BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (24)
  1. About the Author
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21

At dawn, after waking up and lying in bed for maybe an hour, I get up, grab my shovel and rake, and head to where James’s coffin still waits. I check again that it hasn’t been tampered with, and then I begin pushing the soil over it, filling the hole, tamping some of the grass runners back in, and then raking the area smooth. When I’m finished, I crouch beside the grave and talk to James. I tell him I could take all my guns and my ammunition, and hunt them all down, Ben included. Kill these people for doing this to me. Let them know they cannot use my son or my son’s death against me. For some minutes, I think this is the right action. I actually look forward to it, and I can picture myself shooting them all multiple times. I am nodding uncontrollably, agreeing with myself that this is the only course to take. Kill them all. And then I think I hear myself saying, No. No one wants this. No one wants you to do this. Not James. No one. I yell back that no one else knows what they are talking about; everyone left, taking the easy option, and I am the one who has to deal with all this terrible stuff, and I’m the one who has to protect James. My breathing is thick, and I am banging my fist down into the soft earth. And then I stop.

I look around to see if I’ve been yelling at anyone real. But it is just me and what is left of my son. The way it will always be. I need to protect him. I need to make him safe, like I didn’t when he was alive. Not by killing, and not by shooting, but by giving them what they want.

18

18

I eat breakfast then pack the five ash boxes into the back of the ute, throw a tarp over them, and strap them down loosely. I’m going to put them in Ben’s mailbox, return home, and wash my hands of the whole thing. No more shooting, no more violence, no more death. I pull away from the house and onto the road, and I see Ben’s ute rattle past, going towards town or Elaine’s or somewhere. I try to wave him down, but he does not look at me, does not stop.

The drive feels much longer than I know it is, but I reach his front ramp and barely noticeable property sign. I cannot remember when I have been to his place. Possibly as a child, before Ben bought the place. I have no real mental picture of his house or any other part of his operation.