A Requiem For Dead Flies

A Requiem

For Dead Flies

Peter N. Dudar

A Requiem For Dead Flies

Copyright © 2012 by Peter N. Dudar

This edition of A Requiem For Dead Flies

Copyright © 2012 by Nightscape Press, LLP

Cover illustration and design by William Cook

Cover lettering by Robert S. Wilson

Interior layout and design by Robert S. Wilson

Interior illustration by William Cook

Edited by Robert S. Wilson and Mark C. Scioneaux

All rights reserved.

First Electronic Edition

Nightscape Press, LLP

http://www.nightscapepress.pub

For my brothers,

Joe Dudar and Will Dudar.

And for my best friends,

Dan Foley and L.L. Soares,

brothers for life.

Acknowledgments:

Battle View Farm is a very real place. It was the farm owned by my grandparents, Gordon and Marguerite Wright. After their passing, my younger brother Will and I discussed how great it would be to move in and grow our own corn and distill our own bourbon. This was how this novel originally germinated. The events and characters in this book are entirely fictional, but there are several places within the book where I named characters after real-life friends. I in no way mean to associate those people with the characters that hold their names. It is merely a nod of love and recognition.

I would like to thank the following people, who had a hand in helping me complete this story and make it suitable for publication. Foremost is Robert Wilson and Mark Scioneaux of Nightscape Press, for making this book possible. I'd also like to thank my fan club: Barbara Lovenberg, Linda Martin, Liz Burke, Nicki Merrill, and Deb LaFrance, who have always been there to read my fiction and offer their support and encouragement. I have to give props to April Hawks and Francine Colon, who also read the original manuscript and gave their insights.  Lastly, to my friend and mentor, L.L. Soares, who DID the first round of revisions for me, and taught me how to remove unnecessary words, tighten up the slow parts, and build tension. Thank you, brother!

And to my wife, Amy...thank you for the unconditional love and support. Thank you for being the greatest fan of my life. 

Battle View Farm is now owned by a new family, who have brought the land back to life once again. To them, I wish nothing but blessings and prosperity. Farming is a hard life. But then, the best things in life are never easy. 

Part 1

BALLAD OF THE PINK ELEPHANT

Chapter

one.

1.

"This is my house and you can’t make me leave it!"

I remember hearing those words as a child, punctuated by the sound of muffled sobs, footfalls echoing through the house on Battle View Farm, and the slamming of Grandma Vivian’s bedroom door. The old woman was as crazy as a shithouse rat. She had beaten me and stripped me down naked, and locked me down in her basement where I waited for her to come back and murder me. I was only thirteen years old at the time.

2.

Did you know that the common house fly can detect the odor of a rotting carcass from over a mile away? Its olfactory senses are so sensitive that it can smell the scent of death and shit and rot from farther than any human possibly could, even when there is no breeze to carry it. Flies are designed to be attracted to that odor. They feast on rot and feces. They lay their eggs in it. And they carry whatever diseases they are exposed to from them. That is the nature of flies; to sustain life from death. Here in Dr. Phelps’s office, in the psychiatric ward of Olympia Gardens, there’s a house fly buzzing around. I’ve been watching him bump into the windowpane over and over as it tries to escape, tries to fly off and find that dead thing its tiny little olfactory system detects from somewhere far away from here. Every now and then it buzzes by Dr. Phelps, and he swipes at it carelessly with his free hand as his other hand scribbles notes about me in his notebook.

We don’t talk about things in my family.

I suppose every family has its secrets, like old bones packed away neatly in musty old cardboard shoeboxes somewhere in the closets of our lives. Dr. Phelps, always a big fan of sharing information, says that it’s healing and cathartic. I disagree. Information is painful and divisive, and cuts deep like a cold, stainless-steel knife.

Sometimes, though, it isn’t even the secrets. Those old bones don’t rattle around if they’re kept in the closet. They don’t demand your attention the way those painfully obvious things do. Those goddamn pink elephants in the room, the ones that everybody can see but no one ever really cares to talk about. They parade around noisily in broad daylight, pushing us around and trampling us about. God, how they torment us. To put a name to them and begin to talk about them would be to try and make them go away. But we can’t. We can’t talk about them because we like how they distract us, how they divert our attention away from the dust and bones we’ve hidden away. So we just keep everything to ourselves and watch the pink elephants dance. That is the way of my family.

Now that it’s too late and things can’t be undone, the only person who seems remotely interested in my family’s pink elephants is Dr. Phelps. Of course, Dr. Phelps is far more interested in those filthy old bones I’ve hidden in the closet of my psyche. In my mind I can hear the flies buzzing around the closet door, willing to die for the chance to feed on what’s inside, and maybe lay a few thousand eggs. But I can’t bring myself to give Dr. Phelps or the flies any satisfaction. Instead, I steer our conversations back towards the pink elephants, and talk about Mom’s miscarriage and how I blame myself for my brother Gordon’s death. It’s a trick that works flawlessly during group therapy. But in our one-on-one sessions it is a source of frequent disappointment. Dr. Phelps sits there in his red Corinthian leather chair, staring down his hook nose at me and reminding me that we aren’t making any progress as long as I continue to maintain my silence. What the hell do I care? I’m not even paying for any of these sessions, or for my stay here at Olympia Gardens, for that matter. The state now pays for all of that.

I am a master of diversion. I let my eyes roam around his office, taking notice of the most trivial details and pointing them out to him. Like the little framed cross-stitch sampler on his desk (which his wife probably made, or perhaps some ingratiated patient in a trivial token of heartfelt warmth) that reads Dr. Phelps Helps! or the cutesy artwork that his grandkids made for him to put on his wall. The crayon doodling of stick-figured family members and the smeared watercolor brushstrokes of little retarded Picasso wannabes. And when I finally am ready to make any real talk, I bring up Grandma Vivian’s death. That’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose, since this all starts and ends with that wretched old woman.

This morning, though, I threw Dr. Phelps a curve ball.

I was lying there on his couch, dodging and evading as always, but that damned house fly buzzing around the office kept breaking my concentration. I could hear the hum of its wings, and the way its plump little body kept smacking over and over into the window panes. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, and inside I began to feel the panic creeping up within me. It’s funny how you can feel absolute terror in broad daylight. It always seems like terror should be felt when you are alone and in the dark. Terror is supposed to be a nighttime thing, and it’s supposed to dissipate the moment you turn on the light. But that goddamn fly kept circling and buzzing, and when Dr. Phelps suddenly jumped up from his seat with his copy of PSYCHIATRIC ADVANCEMENTS rolled up in his fist, and he smashed the bug into a blob of greasy offal on the window pane, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The tears began flowing out of nowhere, and I suddenly found myself talking.

I told him how my brother Gordon had once claimed there was a ghost roaming Battle View Farm and that he’d seen it, and how I had emphatically replied that there were no such things as ghosts. I told Gordon there was enough craziness in our family without him adding any supernatural bullshit. But he believed it, and there was nothing I could do or say to make him change his mind. Stubbornness also runs deep in our family.

Our mother and Uncle Cliff inherited Battle View Farm after Grandma Vivian passed away. Grandma had finally succumbed to a lengthy battle with Alzheimer’s disease last year, and the forty-seven acres of farmland that sat across the river from the Saratoga battlegrounds was left with only cobwebs and possibilities. And ghosts, of course, if you believed my brother. Grandma Vivian was haunted after Grandpa Clyde passed away, but then one doesn’t need to believe in ghosts to be haunted. I’d tell you that it was the Alzheimer’s that caused her dementia, but I don’t believe that, even for a second…not after what happened to me and my brother Gordon, way back when I was thirteen and what happened to us…what happened to Gordon last summer inside the house that sits on Battle View Farm.

3.

It was Gordon’s idea. I’m sure he’d been thinking about the possibilities for quite some time before Grandma’s health was finally considered terminal. I remember him verbally daydreaming about it on several occasions, and it was after we’d visited Grandma for the last time while she was still alive that he mentioned it out loud, not as a manner of fantasy but as a genuine offer.

We could make our own bourbon, he said as we boarded the elevator and began our descent to the parking garage. At the time I was still upset from seeing our grandmother. I should have been saddened to see her in such a terrible state, but the truth was that I loathed her after what she had done to us, and a horrible part inside of me rejoiced at seeing her reduced to a feeble, helpless old woman on her deathbed. It’s hard for me to believe that she had once been a sweet, kind person when I was a child. The happy memories of her dancing with me to the sound of the old RCA Victor radio in her parlor have dissipated. All that remains is the smoldering terror of how she’d locked me away in her basement after she tried to murder my brother and me.

She was conscious but never lucid during our visit, and when she spoke it was unimportant gibberish laced with mention of Grandpa Clyde, as if he were still among the living.

Oh, God, the barn is on fire! she shouted at one point, and her cloudy eyes sparked with life for the tiniest moment. At that moment I felt the dread of being absolutely helpless as I stared into those eyes. She looked so fragile, so weak as she lay there in her bed, her blankets tucked all around her. I couldn’t pull my gaze away as I watched her feeble hands shaking and the way her tired, wrinkled face cringed and contorted as this memory jumped into her mind. Uncle Cliff was there, and he ran around and folded one giant hand over her tiny, shaking fists, and used his other to brush her long, white hair away from her face. I felt the knot in my throat rise up as I watched. Part of me wanted to turn away, to walk right out the door. I didn’t want this to be how I remembered Grandma Vivian. Instead I stood there quietly next to Gordon and watched the two of them.

It’s okay, mom, Uncle Cliff whispered to her. Don’t you fret about that now.

Tell your fa…Tell your father to let the cows out before they all burn to death, she said, and I could feel Gordon shifting uncomfortably beside me. He’s younger than me by three years, and as difficult a time as I was having, I could tell it was much more painful for him. Gordon isn’t the kind of man to show emotions. I know that at some point before we left her room I was crying. I don’t even know why. Perhaps they were tears of gladness and vindication, or maybe tears of relief for my mother, who was heartbroken to watch her mother waste away like a goddamn wind-up toy running out of steam as its cogs and springs clicked and ran out of juice. Gordon never shed a tear. It just wasn’t his way.

Uncle Cliff continued to try and calm her, but after a few minutes of her living out this delusion as if it was really happening, he had no choice but to ring for the nurse and ask that Grandma be sedated. Gordon and I stayed long enough to watch the nurse administer an injection, and within moments she was sound asleep and Uncle Cliff was walking us to the elevator.

Tell your mother to call me tonight, Uncle Cliff said as Gordon reached to push the down button. I have a feeling she’s not going to be with us much longer. He looked tired but he could still muster a smile for us. He reached one of his giant hands out and took Gordon by the shoulder. It’s all right to cry if you need to, son.

Gordon smiled back. I’m okay. Really. The elevator door opened and Gordon took a half step into the entry so it wouldn’t shut on us. I just want her to be at peace, you know?

I know, Uncle Cliff said, and I could see the moisture forming in his eyes. He’d wait until we were safely on the elevator before he’d allow himself to cry. That’s just how it is with the men of our family, I guess. Thank you boys for coming down to see her. It means a lot to your mom and me. And then, as almost an afterthought meant only for himself, Your grandmother is a good woman. I know hearing that doesn‘t erase the past, but the things that happened weren‘t her fault. She was a victim, too.

As the elevator doors closed, I found myself internally acknowledging that I couldn’t disagree more.

4.

I was puzzled over the fact that of all things for Grandma Vivian to recall, the barn fire was what finally surfaced as one of her last memories. Grandpa Clyde died in that fire, rushing out to save the livestock as flames engulfed the old cattle barn. I was just old enough to remember when it actually happened, but Mom spoke of it often as Gordon and I were growing up. I remember her telling us what a hero Grandpa was, losing his life to save his herd of dairy cattle. Mom never missed the opportunity to inform us how difficult it was to be a farmer, and that Grandpa Clyde was a great man, well respected by the other farmers in upstate New York. It was while I was pondering all this on the elevator that Gordon made his suggestion.

We could grow a lot of corn forty-seven acres, he said aloud as the digital monitor above the doors counted the passing floors. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Mom and Uncle Cliff have been renting that land out to other farmers to grow corn to feed their livestock. They’re making enough money to pay the taxes on the land, but I think we could do better. I think we could start a business making homemade bourbon.

I was shocked. My little brother Gordon was still a college student, and was struggling just to make passing grades. Gordon wasn’t a bad student. Nor was it that he was lazy or perhaps disliked authority. It was that he just didn’t concern himself with tests or textbooks or anything of that sort. It was the same reason why he’d let three years lapse between when he graduated from high school and finally started college at twenty-one. The kid loved to read. It was just that his preferences leaned towards Kerouack, Bukowski, and Hunter S. Thompson. I guess there was something romantic in the notion of making homemade whiskey that really appealed to him, but after all that’s happened I guess I now realize that maybe he was meant to be a farmer, and that working the land seemed to suit him more than throwing on a jacket and tie every day like I used to do.

Yeah? What on earth do you even know about making whiskey? I scoffed. He meant to answer me but at that moment the elevator doors opened and a fellow in a clergy outfit and a pregnant woman boarded. The woman exhaled a heavy sigh and rubbed her swollen belly. The Reverend reached out a hand to push the button for the parking garage, noticed that it was already lit up, and stuffed his hand absentmindedly into his pocket. We rode the rest of the way down in silence, but that twinkle in Gordon’s eye said it all. I knew damn well that he was going to see his plan through whether I was on board or not.

5.

Gordon and I found ourselves sharing my old bedroom at Mom and Dad’s house the night after Grandma Vivian passed away. Mom had called me the night before, and although I’d been waiting for that call to come and had tried to mentally prepare myself, it still seemed alien to hear the words, She’s gone. Mom kept herself composed the whole time we spoke on the phone, and that wasn’t terrifically surprising. Watching a loved one suffer as much as Mom and Uncle Cliff watched Grandma Vivian suffer, you’ll find death comes as a relief rather than heartache. Mom’s voice sounded relieved, and in a small way I was grateful for that. If she’d sounded inconsolably upset, I’d have been devastated.

Gordon’s already here, Mom said. He’s been coming by every day after classes get out. I know it’s because he’s worried about me, but I’m okay, really. The two of you will have to share a bedroom…unless you’d feel more comfortable in a motel. Is Staci going to be coming with you?

My girlfriend Staci and I had been in that awkward transitional period where we knew the relationship was really over with but hadn’t gone through the formality of admitting it out loud. Sexual attraction and emotional chemistry are two separate things. She came over two nights before and we had sex, but even then it was obvious that her mind was somewhere else and I really didn’t give a damn about pleasuring her. I had papers to grade for my students at the Windham Boys’ Academy and, in the back of my mind, the impending phone call that I knew would be coming. I didn’t even kiss her goodbye as she grabbed her purse and fished her keys out. She stopped by the mirror next to my door and gave her hair a cursory comb through with her fingers, said, See ya, and was on her way. Mom must have known Staci and I were finished. Perhaps I hadn’t bothered to mention Staci’s name in the last few conversations we had.

Nah, just me, I answered. It’s funny. Looking back now, I can’t even remember if I said this with a sigh or not. Why are Gordon and I sharing a room?

Dad’s sister is coming down from Vermont. She asked if she could stay in the guest room and he said, ‘yes.’

I don’t think I can get a substitute teacher to fill in for me on this short a notice, I told her. I’ll just do my normal classes tomorrow and head out afterwards. I’ll have Ms. Murphy arrange my coverage for the rest of the week.

Mom and I exchanged goodbyes and I hung up the phone. After, I went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey out of my liquor cabinet and poured myself a double on the rocks. As I drank it, I found myself wondering what the flavor would taste like if Gordon and I actually made our own bourbon. I would tell him all this later, when we settled down in the two twin-sized beds Dad set up in my old bedroom.

6.

I’ve been doing a lot of research about this, Gordon said as the two of us lay in the darkness. I could hear Mom and Dad laughing with Aunt Cynthia out in the living room. Uncle Cliff was supposed to come over that night, but after spending the day making Grandma Vivian’s funeral arrangements and taking care of whatever other business he had, he told Mom that he was just as happy to go to bed early and catch up with everyone the next day. Part of me felt pleased to hear Mom sounding so relieved, so unburdened after all the heartache of Grandma Vivian’s illness. Yet another part of me, the part that had called Staci the night before (after Mom had called) to tell her about the funeral and that now was probably the best time for us to call it quits, felt annoyed, almost angry. Mom’s closure came swift and the relief was immediate. My breakup with Staci was drawn out and ugly. She cursed me and called me a coward for doing it on the phone. I cursed her back for being an over-emotional drama queen, asking her whom it was that she was thinking about while we fucked a few nights before. Both of us had known it was over all along, but we just couldn’t let each other off the hook. I told her that I’d be packed and gone the next day, and because she still had the key to my apartment, she could stop by and grab her stuff. As I lay there nestled in that squeaky old twin bed listening to the laughter in the living room, I found myself regretting even bothering to call Staci, and wondered if she’d trash my apartment while I was away.

Are you awake over there? Gordon called from his bed.

Yeah, you have my full attention, I answered with a sigh.

I talked to Uncle Cliff about it. You know…let him know what we’re planning. He said that this summer is too late to start because old man Borden up the road has already rented out the land and has his crops already planted. But…

I could hear him smiling.

He said that after this crop is harvested in the fall, the land is all ours. Uncle Cliff says that in the worst-case scenario, our plan fails and he and Mom can write it off as a loss for the following year’s taxes. He’s even offered to help us get started with the planting. He can show us how to plow the fields and plant the corn, and how to harvest it in the fall.

Great, I said unenthusiastically. In my mind I was more concerned with Grandma’s funeral and all the bad feelings I’d been brooding over.

But he also told me that if we want to, we can move into the farmhouse for this summer to help us get ready. You know…build ourselves a still to make the alcohol, prepare room to store the kegs. Make whatever preparations we need so that we can get started next spring.

I reached over and turned on the lamp on the bedside table between us.

It all sounds great, Gordon, but it’s not that simple. Do you realize how much work we need to do? First of all, we’d need a federal license and a license from the State of New York to produce alcohol. Then we’d need a commercial license to sell it once it’s produced. We’d probably need a business license on top of that. All of those things cost money, which brings me to the subject of financing. All of our start-up costs would have to come out of our own pockets. That includes fuel for the tractor for planting and harvesting, fuel for the burners to cook the corn into mash, money for the yeast and other ingredients to ferment and flavor it, money for bottling, money for the kegs, money for us to live on over the summer while I’m away from my job and you’re away from school. And the tax money for the farm land will have to come out of Uncle Cliff and Mom’s pocket until we can reimburse them, which will be never if we can’t get our product placed out into the stores. I sighed again. I don’t even know how long bourbon has to be stored before it’s considered ready to drink. Do you have a clue about any of this?

Gordon was smiling. He leaned over the far side of his bed and pulled a folder of paper out of his suitcase. The folder had to be at least two inches thick. He tossed it over onto my bed so that it landed directly on my lap. I opened the folder and chuckled out loud in spite of myself. The top page was an application for an alcohol production license for the State of New York. The next page was a small-business license application. The rest were downloaded website pages, listing prices for ingredients, directions on how to cook the corn and ferment the mash yield,