Ruined Estate

“I can’t do this!” The perky real estate agent’s mood changes abruptly once she realizes what she is seeing.

We both enter the house with portable floodlights. It looks like a deranged hoarder has been living here. Stepping over the trash, and looking down at the remains of the carpet, I notice the maggots.

“I can’t go any further!” She turns around and starts back toward the open door. “Look up there; those white bumps covering the ceiling are some kind of bug eggs.”

I haven’t been to my parent’s house in over five years. First, my father died, and then my mother had to go into assisted living. My little brother lives in the house because he has nowhere else to go.

I could have predicted things would fall apart, but not this badly. My little brother depended on my mother for his livelihood. When she was no longer around, he had to make his own way.

The amount of destruction created by my little brother is astounding. I think this much destruction could almost require conscious effort. He told my sister he would take care of it as a condition of living rent-free.

“Part of my job is to inspect the property and look for visible structural damage.” The real estate agent looks distressed. “I can’t go back in there. This is the worst. I have seen some bad properties, but nothing like this.”

The house is over three thousand square feet. I am wondering if the destruction is complete or if there are some clean living areas. The house’s location outside the city limits has hindered the disposal of the garbage. It seems like I’m observing five years of waste.

“I am going to go back in to see what I can.” With the estate agent at the door, I carefully begin picking my way across the trash. Across the room is the expensive furniture that my parents picked for their retirement home. I just shake my head at the loss. The retirement home my father was once so proud of is a health hazard.

When I pick my through a path that connects to the bedroom areas of the house, I just see more of the same. Trash stacked chest-high blocks the path to one bedroom. The other is open, but I lose my initiative. I think I can reach this part of the house through another door.

Coming back out, I greet the estate agent again. She looks as if she wants to climb back into her car and leave. I almost feel like apologizing for a sibling I had no influence over.

“Let me look in the side door to at least see the main bedroom.” I go around to the back of the house and find the door. It’s not locked; it’s not even closed all the way. When I pull the door open, it is more of the same. The main bedroom is another trash bin. Starting at the entry, the trash ramps up to the ceiling on the opposite side.

Two questions are at the forefront of my mind. “Who could live here, and where’s my brother?” The mailbox yielded some advertisements and a notification of a missed court date. The mail has dates starting about two weeks ago.

After the tour of the property, the estate agent assesses the ability to sell. The value has gone way down as the condition of the house. In its current form, it is uninhabitable; it also needs a new roof. In the back of my mind, I am also wondering if some buyer will find my brother’s body in a trash pile inside.

I signed the papers to allow the estate agent to sell the house. If my brother returns, I’ll deal with it then. Perhaps a new owner will.

My mother and father have been lying about brother for some time. That’s common knowledge to my sister and me. He needs just one more attempt at college, just one more time joining AA, just one more opportunity. I was never sure if they were covering up for his massive failure or theirs.

***

Technically, my mother owns the house. All of the estate’s property is under my authority.

She sits across a small table in her room at assisted living.

“I need to sell your house to make sure we can pay for your assisted living.” I say.

“No, I’m against it. Your brother Roger lives there. He wouldn’t have anywhere to live. Tell me you’ll take care of Roger.”

This is something I have heard repeatedly. Of course, I have no intention of supporting a man in his fifties. I’m picturing a shopping cart.

“No problem, I’ll make sure Roger gets everything he deserves.”

Her insistence on supporting my little brother is like scratching an old wound. After I left home at eighteen, I did all the work to graduate college. My sister got her degree as well. My little brother majored in deception and fraud.

I never realized my parents were that gullible. Twenty years of college tuition, sports cars, alcoholism, and countless money spent. In the end, nothing to show for it except an incapable fifty-six-year-old alcoholic. He has never had a steady job, so I think whatever money he has came from my parents at one time.

***

The house-sale contract has arrived at long last. I hope to divorce myself from the entire history with a few signatures.

In my living room, the phone rings. “Hello, this is Deputy Connie from the Pecos Police Department. It’s my understanding that you are currently missing your brother.”

“Yes, I haven’t heard from him since your department did a wellness check several months ago.”

“The person buying the house was straightening up the back and found a set of bones in the high grass. The real estate agent called me.”

“What did she say?”

“Mostly she kept saying, ‘Oh my God, we’re supposed to close next week!’ over and over.”

I like her; I think that was a sense of humor.

“Where did you find them?”

“They were close to the back door, spread out a bit. Most likely, the coyotes ate his remains. We didn’t find any clothes or ID.”

It occurs to me I must have walked right past when I was checking the back door. I probably almost stepped on him; the grass was so tall.

“I am going to need you to give us a DNA sample so we can make a match for identification. A local police department will contact you to give a sample.”

I normally consider myself a ‘good person’. I think about how my parents gave my little brother everything while my sister and I had to make our own way. Hearing coyotes ate his remains, causes a smile. That’s one way to spread remains across the West Texas desert.

***

Back on my weekly visit to my mother’s assisted living. I never know what personality she will adopt on any visit. Today, she seems contentious.

“I blame your sister for chasing your brother off. The last time I saw him was when I was still living with your sister.”

“She told me she sent him money so he could come to visit.” I return.

“She and her husband chased him out of their house.”

“She told me that Roger got drunk and peed on their stairs.” I deadpan.

“That can’t be true. He would do nothing like that! She told me I owe her money for the damage.”

Note to self: send my sister money for damages from my little brother.

“How is Roger? Have you heard from him?” She asks.

“He is still in the house and doing fine. Everything is fine.” I lie.

“Send him some money if he needs any.”

“I’ll put a check in the mail.” My mother gives me a satisfied look. She thinks she is still in control.

Sometimes I am tempted to tell her he’s dead. There’s nothing to gain, and I don’t want to deal with two death certificates.

I supply the DNA to the local police department; they send it to Texas.

***

Two years later and a trip through the massive incompetence only rural Texas can supply, I finally received the cremated bones and a death certificate.

Looking at the small box, I remembered all the trouble my little brother had caused the family. I had told my sister I was going to distribute his remains on a scenic hill close to my house. I consider something more suitable.

Scoop, flush, that was for being a con man.

Scoop, flush, that was for destroying my inheritance.

Scoop flush, that was for the annoying favoritism.

…

scoop, flush, scoop, flush …

The box grows lighter. It’s so wrong. I think, embrace the darkness to lose the darkness. I gradually feel the darkness of the memories lift.

***

A couple of months later, I get the call from the assisted living doctor.

“We are concerned about your mother; she won’t leave the bed. We can’t get her up. What we want to know is whether you want to send her to the hospital or put her on hospice.”

“Hospice.”

A couple of hours later.

“Hello, we are sorry to tell you that your mother has passed…”

As I hang up the phone, I think it seems impossible to have this many emotions mixed. I try to sort them, but I think the strongest one is relief.

I open my phone to call my sister.

“Hello, sister, Mom’s dead.”

We have a brief conversation about her passing and the arrangements for cremation.

“She and Roger can finally get back together.” My sister says.

“Man, I don’t even want to think about that. That whole relationship was just pure destruction. I am just glad it’s over.”

“We are really the lucky ones because we left.” I muse. “If we had stayed there, we might never have developed our own independence. We didn’t get things. We got our freedom.”

I add. “Anyway, you’re handling Mom’s funeral. I will connect you with the people doing the cremation once they get the body. You can handle it from there.”

“I don’t think you want me to dispose of the remains.” I smile.