In My Time of Dying

Cassie watches her brother, Ben, commit suicide in front of her eyes. But she has no time for tears. Ben left her with two final wishes: a posthumous to-do list. Her tears will have to wait.

            The night I watched my brother Ben kill himself, I didn’t cry. He’d smiled at me, those

green eyes moist where he stood on the window ledge. He said “I love you”, and then leaned

back into the wind. I don’t remember the sound of his body colliding with the Vancouver

pavement. I only remember thinking of movies where someone dies and the main character is

sitting in the kitchen, cradling a cup of coffee while family enter and exit like clockwork,

bringing their I’m so sorry’s and He was such a promising young man. That main character was

me, except instead of family, emergency personnel crowded the place.

            One of them, a cop, approached me. “Cassie Boyd?” He knelt in front of me, like I was a

child. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            I looked away and shrugged. “He called me around ten. Wanted me to come over. He

was upset.”     

            “What about?”

            I shrugged again. “Everything. He told me to let him do it. He said it was bound to

happen one day. I told him it didn’t have to be today, but...” I paused, spotting Ben’s favourite

guitar perched in a stand in the corner. “He stepped onto the ledge, and then he just... let go.”

            “Let go?”

            I looked at the cop. “Fell.”

            He nodded. “Alright, Ms. Boyd. Thank you, and... I’m sorry for your loss.” I watched

him walk away and wondered how often he had to say those words. How often he tried to mean

it.

 

            Before he let go, Ben had asked me to do two things for him. A posthumous to-do list.

After the funeral and the clockwork family visits drifted to an end, I flew to Nashville. I would

have rather been anywhere else. When we left home we vowed never to return, and now here I

was, walking through our old neighbourhood, on my own. Another thing he vowed I would

never have to do.  

            The second I walked into town, I discovered I was being watched: dozens of pairs of

eyes observing me like spectators at a duel. I suppose that made me the cowboy in this scene.

Just when the word bombardment entered my mind, Bernie Rockwell intercepted me. He used to

babysit Ben and me when we were little and never wanted to be at home. We called him Big

Bernie behind his back because he had this gargantuan laugh we believed only the Devil himself

could provide someone.

            “Cassie Boyd,” he said and boomed with laughter. “Look at ‘cha! My God, it’s been

years! What the hell are you doing here?”

            I nodded once. “Ben.”

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He shook his head, lips pursed. “How?”

            “Window.”     

            “Oh. Well, we knew it was comin’. Damn shame though, damn shame. What a pair of

hands to bury. The way he played that guitar, my God.”

            “We cremated him, actually.”

            “What are you gonna do with the ashes?”

            I shook my head. “He never said. I guess I’ll just keep them. I’ll put them �" him �" on my

dresser, or something.”

            Bernie looked me over. “You don’t got him here with ya?” I shook my head again. “Ah.

Well, let him know that I enjoyed watching him play. He used to sit in my living room, just

strumming away at that guitar. And you’d sit right there with him and watch cartoons. You

remember I babysat ‘cha, right?”

            “I do, and thanks. I’ll tell him.”

            He nodded once. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever business you gotta tend to, Cass. You

take care.”

            “You too, Mr. Rockwell.” Big Bernie.          

            When I passed our old house, I didn’t look up.

            Within fifteen minutes, I found Caleb’s place. I didn’t have to try to remember where he

lived. Just like we found solace at Big Bernie’s when we were little, Ben and I spent most of our

teen years at Caleb’s. Ben played with his first band there in the summers. I’d sell tee shirts in

the backyard for ten bucks, which was a bad move on my part because it cost a lot more to make

the damn things. At the end of the night, Caleb, Ben, and I would clean up whatever mess friends

and foes made, and then we’d pop stovetop popcorn and relax with old horror movies. Usually,

about halfway through the first movie, Ben and I got the call to get our asses home. We’d pack

up, tell Caleb we’d see him next weekend, and go home together. Always together.

            Nosferatu. The Wolf Man. Night of the Living Dead. The Deadly Bees.

            I walked up to Caleb’s front door and knocked. Here goes request number one.

            “Who is it?”

            I cleared my throat. “It’s Cassie.” Silence, and then at once the door swung open. When

Caleb looked at me, he blanched. I didn’t have to say it. He stared at me for what felt like hours,

his mouth moving without a sound.

            Finally, he spoke. “My Ben...”

            I nodded. He put a hand to his stomach. I looked at him, my mouth now moving without

a sound. At last, I dug inside my back pocket, fished out Ben’s letter, and gave it to him. “He left

this for you.”

            Breathless, Caleb took the paper and started reading. His hands trembled. Just when I was

admiring his eyes, the same green eyes Ben had, Caleb cried out. I never heard a man make such

a sound. I stepped forward and he wrapped his arms around me. While I rubbed his back, he

wailed into my shirt, the sound muffled and distorted against me. That’s when I knew what was

in the letter. That Ben told him. Told him he’d loved him, too. All along.

            Ben’s second and final request led me to his bungalow. I told him to abandon it before we

left Nashville, but he insisted on keeping it. I told him to hire a full time maid, but he refused

that, too. He knew what I really meant by that. It was the only thing he ever got upset with me

about. So here it was: Ben, the hoarder. When I walked into the bungalow, I discovered a

thriving amusement park of stacked boxes, newspapers, vinyl records, and other overflowing

populous. When he was young, it was comic books, music magazines, and baseball cards. In his

teens it was nude magazines and pot �" lots of pot. I remember telling him one time that the stuff

was a fire hazard. He’d smiled and said we should light it one day and get the entire town high.

            In his adult years, it was this: records, broken equipment, early concert reviews. If he ran

out of room in his Vancouver apartment, he shipped stuff here to his bungalow in Nashville

where I stood, unexpectedly perplexed. All of this stuff confused me. Ben and I only ever wanted

to leave this place, so why did he keep this bungalow here? The hoarding was a part of it, yes,

but not the whole. Was it for Caleb? To somehow be here with him while in Vancouver at the

same time? If that was the case, did he ever really leave Nashville? I tried not to let the questions

nag me. This is exactly why I dreaded coming back: the threat of unanswered questions. Even

worse, unanswered questions between us, because I never thought there were any.

            Despite the anxiety, I waded through the towers and valleys of stuff until I reached the

bedroom. Here, I lost my breath. The last side of my brother Ben: the drugs. Hiking through

more trash and treason, I found myself rendered speechless by the little boxes for needles, tin

foil, light bulbs, and rubber bands. Why was any of this here? For a second I regretted not

bringing Ben’s ashes with me. That way I could at least interrogate some physical presence

instead of questioning nothing. I laughed at the thought. Ashes or no ashes, I would still get no

answers.

            At last, my journey led me to his dresser. Final destination. The second drawer from the

top. Open it.

            For the longest moment, I wished I was in I Dream of Genie. I wanted to cross my arms,

nod my head once, and be back in Vancouver. Despite the apartment being the scene of the

crime, it felt much more comforting than standing before this dresser. There were no questions in

the apartment. There were no secrets. It was a kind of Pleasantville there. Here, it was the

Twilight Zone.

            After a deep breath, I gripped the golden handle and pulled the drawer open. Inside slept

sheet music. I froze. After a moment’s hesitation, I picked up a few sheets. My hands trembled

as I scanned them over. This was new. All of it, sitting right here in Nashville: brand new music.

And it was beautiful.

            Standing in my brother’s bungalow with his new music in my hands, I started to cry.

Reviews

[Marie]

I like this. THe last was especially touching. She didn't know about her brother. The drugs, and then the new music. That's when it was time to cry.

[SilentVoices]

This piece is beautiful and heartrending. I love the emotions that you convey into your writing, how you describe how close the two were, the fear that the protagonist felt when she entered the neighborhood -- the eyes watching her.

Can't wait to read more of your pieces! I'm sorry if my review is vague in any way, as it is the first review I've posted on here.