Proof Most Positive
by Jerry Budinski

Cally stepped out of his car and looked toward the grave. The dark obelisk defamed the panorama of chiseled rock and cresting surf like an obscene gesture in a cathedral. A bedlam of scolding crows and screeching gulls echoed off the barren trees lining the precipice.

I should just drive on to Portland, he thought; I don't need any of that 'closure' stuff. Or so he'd told his wife Samantha. But then, Samantha didn't know what had happened. What he could never tell her.

When he reached the newly-installed monument the birds fell silent. Even the sound of waves crashing below the headland seemed to ebb. The inscription--gray scars on glistening ebony--taunted him:

"Ephesians 6-7, our family motto, how inspiring. 'Good will'--what a joke," Cally muttered.

He grabbed a long-handled spade he found leaning against a tree. He inserted the blade near the base of the monument and pried, but it wouldn't budge. He tossed the tool and hissed, "Useless."

No sooner was the word out of his mouth than a wave of nausea engulfed him. His grandfather had put him to work on the grounds when he was little more than a toddler. Yet even in the simplest tasks--weeding, raking debris--"useless" was Cally's second name.

"Well, I finally did something useful, gramps. I'll call you gramps now. How's this for tomorrow's headline? 'State Rules Famed Lawyer's Will Invalid.'

I don't know if 'Invalid' is the right term, but then I never went law school. Which is the basic reason why you're lying there." Then with a half sigh, half shudder, "Why I had to kill you."

Cally had thought the old man was dead for sure when one eye had fluttered open and a rasping voice seemed to come from another room, "You'll never be rid of me. I will reach you from the grave."

Shivering, Cally stepped onto the low mound, and shuffled the dried leaves away. The wind seemed to whip up.

"That curse had me scared witless for a while. At the funeral, I expected an accusing finger to pop out the casket, or that the wind would howl: 'Mur-der-er! It took me a while to realize that the threat was just about your crushing will. And now that's dead too."

Cally improvised an awkward dance and sang,

The crows, as if taking offense at this, began to fly in seemingly organized spirals, scolding all the while. One left the flock and landed on the monument.

"Is that you, gramps? Looks like your demon friends have abandoned you." Cally picked up a clump of dirt and threw it at the bird, scaring it off.

"Just a crow. Really gramps, I'm genuinely disappointed that you haven't made an appearance. Dancing on graves is supposed to be the ultimate put down. And if anyone deserved to be haunted, it's me. But I'll grant you; no proof positive yet--it's still daylight and that's not fair to ghosts."

He turned to look back toward the house, his former prison. The rapidly lowering sun silhouetted the grotesquely mismatched towers.

He began walking toward the house, then turned toward the old graveyard on its south side. The first Sackett was buried there, a sea captain who'd dealt in slavery. Cally's grandfather had taught him how the others: clergymen, politicians, and lawyers had devoted their lives in service as reparation. But his grandfather had had a somewhat different concept of service--service only to the rich and powerful. The bleached tombstones were nearly obscured by a hideous tangle of rotted weeds.

"This mess is your fault, gramps. I tried to keep it up--hell, I had no choice with your drooling lawyers hovering over me."

Cally had laughed when they read the will. He'd have to maintain the house, or it would revert to his grandfather's firm as a 'retreat.' Even being a slave was better than allowing that to happen. The house could not be used for income, and Cally'd been allowed barely enough money to maintain it. He'd be able to keep Yolanda on for cleaning, but he'd have to do the gardening and other maintenance himself.

"I will reach you from the grave."

Then there were the grating 'incentives': for completing law school, for joining grandfather's firm--the worst being a goodly sum for his making an 'acceptable' marriage.

"By the way, it was the marriage provision that got the state's attention. I'd never had the chance to tell you, but I'm already married. Samantha's the perfect wife. Got a baby, too. Oh, and Samantha's part Hispanic, so I guess they're both not quite up to specifications."

From the higher ground near the graveyard he had a clear view of the ocean and the rock jetty where his parents were killed when he was four. His dad had been showing friends the house from the sea, because he wasn't welcome inside.

"If he had half a brain, he would've waited out the storm in Camden. You were only one of five orphaned that night."

You banished him, gramps, just because he wanted no part of your sleazy firm. I heard Dad became a damned good public defender down in Portland. A useless job, you called it."

Clayton Sackett the Third burst through the front door like an invading warrior. "I'm coming in, gramps. You here?" Cally looked up at the cathedral ceiling as if he were seeing it with new eyes. The walls and furnishings seemed to douse what little sunlight intruded through the windows. He'd have to hire a professional decorator to brighten things.

"Yeah, gramps, I was thinking this would make a classy B&B. That should set your corpse spinning a few more revs, huh?"

A hard wind hit, rattling windows throughout the house. When it subsided there was an aftermath of creaking beams that sounded like footsteps.

"Come on, gramps. You can do better than that. I want proof positive. I really would like to talk to you."

Cally flicked on the light switch near the door of the first-floor office. Like the rest of the house, it was dark wood, gloomy-colored walls and heavy draperies. Paintings of storms at sea and other cataclysms hung on the walls, images depicting the futility of resisting inexorable power. A humidor on the dusty desk caught Cally's attention.

"Ah, one stogie left--I think I'll have it now. Okay with you, gramps?"

He sat in a guest chair, lit a cigar with the ornate lighter and slumped back, putting his feet up on the desk. On a wall was a photograph featuring a popular former president, Middle Eastern sheiks and corporate bigwigs, with his grandfather standing discretely to one side.

Cally stood up, spewing smoke, as if to obscure the offending object. "I think I'll replace this photo with one I found of my dad. Oh, and let me update you some more on my life. Someone said that all is revealed to those in heaven, but I imagine they keep you pretty much in the dark where you are.

"You're probably wondering about that out-of-spec wife I mentioned earlier. I met her when I was slinging hash--another thing you wouldn't consider acceptable. Her father is a real nice guy, too. Once you get started, you may want to haunt him as well. Besides helping me fund my appeal, he got me a quality control job at his hospital that I really enjoy. Plus it's a real service-to-mankind job, too.

Cally could hear icy rain pelting the windows. He crushed the half-smoked cigar into a brass ashtray. "I should get on with my closure, before it gets really dark and nasty. But first, I think I'll have some of your precious wine."

He had to pass through the dining room and down a dank stairway to get to the wine cellar. The bottle was the last one left; he'd already sold or drank the rest. The basement had the same stench as the wet earth on the headland near the grave. The sound of the door creaking sent him scampering back up the stairs.

"Nice try, gramps. You can probably guess why I wanted this. You'd been saving it half your life for the special occasion that never came. 'Chateau Mathieu, 1953'. I assume it was originally intended for when my father joined the firm since fifty-three was when he was born. Poor gramps."

Cally found an ornate corkscrew on a sideboard. He sniffed the cork. "I think this wine has turned pissy. But no matter. To my final triumph!" He drank deeply and though the wine's tartness singed his tongue, its warmth calmed his surging blood. Out the window, a black cloud that had been straddling the horizon now filled half the sky. I should go, he thought. A sound from the floor above stopped him. Footsteps--was it Yolanda? Another swig filled him with liquid courage. If I don't go up, I'll feel like a coward later, he thought.

The door at the end of the hallway stopped him cold. The last time he'd been in there was to commit murder. There was a clunk followed by the sound of something draining--a death gurgle or ancient pipes?

Cally opened the door to dim silence. "Not here either, gramps? Tsk, tsk--proof positive."

The room was a small suite with a sitting alcove by the window. Cally gulped more wine and sat down on the bed where his grandfather had died.

"Well, you asked for it, gramps--literally. You probably guessed what brought it on." Cally had skipped out on the law school entrance exam, and escaped to Portland instead. He'd taken a job in a restaurant until he could decide what he wanted to do. Why not be a chef? Or a landscape designer, anything but the law.

But his grandfather's tentacles had reached him even there. The police trumped up a phony drug charge to get him fired and sent home. Grandfather's power had been shown, so Cally agreed to everything. He'd intern at the Boston firm, take night school courses and try again.

"You arranged to keep the arrest off my record--for law school. But I knew then what I had to do. You should be proud of me, the way I waited for my chance--weeks, months.

The perfect opportunity had come when the old man came down with a bad case of intestinal flu. His doctor had been concerned because of a minor heart attack the year before. Then that critical night, the stubborn old fool had insisted on having things his way.

"Let's see…it was herbal tea with a dose of brandy, right?" Cally expelled a shuddering snicker. The room was suddenly frigid--more wine was needed.

"You'd begged for it. Then I even called the doctor to have him forbid it. Brilliant. But no one could resist your rage indefinitely. So I made not one, but two toddies--one for you and one for the police to find.

"Useless" you said and made a face, but then when you felt the heart spasms, you knew. You knew it was strychnine. For an instant, I swear I saw a look of pride on your face. Then you had to spoil it:

"I will reach you from the grave." "So reach me, gramps."

Nothing.

Cally took a long swig of wine and stood up. "Well, enough time wasted. You're deader than dead, old fool. Foolish of me to think I could bait you into one last confrontation. Who's useless now?"

He finished the last of the wine.

Heading down the twisting drive, Cally vowed to take it easy--he'd drunk a bottle of wine and was exhausted from the long day. It seemed to take forever to get through the village and onto the interstate.

It began to rain very hard and a passing monster-truck blinded him with an icy maelstrom. He had to fight to control the car. "Don't do it that way, gramps. No one would make the connection. Better something with your imprint all over it."

He sighed with relief when he reached his apartment.

Samantha was in the kitchen, cooking. He grabbed and hugged her.

"Whoa, take it easy! I missed you, too, but …" She allowed him a prolonged kiss, then broke it suddenly.

"You've been all this time at the old house? So you finally get your closure?"

"I guess. I had an urge to do something really nasty, but resisted in the end."

"Good. Why don't you get the whole thing out of your mind for a while?"

"But hey!--how's my little tough guy been?"

"You missed some growing up this week. Little Billy started talking."

"What's the little genius been saying?"

Samantha turned and grinned. "He says 'Aaa-eee-oh-ew.' He's already learned his vowels."

"Just teach him a few consonants and he's on his way. I know it's late but can I see him?"

"Just a peek. But fair warning--you wake him, you change him."

Cally tiptoed into the darkened room and heard, "Aaa…ooo…eeeeee." "Oh, you're up, so no harm in a little hug."

"Ah…ew…eee…oooh." chortled Billy, grinning and waving his arms.

Cally was reaching for Billy when the infant grasped his shirt.

"Wow, you're one strong little guy."

"Oooh…ew…eh"

"Say what, little man?"

"Ew -wess! Ew-wess!" burbled the baby before gaining more control of his tongue than any three-month old should have.

"Useless!"

Then Clayton Sackett the Fourth cackled a laugh that neither Cally nor Samantha nor all the doctors in their fine old city would ever be able to stop.

Jerry Budinski is a retired engineer who now writes non-technical things, and as often as he wants. His short fiction has been published in Paumanok Review (Mainstream), Bygone Days (historical fiction) and the current issue of Story Garden (genre.] Other interests include reading, travel, photography, and weird metaphysics. He lives high on a hill in Western New York with his wife of thirty years, both captives in the home of a West Highland Terrier named Hildy.