasp. I slowly pulled the contents of the envelope out. The first page was a letter from Lester. It read:
You get this heirloom by default. I hated you least of all, so here’s the family recipe for a long life, maybe not always easy, or with good fortune, but of your own choosing when and where you choose to end it.
Good luck, maybe you’ll find the recipe for eternal youth,
Lester.
I shuffled the Lester’s letter to the bottom of the pile. The next page was yellow and tattered, with faded Latin letters. I couldn’t make out much of what it said. I was temporarily relieved of the idea that I might be tempted to keep the ritual. When I shuffled to the next page, I saw a neatly typed-out English version of the previous page. Someone had been thoughtful enough to type out the contents of the ritual to be more legible. The title was simple and to the point: A Ritual to Obtain Long Life. The first line read: This ritual requires a human sacrifice. The more innocent, the more effective.
I like to think that I’m an unselfish person, that I will be an honorable man throughout life and when it’s time for me to die I will reflect back on all the good I have done, and accept my destiny with dignity, but just in case, I have kept my rightfully earned family heirloom. When the vultures gather, who really knows?