Chapter 20 #4
The first part of the plan went smoothly.
I snuck out of Dad’s house while he slept in, meeting Aubrey in the street so her car wouldn’t make noise in the driveway.
We made it to my grandparents’ in eight minutes and crawled up the street until we could be sure their car was gone.
We parked two houses down, walked casually down the block like we were two friends out for a Sunday stroll, and then pivoted toward their front door as if I’d had a last minute whim to visit my dear old granny.
Dad’s copy of the key unlocked the front door seamlessly.
“They really don’t have cameras?” Aubrey whispered, following me over the threshold.
“No. Grandma thinks they’re ‘silly toys’ and Grandpa says anyone who’s man enough to rob him must be man enough to face his shotgun.”
Aubrey shook her head as if to clear it. “It’s no wonder they like my dad.”
We went straight to the glass trophy case and gazed up at the emerald urn. It was surreal to be back here again after everything I’d learned this summer. It threw the injustice of Uncle George being trapped in this museum into sharper contrast.
“Hi, Uncle George,” I whispered. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I went to open the cabinet door, but it was stuck. A cold, sickening feeling washed over me.
“What’s wrong?” Aubrey asked.
I was afraid to look at her. “It’s locked.”
We looked everywhere for a key: the study, Grandpa’s desk, the kitchen drawers, even Grandma’s old hope chest. But it was useless. Just when I was about to call the whole operation off, there was a sudden rattling at the front door.
The knob turned and the front door opened, and my racing heart stuttered to a stop.
My dad was standing there, framed against the sunlight. “Louisa?” His eyes darted from me to Aubrey. “What are you doing?”
“Dad,” I said, relieved. “What are you doing here?”
“Dropping off estate paperwork,” he said, a manila envelope dangling from his hand. “Honey, what are you doing?”
It was too late to come up with a cover story, and also too late to pretend I cared about getting caught. A cool feeling of relief came over me as I decided to tell the truth. “Honestly? We’re trying to steal Uncle George’s ashes.”
Dad stared at me. “Why?”
I stared back. “Because he doesn’t belong here.”
Dad gave me a long, searching look. “You don’t know where the key is?” he asked finally.
“No.” I swallowed. “Do you?”
Dad went oddly quiet. Then he shut the front door, dropped the manila envelope on the credenza, and marched out of the room.
“Is he getting the key?” Aubrey whispered.
When Dad came back, it wasn’t a key in his hand.
It was a fire poker.
“Stand back, girls,” he said determinedly. Something seemed to have come over him, and it was like he only had eyes for the trophy cabinet. Aubrey and I followed his instructions, too stunned to argue.
Dad braced the fire poker with two hands, positioning the sharp end near the lock in the cabinet door. Then, without warning, he jabbed the poker in like an ice pick. Immediately, the glass around the lock cracked open.
“Yes!” I shouted.
Dad poked the vulnerable glass until it shattered enough for him to reach inside. He wrapped his first in a dishcloth, punched out the remaining shards, and swung the cabinet door open.
“Holy shit,” Aubrey muttered, apparently forgetting her manners.
“Here,” Dad said, taking the emerald urn gingerly off the top shelf. He passed it to me like a newborn baby, and I took it into my hands. The urn was cool to the touch, like a marble floor, and smaller than it had looked in the trophy case. I clutched it to my stomach as Aubrey looked on.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m not done,” Dad said. He still had that single-minded look in his eyes and a bright red flush had stolen over his neck. Without warning, he raised the fire poker like an ax and brought it crashing down on the cabinet.
SMASH.
He heaved the poker again.
SMASH.
He came at the cabinet sideways, beating the poker like a baseball bat.
SMASH.
Dad raised the poker over and over and over, brandishing it like a weapon, shattering the glass cabinet into dust while trophies and medals and picture frames crashed haphazardly to the floor.
He was grunting and swearing and screaming with rage as Aubrey and I stood stock-still, watching him devolve.
I had never seen my dad lose control like this, like every blow might purge another piece of his family from his soul, like the little boy inside of him was screaming for someone to wake up.
On and on he went, a tidal wave of destruction, a chaos agent finally unleashing the pain he’d corralled for so long, until his energy finally gave out.
Then he doubled over, hands on his knees, as his shoulders began to shake.
“Dad—” I started. I placed Uncle George’s urn carefully on the credenza and stepped closer to my dad. His breathing was ragged and his body was still trembling uncontrollably. “Dad, it’s okay—”
But when he turned around to face me, he wasn’t crying. He was laughing.
“Hoooooo-boy!” Dad shouted, tossing the fire poker to the floor.
His hair was sweaty, his face was marked up from small flecks of glass, and there was a dribble of spit stuck to his chin, but he looked younger than I’d ever seen him.
He staggered to an upright stance and puffed out his chest like he’d just had the ride of his life. “That felt fucking awesome.”
The glass trophy case was no longer standing; he had beaten it to smithereens. Thousands of tiny shards lay dotted across my grandmother’s polished pine floor. The brass lock had landed at the foot of the staircase, completely useless.
“Goddamn,” Dad panted, stretching out his back. “That’s the best thing I’ve done in years. Your grandpa’s gonna shit himself!” He laughed a great cackling laugh and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Imagine his face!”
I started laughing, too, not because I was picturing Grandpa, but because I had never seen my dad so loose and joyful. I wanted to bottle up the moment like a firefly in a jar.
“Sorry y’all had to see me like that,” Dad said to Aubrey. “Going crazy isn’t usually in my playbook.”
“Mr. Wade,” Aubrey said sincerely, “that was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”