4 minute read
The Family Business Esther Hannan-Moon
THE FAMILY BUSINESS
Esther Hannan-Moon @esther_hm
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A Father and Son stood outside 56 Eagle Street in matching outfits. Their black clothes shrouded their faces, obscuring their hands and shadowing their figures. The Son had his hood pulled over a mop of crow coloured hair, and headphones in his ears, blocking out the quiet of the scarcely alive morning. An iron fence painted seasick green barricaded number 56 with two armchairs occupying the front veranda, one dust coated, the other worn in from use. The Son slipped off the headphones and drew his bottom lip up to nibble on. His hands wrung themselves underneath the draped black sleeves. The Father put a hand on his shoulder, but kept his face fixed on the house’s front door.
“This can be a precious moment, so I need you to handle it with caution.” The Father said.
“I know…it’s the right time, but it’s still his time.” The Son replied, drawing in a breath that let off a rattle as it left his ashen body.
The Father nodded, “Mr. Jameson. Eighty54
two years old. His wife passed over two years ago. Cancer. Are you ready?”
The son shook his head. His hand shot out and grabbed hold of his Father’s cloak. The older of the two felt a pinch in his chest. Pictures of a chubby fist in his own bone thin hand, a bubble of laughter gentleman with thick owl glasses stood regarding the pair. as his Son was tossed laughing into the air. The Father went to the door and knocked three times. A weathered hand pulled open the door and a
‘Um...hi Sir, I’m Death Jr. You can call me Ripper. So... you’ve um, died, and we’re here to take you over. If you want. Well, actually, it’s not much of a choice, but you can take your time if you need to say goodbye to some people. Is that allowed? I’m not sure, but...yeah.” The Son mumbled.
The man, Mr. Jameson, smiled. It was a smile that reached his eyes, showing the shine of a few tears that had pooled.
art: nimasotoudeh.com “It’s my son’s first day on the job, I’m still showing him the tricks.” The Father said as
he wrapped a skeletal arm around the Son, “I do apologise Mr. Jameson for the brashness. I’m afraid though that you have passed, my good Sir. In your sleep, painless as possible, very lucky. You may indeed visit anyone you wish to say goodbye to, but I suggest you do this soon as the wait will take longer at the other end. We have procedures you see. I am sorry for your loss.”
Mr. Jameson shook his head and cupped his mouth with a leather hand. The tears cascaded from his eyes. A pop of noise escaped his lips, then another, but nothing intelligent was made from it. Instead he gave a nod.
“We’ll wait for you here.”
The Son looked up at his Father with a crinkled brow, unsure what to do now so he took a seat on the front step. He flipped his hood off then ran his fingers through his hair, dust floating to the ground, covering his sneakers. The Father sat beside him.
The Son stared at the dust settling.
A hiccup flopped out of the Son’s mouth before he could stop it. His face was buried in the shadow of his hood. The young apprentice looked up at the two chairs before he hung his head again.
“Listen. Son, I’m sorry. That was too much. It’s just… I’m not going to be able to do this forever… and I believe in…” The Father said, wringing his bone fingers together. Mr. Jameson reappeared. He stood at the gate with a bright smile. His hand reached out towards the Son. A gesture of trust, of eagerness.
The Son shot to his feet and stumbled out of the gate almost knocking Mr. Jameson over. His Father chuckled and got to his feet. He could feel his Son watching him.
The Father walked up and squeezed his Son’s shoulder. He found he couldn’t say anything, so he simply nodded. Mr. Jameson and the Father then went their separate ways, both disappearing into the silence.
