Please Don't Bury Me

Content Warning: This story contains material concerning suicide, sexual harassment, and physical violence.

***

Charlie plucked a fry from the floor mat. Taking his eyes off the road, he studied it for contamination, gave it one long blow, and bit down. The car slanted right and hit the rumble strips.

Francis hated watching Charlie eat, so she stared out her window and looked into the sun, flexing her ear muscles, attempting to blot out the lazy wet drumbeat of the horse-like chewing. Grandma sat in the middle backseat, her body filling the car with a mighty smell of decay, one only acquired after nine long decades of getting by.

The three travelers rolled towards Grand Island, Nebraska, to attend a funeral of sorts. Four days ago, Charlie’s grandpa, Charlie Sr., passed away in his sleep—peacefully, doctors said. Although, two weeks before his demise, Charlie Sr. had tried, and failed quite embarrassingly, to hang himself. It was the method, more than the attempt, that puzzled his relatives, given his having only one arm.

Grandma smiled for the first time in forty years after hearing about her husband’s botched suicide, and after learning of his death, she sang for the first time anyone could remember. She sang the happy birthday song because it was the only one she knew any lyrics to.

The Honda’s mile counter ticked past 400,000 as it hissed and creaked Westward across Interstate 10. The noon sun lounged high and hot in the cloudless sky like a big bright wart. Each passenger held a bitter gut from inhaling, for over six hours, a rank cocktail of vapors from fast food, hot luggage, and cheap perfumes. That morning Francis had practically baptized herself in a sour apple body spray that Charlie had bought for her birthday six years prior.

Charlie unfolded another value menu sandwich and said, “Christ, Frankie. Yer smellin’ real bad today.”

Francis took a break from staring at the sun to serve Charlie a deadly glance, but she looked away immediately after noticing a streak of yellow mayonnaise shining across his lower chin.

Charlie messed with the radio. After listening to a thrash metal song and a commercial about a used car lot’s Labor Day Extravaganza, he settled on a political talk show. The man on the radio screamed about abortion, the Constitution, and all things wicked and holy. Charlie nodded from time to time as Francis released small, disgusted sighs. Grandma perked up and brought out a sheet of notepaper and her New Testament; she felt very strongly about politics and considered herself somewhat of a pundit; every evening, for four hours, she used her computer to tune into a live stream series called “The Plain Truth, with Dane O’Neill.” Mr. O’Neill covered many profound political subjects like God’s final judgment on nations, deep state maneuverings, and the dangers and perversions of socialism.

After listening for about 90 seconds, Grandma began pointing out where the man in the radio was wrong. She explained that abortion administrators weren’t just satisfied with dissecting unborn children and leaving them in the trash for the sake of radical feminism. They repurposed the discarded corpses, she said, specifically brains and livers, and brewed them with herbs and chemicals, turning them into a drink that would prevent aging. They would distribute the brew in unmarked bottles amongst an inner circle of liberals and anarchists. Somehow, but how exactly Grandma failed to express, this practice was initiated by executives of a prominent American ketchup company.

Charlie lowered the radio. “I dunno about all that, Gramma,” he said. “But it’s sure messed up, that part’s right. Heath’ns and fuckers, all’em.”

“O’go’onnn,” Francis mocked. “Heeed’ns and fuckers. As if you did’n’ have me go get a ‘bortion two months being together.”

Charlie replied, “Yeah, but ‘tween me and you, that’s different. We were getting by, nuthin else…Of course,” Charlie said, avoiding eye contact, “it’s a regret.”

Francis’ eyes rolled high and wide. Grandma looked on, confused but interested. Trying to keep up, she stammered, touching Francis on the arm, “You went for an abortion?”

“Shure, Mee-Maw. Hadda make a habit outta it, too. ‘Specially with this cheap jack-rebbit refusin’ ta…well,” she stopped, deciding to keep things appropriate in front of her boyfriend’s grandmother. Francis stretched her bare feet out on the dash, “But it ain't like you never had one er two yerself, Granny. I heard Aunt Rhonda talking about you in the past.”

Grandma sat silent, pretending she could neither see nor hear anything. Francis continued her interrogation; curling around the passenger seat, she said, “Don’t play dumb for me.”

“I—I don’t,” Grandma said, squinting out the window, lifting her wrinkled hand over her wrinkled eyebrows as if straining to see a distant roadside attraction.

Twenty minutes passed; every minute silent as a basket of dead cats. Then, Charlie broke the silence like a demolition expert, “Look. I know we talk. N’politics people talk. But it ain’t ’shameful to receive an abortion there, Gramma.”

“I...I…don’t…” Grandma said. She opened her purse and grabbed a baggie of cornflakes. She examined each flake before placing it in her mouth.

Another twenty minutes passed, with only the sound of cereal being ground and swallowed. Then the chewing stopped, and Grandma said, “I didn’t know it was an abortion.”

Francis laughed involuntarily, and Charlie had to bridle his grin.

“Watch-u even mean by that?” Francis said, adjusting the rearview mirror to bring Grandma’s face into view.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Grandma said. “It was the vet-er-in-air-ian who gave me the medicine to drink.”

“Ya-mean ya-didn’ know what you were takin’? And took-et from a kitty doctor?” Francis replied.

“Well—not really. Charlie—my husband, Charlie—said I’d feel better. He said it would fix our relationship,” Grandma explained.

“HA!” Francis said, throwing up a vicious set of air quotes, “Fix the re-LAY-tion-ship! I’ve heard that one. What else do ya-think that could mean but a ‘bortion?”

Charlie laughed over Francis, slapping the steering wheel, “Hell, that vet fixed it real good, Gramma. So good, yer on yer way now to go laugh away at his burial.”

“I don’t want to see his burial,” Grandma said.

“Awwwww. Now don’t be like that now,” Charlie said with true concern. “Shhhhure he was a loveless bas-terd far’s I knew’em…and he’s an ex-spouse n’all. But you loved’em. N’he loved you. And you traversed all this way.”

“He never was my ex,” Grandma explained. “We never divorced. That would be an abomination in the Lord’s eyes…But I only loved him for a short while. And I don’t have to love him now. Besides, I always loved Dennis more.”

Charlie took his foot off the gas and gazed—violent and wild—at the road ahead as if it took up in flame and flooded all at once. His breathing grew heavier as he passed a dozen confused glances between the rearview and the road.

Francis’ eyes widened as soon as Grandma mentioned Dennis. She clutched her seat so tight that a few of her fake nails came unglued. Grandma sat in the back, oblivious to the tension she caused, and searched for another cornflake.

“Gramm—what do’ya mean by that now?” Charlie said. The Honda was rolling at 35 mph in the middle lane. Cars and freighters whizzed by, a chorus of horns erupting around them.

“I loved Dennis much longer than I loved Charlie," Grandma said, smiling as if fantasizing about a middle school sweetheart. "But only until your father found out.”

The car rolled halfway onto the shoulder. Charlie shifted to neutral but accidentally stomped the gas. The engine revved and whined, his mind sputtering, “S’s’s’s's's’you’re why dad turned on Dennis?” He whipped around, bringing his face an inch from Grandma’s.

“Charlie,” Francis hummed, reaching out to calm him.

“Stay outta this,” he said, swatting her hand. He turned back, getting louder. “That’s why he nearly killed him with the weedwhacker?”

Grandma turned away and looked out the window.

“You look at me!” Charlie yelled. Freighters were shrieking, creating gusts rocking the car from side to side.

“Charlie!” Francis wailed.

He ignored his girlfriend’s plea and roared, “THAT’S WHY HE BEEN IN PRISON FIFTEEN YEARS, NO PAROLE! CUZ YOU WERE FFFF-UCKIN MY DAD'S GOOD FRIEND!! CUZ YOU HATED YER SHITTY CHEATIN’ DOG OF-A HUSBAND?!?! ALL THESE YEARS EVERYBODY LYIN', SAYIN' IT’S.”

He paused, becalmed, and said, “Err’body sayin’ it's over a stolen fuckin’…”

Charlie looked back and said, almost politely, “Gramma. Git your filthy—decievin’—half-rotted—harlot’s-womb th’fuck out my car.”

Not a second after Charlie said this, an extreme force threw the Honda off the shoulder and into a steep ditch.

***

The car lay upturned, four wheels pointed toward heaven. Francis and Charlie hadn’t been wearing safety belts and were now laid out on the roof. Dust, stale fries, marijuana crumbs, and loose change trickled from seat crevices above. Grandma, who had been strapped in, now hung upside down like a giant old spider. Blood streamed from her lips and formed a small red pool on the roof.

Charlie sobbed, laying face down, clutching his head. He couldn’t stop repeating, “Ohhhhh daddy….”

A short, circular man in thick brown overalls descended the highway embankment. He poked his pink, unshaven face through a shattered window, “Jeeeeeesus almighty! You were in the road! I hit you with the truck! It was on accident cuz’...” He stopped and made eye contact with Grandma’s still, upside-down face.

“Get th’hell away,” Charlie said, slurring, keeping his face flat down. “It’s family bidnis.”

“I already called the cops," the man explained. "Told ‘em you was right in the road. Got a witness up there, too, to co-rob-er-rate. I ‘member e’zactly what happ’n’d, but I’m sure it’s fuzzier fer you folk.”

Charlie broke in, “I don’t give a damn 'bout things happened. The old bitch put my daddy in for fifteen…fiftee...You can have her for payment.” Charlie began mashing every syllable, “N’take’er. N’take’er. N’throw’er off a big’l mount’n. Or give er’t' buzzards…”

Francis cut in, “Call a medic. Charlie hit his head, and my arm’s broke. Granny may be dead in the back.”

The man looked Grandma again in the eyes. They were wide, pale, and blinking. The man answered, “Sh’looks plenty alive to me.”

He started back up the embankment, shouting out, “I’ll call one now. I think the po-lice are already drivin’ over. Caint’ bl’eive you were parked in the road.” His voice faded away.

Francis shook Charlie, saying, “Charlie, you can’t fall ‘sleep. You’ve gotta stay up for a while.”

Ten minutes later, a police officer tripped and fell down the embankment. He approached the Honda, which now looked like a mass of green tissue crumpled in the ditch. The officer peered in, looking directly at Grandma, who swung in her seat, now clutching a purse.

The officer said sternly, “You folks alright in there?”

Francis looked over, “Charlie might have a head kin-cushin.”

The officer ignored Francis and walked around the car, “I see the tags expired last year. That’ll be a fine.”

Charlie groaned, “Get away. No cops. It's here is family bizness.”

The officer crouched by the driver’s window and shined a small light into Charlie's eyes. Then he said, “We’ll need to git you to the hosp’t’ll, son. But the only amb-ya-lance is forty minutes away.” The officer thought, then said, “We’ll take the squad car.”

A few bystanders waiting for traffic to clear carried the three wounded bodies from the Honda to the police vehicle. Traffic was blocked both ways, given the semi that hit them was carrying an oversized load that came loose on impact. Now, an upturned double-wide trailer home blocked both lanes.

The officer singlehandedly carried Grandma, given she weighed only 84 pounds. But the entire way, she fussed, accusing him of attempting to molest her. She explained to the bystanders, blood still draining from her lips, how many cops are degenerate guardians of the high federal order, paid off by politicians so they can perform sick sexual dealings with impunity.

The squad car rolled down the highway. Charlie sat in the back, murmuring about his daddy. Francis winced in silence and clutched her arm. Grandma stared at the officer’s head, studying the indentation of his skull.

The officer spoke to them through a lip crammed with chewing tobacco, “I’ll see yer licenses when we get to the hosp’t’ll. More’n’ likely thur’ll be legal reper-cushins for the recklessness.”

He turned down a dirt road. Grandma leaned over and said, “Where is he taking us?”

The officer spat into a half-empty empty chip bag and responded, “I told ya, ma’am, the hosp’t’ll. Gotta go this way cuz it’s a bit shorter, distance-wise. But still, a long way to go. Picked a bad spot to get yerselves all torn up.”

They sat in silence. Grandma fumbled through her purse.

A small sharp pop rang through the cabin. The noise jolted Charlie’s brain, knocking his thoughts back into focus. Francis pressed her face to the window, expecting a blown tire. Then the car slowed, and the officer’s upper half caved forward; his face smacked the steering wheel. A small hole was visible in the lower back of his head. And a thick stream of dark red syrup escaped from it.

Charlie and Francis turned to see Grandma gingerly holding a small piece of black steel, smoking at the tip. Grandma stared at the bullet hole and muttered, “Oh my.”

***

Francis and Charlie gaped. Finally, Charlie said, “Gramma…Whut. In. Thee. Fuck’d you jus’ do?”

Francis yammered over Charlie, “Is he?” She started breathing uncontrollably, “Oh! You killed’em! Oh-ma-gawd-he-ain’t-breathin’!! Er-er-er nothin’! He’s dead! He so’so’ dead!”

Charlie snagged the tiny pistol and snapped, “Where th’fuck did you get a Saturday Night Special, Gramma? Them are outlawed.”

“I always kept it in my purse,” Grandma replied.

“But he didn’ do nuthin’ to ya for you to kill ‘im.” Charlie said.

Francis whimpered, “We’re goin’t prison for this. It's a murder.”

Defending herself, Grandma stated, “He was molesting me in the ditch. And he was taking us down this dirt road.”

“Ohhhhh you crazy ole’bit-- ain’t NO ONE MUH-LEST you!” Charlie said, annoyed more than furious, “If ammo was any cheaper, I’d spare you a round er’ two.”

They sat for five minutes, not a car in sight on the lonely dirt path. The panic settled, and finally, Charlie said, “I guess we better go.”

“To where?” Francis asked.

“Were bout’ forty mile off Grand Island. They’ll have a grave laid in Grampa’s field. The body’ll need to be put under,” Charlie said.

“But won’ they find ‘im there?” Francis asked.

“Prolly not, if we put ‘em deep. Fi’teen, twenny feet er’so. Saw it in N.C.I.S.,” Charlie said, his false assurance soothing Francis’ nerves. Grandma sat in the back, motionless but smiling, gazing at the officer’s blood that formed a puddle at her feet.

Charlie buckled the corpse into the back seat beside Grandma and found some napkins in the glovebox to plug the bullet hole. They began again down the dirt road.

The sun sagged, and the sky turned a deep pink over the fields of Nebraska. Charlie reached over and gently touched Francis’ hand. Grandma stared at the corpse for a while, then leaned her head against the window to watch the sun go down on what, for her, was an exhausting and exciting day. Her head hit the window with an audible thump.

Charlie heard the noise and spoke up, “Gee Gramma. I’m sorry bout earlier. I had no place callin’ you such filth. Think that roast'bif upset my stomach.”

Grandma said nothing, so Charlie continued, “But juss know I mean it. It's Daddy’s fault for tryna kill Dennis with his whacker. Though, it’s no less awful fer you to do that with Dennis, bein’ his friend n’all.”

Grandma remained quiet as the corpse beside her.

The sun was half-gone behind the horizon as they approached the farm, the sky now a bright, menacing ocean of red. They drove past the grandpa's shed and into a bare field, where they saw nothing but a tiny patch of black a few hundred yards in the distance.

“Over there,” Francis said, pointing to the patch.

The squad car crept through the field; dead corn stalks snapped under the car’s weight. The black mass grew as they approached. There, they discovered Grandpa’s body lying on top of the ground. A buzzard stood on his chest, waiting for his flesh to ferment. The car inched closer, and the giant, hideous creature pumped its wings, lifting its heavy frame from the body and into the sky, where it spiraled above impatiently.

“Sheeeit,” Charlie said. “Guess nobody paid an undertake" He cut himself short and drove the car further to inspect the body. Looking down, he saw a small sheet of paper taped to the body's stomach. It read: Please Don't Bury Me.

Francis made the sign of the cross and looked away.

“You wanna a word, Gramma?” Charlie asked, looking back.

Grandma stared motionless, eyes frozen in her head like two dull river stones, dried blood painted over her lips. This look struck Charlie with deep fear. “Gramma?” Charlie said. “Gramma! You okay!?”

He reached out and shook her. She fell slowly and mechanically to the side. Her head landed face-up in the officer’s lap, still holding that strange, satisfied smile. Charlie turned to Francis, “Sheeit.”

***

Francis and Charlie pushed the two bodies from the backseat onto Grandpa's. Charlie and Francis stared at the tiny mound of death from the car.

“Guess we’ll leave ‘em,” Charlie said as if he’d done everything possible for them. He inched the car around bodies, opened the door, and, reaching low, he took his grandmother’s left hand and fashioned her fingers around the wrist of his grandfather’s one remaining arm.

“Well,” he eulogized as the turkey vulture descended. “I ‘spose she got all’th time in the world to laugh at him now, down there.”