Barry McCullough knew much about death. If he had fancied himself a poet, he might have said death was his trade. Mr McCullough owned a farm, The Mercer Ranch. The ranch was his birthright, its secrets and truths had been imparted onto him from his childhood by his father, another McCullough. Barry knew much about death because, How could one on a farm not? Every single day he saw some beast marched to the slaughter. He saw the panic set in once they realized what was coming, what lay ahead. The animals would buck and moan and cry and run and fight. It would do anything not to be marched to death.
He had not thought about such matters for long (one becomes desensitized quickly) but here he was. The conditions were right. His mind wandered. Barry McCullough knew too about the death of men. He knew about the life of men more importantly, and because he fancied himself a bit of a philosopher, he felt he had come to know about the life of men in a more intimate manner than most. People were creatures of pretension. To begin with, they thought and therefore they were or whatever nonsense was commonly said. They reasoned that because they could build skyscrapers and fly to the moon and tame animals, they were not beasts too. Mr McCullough had never bought into such pretensions. He had seen men lose all right to be called human so quickly when, in a moment of anger, a man struck down his own mother or when lust drove another man to chase after anything that walked before eventually returning to his wife, pleading for forgiveness that did not come.
People were as animalistic as every beast in the jungle or on a farm, McCullough reasoned, because he had seen people realize how close to death they were and they would buck and moan and cry and run and fight. No dignity, only instinct. McCullough feared such a fate for himself. The indignity of dying while pleading with The Reaper for one more day, one more hour. He dreaded being unprepared. He had thought it was all squared away. The ranch was to be left in the hands of his oldest son, Barry McCullough Jr., his younger brother, Martin would help around and their sister, Mary Anne, well, she was long removed from the equation. Barry McCullough had been sure of his preparedness. No doubt had assailed his mind for years. How quickly things change.
McCullough struggled out of his bed and stood up. He was a hunched tiny figure, emaciated and a far cry from the hulking form he’d had when his entire day had revolved around the ranch. It demanded so much of his energy, so much of his time. He wondered what his children- No can’t go there now, can’t even try. He felt his stomach reject the food inside it and turn inside out. He tried to rush towards the ensuite and managed to get to the sink just as the vomit launched out of his mouth. Thick green muck, even his sick looked sick. He waited for a while taking each laboured breath calmly, he could hardly afford to wait but now, he had to deal with other people’s schedules. He waited still. He felt his stomach settle and pull itself right. He stared into the mirror just above the sink and did not like what he saw. Barry McCullough, the last of a hardened Irish line that had made it away from the destruction of the English to New York and traded that city for this… wasteland? No, not that. He had no idea what to call Mercer County, Nebraska but wasteland was certainly not it. No, the land was anything but wasted, his great-grandfather, the esteemed Patrick McCullough, had seen to that. The land was so far from wasted, but he, on the other hand, was as gone as a lad after his first hard drink. His skin was pale, ashy and strange. It hung off his face like there were no muscles left for it to attach to, it attached seemingly to the bone. His hair, he’d never cared for it, but it was gone too. Filed down to wisps of what it once was. Barry McCullough had never grown out his beard on account of having no time for such vanities but now not even a stubble could have grown.
He felt all the pain distil to some point inside him, sharp aches sprung from nowhere and settled, sprung from nowhere and settled again, sprung and settled once more. It was a pulse, the life signs of death. He turned back and exited the ensuite. The room he was in was a luxury he had never allowed himself in life. The sheets felt exquisite and Barry McCullough could not help but wonder if they felt so to entice a man to his doom. He settled back into the bed and let out a groan, not of pain but of comfort. He was lightening his load, throwing off his yoke. Relaxing.
It came back instantly, clamping down on the man like he had never known rest. Omaha was so far from Mercer County and with Barry McCullough Jr. operating as he pleased, the old man felt that nothing he had planned out was certain anymore. He had summoned Barry Jr. to see him in Omaha. “Bring Marty along, kid.” His once loud voice was whittled down to a raspy whisper. “Bring ‘im along. Let’s talk about some things.”
“What’s wrong?” The lad had asked. Barry Jr. was so sure until someone asked even once.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just need to set you and Marty up with the finer points of our operations.” His son had started to object once more, probably something about how the old man shouldn’t speak like that. You’ll get this thing, Dad. Barry McCullough had almost laughed at such hubris when Junior had first come to him with it. No, he was sorted. Life could pass him by now and he’d be fine.
He waited now. He didn’t doubt that Marty and Junior could run things at the ranch. They’d be splendid but so much whirled on in the background that they could never hope to even handle. A new sheriff in Jefferson, the nearest town to the ranch, a new state senator for their constituency, one who seemed opposed to an honest day’s work out in the fields, a new woman in Junior’s life, she was from out in Raleigh, a product of some fancy school or another. She seemed close to convincing his lad to sell and if Junior wanted to sell, Marty would go along with it. He thought maybe Junior would wait until he had kicked off to sell but he was already entertaining offers. I’m not even on the heavy stuff yet and the boy’s held my funeral.
How quickly things change. So much was new. New this, new that. He was waiting for the kids to arrive. He knew he could make them see the error of their ways, he had to. Junior and Marty were the only viable options he had had for years. To pivot this late in the game would see him sent to his grave with worry on his mind, he had no desire to haunt the plains of Nebraska. New sheriff, new senator, new woman, new plans. He did not like it at all.
There was a light knock at the door. He instantly knew. Game time. “Come in,” he said gruffly. The door gently swung open. Mary Anne.
“Hey,” she greeted. There was a trace of concern in her features that he did not expect. Their phone calls over the past few weeks had been clipped and courteous. A once thriving relationship now confined to tense silence and veiled insults. “The boys aren’t here yet?”
He grunted and nodded for her to take a seat. She walked across the room and sat down. “You look well.” She did look well. She had dressed for the courtroom. Maybe she found it hard to shed her skin. Maybe it was something else but still, she looked good, healthy, unburdened. He was grasping at straws with his words. Now that she was here, he had no idea what to say. Where did he begin? He knew she expected an apology, he knew she deserved one but one does not get this far in life by giving people everything they want. He knew this well.
She nodded and kept silent, regarding the room critically. “It seems the ranch has been doing fine.”
Again he grunted. “You’re here to keep it like that.” There was a tense silence, a stretch of infinity. “How’s that man? What’s his name? Bobby?”
“Good, he’s good.” Mary Anne wanted to challenge him. She knew she could. He needed her here, she needed nothing from him. “Want to meet him before off to hell?” The question had all the hatred and anger she had harboured from years past. Years removed from her suffering and she still couldn’t face her father without wanting to kill him. She remembered once, long ago, when she had come so close to going through with it.
Her father laughed. A loud throaty thing. For a moment, it seemed like Barry McCullough of The Mercer Ranch, the one where the horses were guaranteed to win a couple of races, the one where the men were hard and the women harder, the one where the land was let alone to be wild, it seemed like that Barry McCullough had stepped into the room. He laughed hard and long. It turned to a cough at the end but he still chuckled after that. “You know what, bring him along sometime. If he can catch me still lucid, he might even convince me to save him the cell next to mine in hell. Mary Anne, you weren’t so foolish as a child. I thought I had taught you better than to settle for some common-”
“I did not come here to hear this,” she spat out. “I could walk. I could so easily walk and leave you and your legacy,” she said the word with all the vitriol you imagined, “so royally screwed you’d be lucky if anyone could remember where your headstone is.” Her father looked at her blankly, as though he was dealing with a petulant child, waiting for her to end her little temper tantrum. “I don’t even know why I came here. You clearly won’t even treat me with respect.”
“You think you deserve any after you went off and married that-”
The door opened before he could finish. “Pa, how’s things going?” Marty asked as he stepped in. He paused in the doorway. Mary Anne might as well have been a ghost or an alien. She might as well have been Jesus Christ. There was no way in hell she was here.
“Move it,” Junior said as he gently nudged his brother out of the way. He saw his sister. He had the same reaction. Mary Anne regarded her brothers with a subtle smirk. Her father had the same look, a knowing smirk. He had caught the boys off-guard. Check. They stayed like that for what, ten seconds? Maybe thirty? A whole minute? Mary Anne didn’t know. She just looked at them, they looked at her. The sounds of the hospital, gurneys, the machines, aircon, nurses and doctors, that was all the sound she needed to hear at the moment.
She saw Junior’s emotions click into place, his rage working to a crescendo once he had finally gathered his wits. “What the fu-”
“Sit down, son.” Barry Sr. had much authority in his voice, maybe he had saved all he had left in him for this day, for this moment. It was D-Day for him. “Sit, boy.” The brothers moved and sat on the chairs on the far side of the room. They wanted distance between them and Mary Anne.
“Lucy came with us,” Barry Jr. said. He folded his arms. He looked like a petulant child. The door opened again. A young woman, no older than twenty-five was there. Mary Anne regarded her with the measure of curiosity anyone would grant the person who could soon become their sister-in-law. So this was her.
“The new woman?” Mary Anne asked her father.
“The new woman.”
Mary Anne stood up with a smile and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Mary Anne.”
“Lucy. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Mary Anne laughed. “I’m sure you have. Say, do you think you could wait outside for a couple of minutes? We’re just sorting some stuff with Dad and we’ll be done.”
Lucy looked at Barry Jr. for some kind of confirmation. Mary Anne didn’t need to look at him. She could make out the look on her father’s face. A message was being sent. He must have gotten it because Lucy turned and left the room quietly. It was just them again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Marty was incensed. His brother had just been embarrassed in front of his girl. He didn’t know what was going on but he didn’t like it.
Mary Anne moved back to her seat and remained quiet.
“You said you’d put the sale to a vote,” Barry Sr. said with a shrug. “She’s one of the owners and she has come to vote.”
Junior blinked like he was holding in tears. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it after no sound came out. He had been tense in his chair, ready for a shouting match. He slumped back into it now.
“You said you had bought her out when she left.” Marty was trying to make sense of all this. What is going on here? Why didn’t he tell us? Why the hell is Juni just sitting there? “Pa, you said we could sell. You promised.”
“I said you could sell if no current shareholder wanted to buy you out.”
“We thought you were dying!” He threw his arms up in frustration. Mary Anne bit back a grin.
“Don’t worry about that, son. I’m staying the course.” He coughed a bit. “Sadly, your sister heard of my plight and finally got around to talking to her old man again.”
“So you two are squared away now?” Junior asked his father. This was not going as they thought it would. Marty sighed. He slumped back as well, the reality of the situation had dawned on him too. It had taken a while but he’d gotten there too.
“Yeah, Juni. We’re cool,” Mary Anne responded for the old man.
“Do not call me that.” His eyes were burning with fury again. He seemed stuck between anger, denial and acceptance. Like he couldn’t choose where he would land. “Do not talk to me, you-”
“So I take it your buyer is ready to make an offer,” Barry Sr. cut in quickly.
Junior didn’t spare his father a second glance. “You think you can just waltz in here after what you did? You were gone, Mary Anne, finished. There was no chance you walked away from that man intact but we showed up for you. We showed up for you when you turned up here looking like you had been run over because that’s what families do. You asked us for help and you threw all of it away for what? For what, Mary Anne? And you,” he turned to his father, standing quickly from his chair, “you’ve always been so smug. We’ve followed you into the worst of all your wrongs, we’ve held our tongues, asked for nothing more than we were given. We’ve been more than sons to you! We’ve been whatever you wanted. Have you forgotten- What am I saying? Of course, you haven’t! I know you still remember when you sent us to the Farrows. The barn on fire, you remember that, old man, or has that tumour finally eaten away at your brain too.”
“That’s enough, son.”
“Don’t give me hell, Pa. We’ll fight this. You’ll see.”
“You wanted to sell, Juni? Well, I’m buying. Money’s money after all.” Mary Anne wanted this fight, she had wanted it for many years.
“Oh, shut up! Your money is worse than walking away with nothing.” His fists were clenched. Whatever was holding back the tension had snapped. “We’ll fight this, Pa. We’ll fight you all the way to your grave.”
Barry McCullough broke into a coughing fit. He held up a handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed. “You won’t have to fight me for long, son.” He shrugged at the boys. “You have eyes, do you think I’ll even see the inside of a courtroom? I’ll be gone before you can file a lawsuit. When that happens, you’ll be dealing with someone else.
“You see, boys, I care about you. I do. No, really. I’ve kept you well. You’re complaining now, airing grievances like they matter to any of us but you know I’ve kept you well.” Marty started to speak but Barry Sr. raised a palm and silenced him. He pressed on. “The Farrows and whatever you want to throw in my face were all necessary actions, they threatened order. I did a lot of these to cover for you boys or have you forgotten so easily? Have you forgotten, Marty, your prom night?” Barry Sr. dropped his voice, relishing the power he had over his son. He pulled his face into a panicked frown and set his voice into a high-pitched tone, imitating his son: “So much blood! I don’t know what to do.” He laughed, he cackled actually. It was the kind of laughter that would fit right in at a gimmicky haunted house. “You should have seen him, Mary Anne.” He was out of breath.
The children all fidgeted in their seats. Mary Anne knew, and they all, did to be fair, what type of man Barry McCullough could be. He lorded past transgressions over everyone’s head in a way that was too understated to be called blackmail yet too heavy-handed to be called a grudge. Barry McCullough had a grudge with the whole world.
One summer, when Mary Anne was still a teenager, she and a few friends had planned a road trip to New York. They had had it all planned out, the routes, the stops, all the sights. Barry Sr. was enthusiastic about the plan. He hoped his daughter could get closer to highbrow girls at the private school she attended in Omaha. It was his hope that some new business might flow into the ranch from the girls’ families. The school was prestigious among the people in the circles that Barry Sr. found important. People coming into vast sums of wealth, oil execs, landowners and real estate tycoons, all loved the school. Many of them had grown up in middle-class families and prestigious academies like St. Benedict’s were viewed as a way to break into America’s true elite circles. Barry Sr. noted that many in the country had a fascination with the mannerisms of the British upper-class and despite pretensions to the contrary, looked to emulate such social divisions in an attempt to separate themselves from the rubble from which they had been raised.
The trip was supposed to be right at the start of the summer. The girls hoped it would take about two weeks to travel to New York and they planned to spend the rest of the summer break there. It was a marvel that so many parents had agreed to it but there they were, on the cusp of some kind of adventure. Barry Sr. had not shown any sign of waning enthusiasm. He just told Mary Anne she wouldn’t go out. She hadn’t seen it coming. The trip was two weeks away and she wondered if she could reason with him. She tried but the man wasn’t moved. He told her stories of horrible things and horrible people. Like all people talking about danger in New York, he brought up Kitty Genovese. He seemed to have slowly worked himself up to this paranoia. It wasn’t unwarranted, Mary Anne knew this much but she still felt slighted. She found, as other people world over her age had, that life can be unfair.
Is there more of this???