Horrors of Us...

The terrace was a mess, paper cups strewn about, half-filled with wine and champaign. It smelled of smoke and sulfur, the cloudy air mixing with the nature of summer pines. The annual August-Spitz Family Barbeque had just come to an end, a tradition that had waned and ebbed through the 19 years since its birth. It had always seemed more trouble than it was worth to haul both families across-state into one backyard, but Mother refused to surrender. Year after year, she schemed and planned, trying to find the perfect summer night where all twenty three members of the clan were free of mandatory birthday bashes and workplace happy hours. 

 

Mother grew up an only child, void of any cousins or distant relatives to cling to. She was part of a quaint little family, and it was satisfactory, but she always craved a larger web. When Mother met Father, she knit their two families together and claimed the Spitz’s as her own. 

 

Throughout Lydia’s and Mark’s childhoods, she had raved about the importance of family, chosen or blood, demanding her children cherish all of their relatives, no matter how near or far. When she started to get sick nine months ago, Mark vowed to obey her wish. Only, nobody had a house big enough or a desire wide enough to host the whole family for the weekend, so all the adults pooled together a couple hundred dollars to rent a shitty cabin in upstate New York, right by Laurel Lake.

 

“I would like to get everybody’s attention,” Mark said. He hoisted himself onto the balcony’s edge and raised his crystal flute with a wobbly fist.  

 

“It’s time for a celebratory speech. To my dearest mother, who always had our interests at heart. You will be missed. But most importantly to Gingy. Come here.” With that, he scooched over on the edge and made room for cousin Gingy. 

 

“You’re nine today. Nine years old.” Mark yawned open his mouth to pronounce a scratchy, breathy “ah” and proceeded to ruffle on poor Gingy’s hair. Mark had a monopoly on all of the younger cousins, until they turned about 14 and realized he’s a douchebag with just enough money to fund their birthday wishlists. Gingy was one of the few left who still idolized him, and Mark was not about to let a single moment of that idolization pass him by.

 

Gingy had climbed up on the balcony, and raised his cup of grape juice. “Thank you! May I open my present now, please?”

 

Mark laughed with a hiccup, and stumbled off the balcony. Yet again, he was inappropriately intoxicated for the occasion. At last year’s barbeque, Lydia had to call the police because Mark got into a fight with Uncle Richie. Richie ended with a concussion and a bruised neck. The year before, Mark tried to steal one of the kids. He drove all the way to Stonehedge road before anyone noticed they were missing. 

 

But everyone knew they had to put up with him. They had no choice. Mother stupidly  put him in charge of the inheritance, which meant, when she passes, he’s in control of God knows how much money that’ll later be distributed to the family — according to the strict instructions in Mother’s obituary, of course. 

 

The topic of Mother’s inheritance was a common one in the August-Spitz households. Richie guessed that Mother had a total of 2.3 billion, based on calculations of the cost of the beach house and her Eastchester home deducted from her annual salary. Sammie thought it was only 50 million, and bet Richie a mini fortune for whoever’s guess was closest. 

 

Lydia found the whole discussion to be crass. Any time it was brought up in front of her, she’d start to lecture the family on how it was disrespectful to taint Mother’s legacy in such a way, and how a person’s value is spiritual, not monetary. So, the game continued, just not around Lydia. 

 

But this year, Mark’s behavior had reached a tipping point. When Gingy was opening his presents, Mark sat on his picnic blanket staring him down, cigar in hand. The smoke was circling around Gingy’s face, making him cough. Gingy’s mother, Ruthie came over and motioned for Gingy to move somewhere else to open his presents — somewhere where he wasn’t being suffocated with second-hand smoke. Though Ruthie tried to motion him discreetly, the second Gingy got up, Mark grabbed his arms and shoved him back down on the picnic blanket. 

 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Mark said to Gingy. 

 

“Hey!” Ruthie yelled. “Do not speak to my child like that.” 

 

Gingy, clearly uncomfortable, glued his eyes to the deck. 

 

“I’ll talk to Ging however the fuck I wanna talk to Ging.” Mark stood up and walked towards Ruthie. Then, he placed both his hands on her chest, stared Ruthie in the face, and squeezed.  

 

Everyone stood frozen. Mark had been violent before, plenty of times. But not once had he crossed the line like this. Ruthie’s husband came and ushered Gingy away from the scene. He then took Ruthie away. All of the other kids were told to go inside. 

 

All of the adults stood on the deck, holding their breath. “What are you gonna do huh?” Mark said. He knew the power he held over everyone. He knew he could act however he wanted, and nobody could do anything about it. 

 

“Mark please, just. Go home.” Richie said. 

 

“That’s $400,000 you just lost.” Mark walked up to Richie, so close their noses were touching.

 

“Seriously, Mark. That wasn’t okay.” Lydia said.
 

Mark scowled. “Fuck all you guys. I don’t need this shit.” Mark stomped to the driveway and got in his car. 

 

Lydia walked across the deck, each beam of wood creaking beneath her shoes as she stepped. The heat bubbled on her chest, consuming her head with the foggy discomfort of itchy summer air. She thought back to the first barbeque — the leaves had just started turning, tinged with the orange glow of fall. Now, everything was used and shriveled.  

 

As his sister, Lydia knew it was her responsibility to get Mark out of there, and fast. She ran up to his room to pack his things. Only when she started to pack, she found something curious. 

 

There, underneath the desk, lay a mountain of envelopes. Glancing quickly behind her, Lydia shuffled inside the room. Each envelope was addressed to Lydia herself, dating years back. One was from her mother. The rest were from her mother’s retirement account. Lydia breathed heavily, her vision going blurry. Why did Mark have a pile of letters addressed to her? Did Mother know she never received them? She clutched the first of the envelopes in her hand. It was addressed in Mother’s handwriting. She jammed her thumb beneath the fold, and started to tear it open. 

 

Dear Lyd, 

As discussed, I left my retirement account in your name. When I pass, 

You will have access to all of my funds. 

Attached is my obituary, detailing to whom the money should be allocated; 

Please distribute it accordingly.

I'm trusting you. I love you

- Mother

 

Lydia shoved the letter in her pocket, and raced to open the next one. Inside, was a bank statement saying $5,000 was transferred out of the account. The next letter said $18,000. The numbers fluctuated, but every letter was the same — thousands of dollars were taken out of Mother’s retirement account. 

 

Lydia thought back to earlier that morning. She was lying in bed, fingers clutching her flowered comforter in delight, when her house phone started ringing. It never rang that early in the morning. Annoyed, she reached across the nightstand and grabbed a hold of the curly cord. 

 

“Hello?” She croaked.

“Hi, is this Lydia Spitz?”
 

“Yes, this is she.”
 

“This is Suzanne Conrad from Eastchester Retirement Homes. We’re calling about a problem with your Mother’s account.”

 

“Oh, okay what’s the problem.”

 

“It seems your Mother’s funds have been drained. We’re going to have to release her.”

 

Right then, Lydia heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “LYD. You in there? Time for cake.”

 

Lydia scrambled out of the chair and stuffed the letter in her pants. She shoved the rest underneath the desk. Then, just in time, she stepped out of Mark’s room. 

 

“Hey Mark, yea cake? I’m all ready.” Lydia tried to even out her breaths and steady her hand.

 

“Okay great, I’m just gonna grab the camera.” Mark said.

 

Lydia froze. One of the letters was already opened. He would know she went in there. He would know she found them. “No no,” she said. She tried to say it casually, as if she couldn’t be bothered. “I have a camera downstairs, you just go back down.”

 

“Your camera’s shit. It’s fine, I’m getting mine.” Mark shoved past his sister, and walked into his room. 

 

There Lydia stood, in Mark’s room, all the letters scattered around her. Mark stopped and stared.

 

“What are you doing?” Mark said. 

 

Lydia breathed in a shaky breath. “Mark?” she whispered. “What is all this?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“I don’t know what to say. Have you been stealing money from Mother’s account?”

 

“I didn’t do anything, you have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

 

“Mark.” Lydia said firmly. “What did you do with the money?” Lydia started to breathe heavily. 

 

“I didn’t do anything, I told you. I don’t know what you think you saw, but whatever it is, it’s a lie.” Mark started to get nervous. His whole facade would go to shreds if Lydia told anyone. He’d be exiled from the family and would probably spend the rest of his life in prison for grand theft and fraud. 

 

“Lydia, trust me. You don’t know anything.” He tried giving her room to back down, but Lydia wouldn’t budge.

 

“I do. I know everything.” 

“Well, I gave you your chance,” Mark said. He grabbed the letter opener from the desk, and plunged it into her neck. Mark stood over her body and grimaced as Lydia quaked on the floor. He collected the letters, packed his things, and drove right home, leaving Lydia’s blood to soak into the carpet.