The Death of the World

by Michael P. McManus

Two months after she put the shotgun in her mouth and blew away her cranial vault, the family sat down at the living room table. According to the therapist the gathering was good therapy and a chance to get things out in the open and make them tangible. Outside the house the evening sun was throwing its last light across the clean sidewalks and palm trees.

Pete, the husband, a fifty-three year old migrant farm worker had won $375,000 in the California state lottery two weeks after her death. He spoke first. "I still hear her voice at nights. I am the victim of illusions. What does it mean?" He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair.

"What does it mean? What does any of it mean?" Clarissa asked her father. She was his only daughter; a skinny woman, twice-divorced, and a pro-choice Democrat, who took methadone to combat a six-year heroin addiction, during which time she worked at Wal-Mart in the garden section. She enjoyed arranging ferns and tulips. That morning she told her father about the nightly dreams in which she saw her mother's face and the hair clump on the wall behind her head that looked like a tarantula.

"Clarissa, how's the novel going?" her brother asked. He had not missed one night of drinking since his mother's death. Before the death he drank only on holidays. Most nights the drinking was not enough so he took Tylenol PM to help him sleep.

"We came here to talk about your mother," Pete said.

"All right," his son replied, wishing he had a beer.

"I'm writing now about the death of the world," Clarissa said. "A disease in the water that causes people to kill themselves. They know the water is poisoned but once they look into it and see their reflections they cannot help themselves. There are many ways to kill yourself. It can be quite an art."

"Please, your mother," Pete said. "Later we can talk about other things that interest you."

"Maybe we should order a pizza," the son said. "Pepperoni. Mushrooms. Extra cheese and sauce."

"Okay, Daddy. Let's talk about momma. Did you know about Mick Jagger? She told me that she gave him a blowjob. I put that in my book. But I changed her name. She said it made her feel famous."

The son got up from the table. "I'm calling Mario's. Dad, you're paying. Then we can talk."

"Clarissa, what do you want from me? Money? Something new?"

"Money? Only if you buy my book when it gets published. But maybe now you would like me to leave. I'm good at it. It's the easiest thing I've ever done."

"No. No. No. I want you to stay. And I want you to write a damn good book!"

Clarissa glared at her father. "I better get going," she said.

"What? Why?"

"Because you're being indignant. You've never spoken to me like that before."

"No, please, please stay. I told you. I hear your mother's voice at night. I am the victim of illusions."

"No. I need to write myself through this."

"May 18, 1971," he said. He took hold of her forearm, pressing his fingertips on the scars left from the track marks.

"What?"

"That's the Mick Jagger date," her Father said. "Sometimes when she was drunk she would brag about it. Such honesty made me love her even more."

Clarissa smiled and sat down. She seemed to push away everything that troubled her. "Would you really like me to stay?"

"Don't let canyons come between us," her father pleaded.

He turned when his son, Carlos, walked back into the dining room, drinking a bottle of beer. Water was beaded on the bottle and he appeared more relaxed. "What's the name of your novel?" he asked his sister.

Clarissa smiled and brushed a lock of black hair out of her face. When she was truly happy, Pete thought, she was beautiful. Her blue eyes reminded many people of her mother's eyes. One day she wanted to have children and show them her mother's pictures. But time was running out.

"I don't know just yet. Maybe the title will be the last thing I give to the book. It's a very dark book. I'm glad momma will never read it."

Her brother was smiling. He, too, had his mother's eyes. Maybe he would go back to college or maybe he would quit drinking and open his own lawn-care business. He knew the money was there for him to get started.

"Don't worry about it, Clarissa. The title will come. It will be wonderful. I know momma will read it from heaven. I bet she will watch you on CNN talking about your book."

Clarissa smiled as she looked out the window and into the night. Under the streetlight insects whipped about as if they were in a blender.

"There is no heaven, Carlos." The beauty was gone from her face. "When we die the universe dies with us. It's not only the death of us, it's the death of the world."

Carlos finished his beer and went and got another one and came back and sat down and looked at his father. "I'm not hungry anymore. I just want to drink. I think the therapist is taking you for your money. What does he know? Maybe you should ask him if his mother put a shotgun in her mouth. Maybe you should ask him what makes him such an expert in this. Maybe he is the one with the illusions. And maybe Clarissa is right about the end of things."

Pete nodded his assent. Maybe his son and daughter were right. And maybe, he thought, there were no voices at night. Whatever the case he was proud of his children. Both had inherited their mother's eyes. He believed they would be okay. For now, at least, he knew this was no illusion.

© 2008 Night Train and respective authors/email support AT nighttrainmagazine.com