Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7
Jimmy ended up parking the RV in a friend’s yard. Some geneticist he knew from grad school. Fella had hanged himself from the rafters in his garage. Right after he poisoned his wife and girls with foxglove from his neighbor’s perennial border. Couldn’t take the strain of just surviving day-to-day. Jimmy found the kids laid out in their Sunday school clothes. He piled them in the street and burned them. Nobody batted an eye. You saw that sort of thing all the time. Jimmy hung around for a few days to keep looters out of the house. He figured he owed to the guy. Keep his personal effects intact. As a sign of respect. Or maybe he’d use them in the afterlife. Like a Pharaoh passing over to the other side. One day Jimmy realized he’d been parked there for a month. Decided he might as well call it home. Put up a string of lights and a picnic table. Filled the birdbath. Mowed the lawn.
Jimmy tries to normalize his life as best he can. He grills himself a hearty dinner every night. Usually squirrel or raccoon, which isn’t actually as bad as it sounds. Jimmy’s developed a decent barbecue rub and injects the meat with a top-secret solution to tenderize it. He’s even decided to plant his mother’s dahlias. He’s been carting them around for years, waiting for a place to call home. The tubers are stored in plastic tubs. She packed them in peat every fall. Tagged them according to color and height. Jimmy found the tub in her storage unit after the funeral. Always intended to plant them but never did. Never felt enough of a permanence. The tubers have shriveled and started to sprout. If Jimmy doesn’t get them in the ground soon, they’re going to die.
Some evenings when the screaming dies down and the gunshots subside, it seems like nothing has changed. Jimmy closes his eyes, sloshes a swallow of his home-brewed beer in his mouth, and pretends he’s back in the day. But there are a couple of metaphysical complications that get in the way of Jimmy achieving domestic bliss. For one thing, the ghost of Jimmy’s father rides up and down the sidewalk on a scooter, cursing Jimmy for working at Rybogerm. The old man expected more from his son. It’s why he put him through college. Wanted Jimmy to do something noble with his intellect. Not sell out to some giant multinational biotechnology conglomerate. Jimmy’s old man saw what was happening. Before any of them had a clue. He stood at the freeway entrance with a cardboard sign and a bullhorn. Ranted about genetic diversity and bioethics. But then he was taken. In a flash. Not even enough time to say, “I told you so.”
About David Hancock
