The Trust

Chapter 23: Wrecking Ball

We hear them before we see them. The shouting is intense, and rage filled. It sounds like a TV wrestling match, or one of those old talk shows where everyone starts throwing chairs at one another.

"Go to hell, you bastard."

"I'll see you there, prick!"

"Both of you can go strait to hell!"

"Fuck off, you little pissant."

We walk into the back yard, straight into a free-for-all. My uncles are engaged in an old man fight — throwing punches that don't land and trying in vain to kick one another.

"Ow. My bad hip!" Uncle Jack yells, clutching his side. Peter Tom forgets his rage and goes into doctor mode, rushing to his side. "Are you OK Jack?" He bends down, concerned. "HA! Got you, fucker," Uncle Jack yells, getting him in a headlock. "You've been falling for that for 60 years!"

Eva is screaming at her boys, who are grappling on the ground. The barbecue is upended, and Daisy the Dalmatian is having the feast of her life. Mom is nowhere to be seen, but Aunt Dottie is cursing and wiping lemon curd out of her hair.

Cousins are rolling around on the ground, raining blows on each other. Something's on fire in the grass.

"Who are these people?" I mutter, surveying the scene.

"I know, right."

I turn and see a tall, lanky guy in a backwards cap eating a hot dog.

"Who are you?"

"I'm your third cousin, Mark! Don't you know me? Say, any idea when the money announcement is coming down? I'm playing softball at 7."

My eyes narrow. "Who's your father?"

"You know my dad! It's Johnny...Jim! Johnny Jim."

I glance at Jonathan, who escorts the guy off the property. "This is the worst family barbecue I've ever been to," he grumbles. "Get going!" Jonathan yells, giving him a push and locking the gate.

"They're coming out of the woodwork, these fake family members," he grumbles.

"This is madness," I say. "STOP IT!" I yell, but no one listens. I go to the small grassfire and pour a pitcher of water on it.

"ENOUGH!" Jonathan bellows. His voice is loud and deep, startling me, but it might as well be a whisper.

"Do you know how to do that really loud whistle people do, with your two fingers?" I say. I've always wanted to do that.

He nods and stands on the picnic table, poking his fingers in his mouth. The whistle is ear-splitting, but no one stops.

"Jesus Murphy, if they don't knock it off, I'm going to call the cops on them," I say, a phrase I never thought I'd utter about my family.

From inside the house comes the tiniest ping; the familiar chime of the video call. The modern day phone is ringing.

As if in a play, everyone freezes for a moment in a comical tableau. Then they move as one, gathering themselves up and dusting themselves off. Quieted, they file into the house in an orderly way, smoothing clothes that have become ripped and crumpled in the brawl.

Jon and I follow the chastened crowd and watch as Uncle Jack pats his wild red hair into place and puts the computer on the kitchen table. The family crowds around, trying not to look too eager.

"Hi Rob! How's it going," he says, clearing his throat and giving a warning glance to everyone in the room. Behave, it says.

"Not too good, I'm afraid," Rob says. He's in a hospital bed, taking breaths from an oxygen tank.