The tank’s full, he said. The morning of his suicide, some automobile specialists came and picked up the car. They took it somewhere and cleaned it all out. Then they dropped it off here. When I got into the car and sat in the driver’s seat, it was like a brand-new car. It was like nothing had happened. It must have all been a dream. I tricked myself into thinking that. But I couldn’t wake myself up. Then I knew it was real, it wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. He’s dead. My son is dead. The specialists told us it wasn’t difficult to clean. In their estimation, they have cleaned up much worse. It wasn’t that messy. He was always so careful!
I thought I was going to throw up. I started to retch, which caused my adoptive father to go to the door. Before he left, he told me the funeral would be at nine o’clock sharp, and that I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to, that he and my adoptive mother would understand. We won’t force you to go, he said.
That’s exactly what Uncle Geoff said. Is he even my real uncle?
Uncle Geoff is your real uncle, sighed my adoptive father.
He shut the door firmly.
42
Everything lined up, I thought, everything planned, nothing decorative left, nothing on the computer except that one thing, his death was of a beautiful design. His hope must have been that the hospital would come as soon as possible to collect the organs and tissue-matter before things congealed and stopped working.
Compelled by my own sense of the ethical, I took the keys and money and went downstairs and into the kitchen, which was empty. I heard the water flow into and out of the pipes upstairs, everyone was showering and flushing. I helped myself to a slice of bread, untoasted. I had no choice, I, Sister Reliability, had to do this thing for my adoptive parents. It must have taken me half an hour to convince myself to go into the garage, and once in the garage, into his car, the site of his suicide. I saw a small version of myself above, watching my body slide into the black gleaming car, that terrible death machine!
You’re doing fine! said the small version. Get in all the way!
His legs were much shorter than mine, so I spent a minute adjusting the seat. When I put the key into the ignition, the radio blasted on, a loud and aggressive heavy-metal song. Did he like heavy metal? Is this the music he listened to as he drove to the hospital? I shut it off. Whatever mess he left behind had been expertly wiped off and cleaned up, I said to myself, and they didn’t bring it back until it looked and smelled brand-new.
When people like my adoptive brother come into your life, I thought, you are very lucky and, at the same time, very unfortunate. People like him can’t be helped, because they don’t want help, they are disgusted by our help. In the end, he had enough.
He once told me that he wanted good things for the people in his life, and for strangers.
If he had lived a little longer, he would have turned thirty.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I was astonished at how content I felt in that immaculately clean and artificially scented vehicle. It was his last place, I thought, and a real place of rest for him. Of course he killed himself in his car! Throughout my investigation, I had underestimated the power of his car as a meaningful object. He left it to my adoptive parents in sellable condition. He also attempted to leave his organs, his eyes, his tissues, his skin, his beautiful, immaculate skin to people who wanted to remain alive. And his skull did not blow apart, because he was so careful, the thinking organ extinguished in a matter of seconds.
I arrived at the drugstore. I told them I was there to pick something up for Paul and Mary Moran. It took the woman behind the counter a long time to find the package. She was a pleasant older lady, tall with long, bright white hair; I thought it was nice that she seemed to enjoy her job. She handed over a comically large envelope, almost the size of a door. I peeked into it, then I asked her if she knew him.
What do you mean? she said.
The person in the posters you developed, I said, did you recognize that person?
She told me she never pays attention to the content of whatever she develops; she focuses on the task at hand. I thanked her and left.
Back in his car, I opened the envelope and lifted out THREE HIDEOUS POSTERS of him, my adoptive brother, including what must have been the most recent photograph, the one from his birthday dinner, and also the photo from the department store, the picture with the three of them posed around the fireplace, only my adoptive mother’s eyes were focused on the camera. The third and final picture was one I had never seen. It looked like it might have been from his high school graduation portfolio, he was dressed in his usual blue polo, posed in front of his brand-new car, kneeling down, hugging the family dog close to his chest. Both now dead, I thought. That poster was especially morbid. I understood that the posters were to be displayed prominently at the funeral, and then what would happen to them? Where would these posters go? I might offer to take one with me back to New York City, I thought, and set it up on my side of the shared studio apartment. I looked at the dashboard clock.