Last Wishes

by Lee Dresselhaus

Rightup to the day the old man died, Scat Man and his cronies Clod and Wink would heckle him almost every afternoon as he worked in his garden. It became a tradition of sorts. They would gather on the corner in the old New Orleans neighborhood in the early afternoon and wait for the old man to come out of his small, well kept house and begin to tend the flowers and vines that he so meticulously cared for, watering, fertilizing and pruning, after first picking the cigarette butts and coke cans from among the plants. Each day Scat Man and company made it a point to arrive just before noon, which was when the old man came out, and flip their butts and trash across his fence and into his flower beds, then laugh as he plucked the garbage like ripe fruit and put it in a small waste can he carried with him, just for that purpose.

The old man had tried to be friendly and reason with the boys when they first discovered him, but they weren't listening to reason. They didn't need to. They were young and strong, pierced and tattooed with the tribal markings of street youth, and to listen to reason was to display weakness in the eyes of their peers. It's easier to take than to submit. No status is ever gained on the street by submission, and the fear and respect of the lowest street dweller is better than the slightest submission to reason or law. They never stopped to analyze it, though. It just was.

So, when the old man came out one day to find them flipping their trash across his fence and tried to reason with them, it became a game they had to win. Curiously though, they couldn't seem to scare the old man. Most people, old or young, were easily frightened by Clod's huge size, or Wink's twitching, tattooed face or by Scat Man's cold eyes, and slipped out of their path so that any of their actions would not be mistaken for challenge. Especially the elderly, long grown timid in the presence of the swaggering street toughs. The old man, though, didn't seem to be frightened. After he tried to reason with them and was met with jeers and threats, he just ignored them.

He didn't respond to any of their threats or taunts. He just picked up their garbage and went about the business of his garden. Once, when he got too close to his fence, Wink flipped a cigarrette butt with sufficient force to hit him on the back of the neck, sending a tiny shower of sparks into his hair and down the back of his shirt. They whooped at the direct hit, and danced excitedly, watching for the panicked reaction they expected to come. It didn't.

The old man stood erect, frail and thin, and pulled the tail of his shirt out with one hand while casually brushing the smoldering ashes from his hair with the other then, without so much as a glance in their direction, carried on with his weeding.

They could see the old man's wife watching, concerned, from a curtained window, and since they didn't know quite what to do now, they flipped her their middle fingers and left, satisfied with the shock value of flipping off the old man's elderly wife. Had they stayed to watch, they would have seen that they had been no more successful in pulling a reaction from her than they were with the old man. The only difference was that she watched as they left, drifting down the street, secure in the arrogant strength of youthful barbarity. The old man continued to ignore them.

The ritual of harrassment went on for months, then the day came when the old man didn't come out. Scat Man, Clod and Wink waited for over an hour, then left, surly because their sport had been cancelled for the day. The next day was the same, then the next, and then they got the word from the street. The old man had died.

They laughed when they heard, and passed a bottle of wine they had stolen in the old man's memory. It was Clod who had the idea about the house. Clod having a functional thought was rare enough as it was, but Clod actually having a thought that could be translated into an actionable plan was almost unheard of. He wasn't called Clod just because of his size. It was he who reminded the other two that each time they had passed the house the last few nights, it had been dark.

 “Maybe the old lady ain’t there. And maybe they got good stuff in the house. Old people got good stuff sometimes,” Clod said, then lost focus and dedicated his attention to tying his shoe.

Scat Man quickly picked up where Clod's train of thought dribbled off. They would scout the place, and then they would see. They made what money they had by theft, either burglaries or auto, and were opportunistic predators. And this was plainly an opportunity. That night, they watched the house for two hours and, when nothing moved inside, they slipped across the fence, through the old man's carefully tended garden and around to a side window they had selected because of sufficient lack of lighting on that side of the house.

With practiced movements they soon had the window pried almost soundlessly upwards and, one by one, they slithered into the dark interior. They pulled the window down behind them so it wouldn't be seen as open from the outside by a passing policeman who got lucky. They were sure the old lady was gone but had decided that if she were here it would be a very bad night for her. A very bad night, indeed. 

Carefully, they made their way through the house, peeking into cabinets, opening closets and boxes, and surveying what electronics were available. The small flashlights they carried were used sparingly, again so they wouldn't attract unwanted attention. They were disappointed by the electronics, most of which were old, but were pleased by the amount and quality of silver in the dining room, as well as various pictures in what had to be real silver frames. They had become adept at recognizing quality merchandise over the years. Every good thief knows his business because it saves time and trouble later. When they had finished piling together what they thought worthwhile from the dining room and living room, they began to look for the bedroom because that's where the jewelery was always kept. Old people had good jewelery sometimes, heirlooms and such. And, they could get pillow cases to carry everything in from the bedroom.

It was Wink who located the bedroom. He whispered to the other two, and they carefully opened the door. Quickly Clod played his light over the bed, and they all relaxed. It was empty. They entered the bedroom, and closed the door behind them. The door clicked shut and, almost simultaneously, the lights in the bedroom came on.

"Hello, boys," the old lady sat in an overstuffed chair in a corner to their left. In her hand was a huge pistol with a metal tube attached to the barrel like the silencers they had seen in movies. And it was pointed at them. "I've been waiting for you," she said.

Wink, who had been bringing up the rear, still had his hand on the door knob, and he stepped behind the hulking Clod and gave it a twist. It didn't move.

"It won't open," the old lady said, a slight accent floating on her words, "We had it prepared for just this occaision."

Scat Man spoke, "What the fuck you think you're doin', you old bat?" The others chuckled, Clod with his brute huff, and Wink in his high pitched, menacing way, showing broken front teeth when he smiled.

"Yeah," Wink said, "you don't think you're scaring anybody with your bad old gun, do ya, gramma?" Her reply was unexpected.

"Oh I hope not. It’s not my intention to frighten you. Actually, boys, I'm carrying out one of my husband's last wishes. He had wanted to do this himself but you never paid us a visit at night. He wanted you to learn some lessons, but unfortunately he passed on this week. He asked that I tend to this, and I agreed."

"What lessons, old lady?" Clod edged forward menacingly.

"First off, my name is Mrs. Burke. Mrs. Ronald Burke. And I'll thank you to adress me as such, or as madam, whichever you prefer."

"Oh, fuck this!" said Clod, and lurched forward. She shot him in the throat then, the black automatic making a loud chuffing sound, and he went down with his spine shattered and was dead when his bulk slammed into the floor.

The other two stood still in shocked surprise, then Wink was pulling on the door like a crazy man. Scat Man stood, staring down at Clod's twitching body, "You killed him, you old bitch," he said softly and as menacingly as he could.

"Yes. Yes, I did," then she shot Scat Man through the right foot. He went down with a howl, grasping the foot with the fresh hole torn through it, "and as I said, my name is Mrs. Ronald Burke."

Wink was frozen at the door as Scat Man lay and moaned, twisting back and forth on the floor. Wink's eyes flashed toward the window. She saw that, and said, "Oh, there is no way out there, either. We had that all boarded over in anticipation of your arrival weeks ago. My Ronald was so disappointed when you didn't show up. And now, young men, listen to me. You there! On the floor. Either stop that dreadful moaning and listen or I'll shoot you again, this time in the elbow, I think. Both of you go over to the bedstand. You'll find a stack of photo albums there, along with some pictures. Hurry, now. Oh, stop that whining. Imagine how much more it will hurt if I shatter your elbow, also! You, there, with the tattoos on his face - that's really rather disgusting, you know -help your friend before I have to shoot him again."

Wink was trembling violently, his face now wildly active with the twitch that had given him his street name, as he helped the moaning Scat Man hobble over to the bed. Not once did the muzzle of the pistol waver. "Sit him on the bed, young man, and prop his foot on the cover. There, that's right. Don't worry about the blood. Now, take that thick book right there, yes that one. Open it."

Wink did as he was told. On the inside of the book was the first of many photos of a young square jawed, strong looking man with intense, dark eyes and much character in his face. "That's my husband in 1943, Captain Ronald Burke, United States Army. Handsome, wasn't he? That photo was taken just before he was parachuted into France to join up with the French Resistance. Ah, he was such a man! He fought Germans, and he fought them like a demon. I met him then. I was Simone Robair then, an actress before the war, then a member of the Resistance. Don't look at  that window again, young man, or I will shatter your hip and you will have to listen to me anyway," she gestured at Clod's still form on the floor, "and if you need any convincing..... very well, then. My husband was a member of what was then called the OSS. You call it the CIA now, but the job was much the same. Keep looking through the book as we talk."

The two on the bed thumbed through the worn book until they came upon a picture of a beautiful young woman. She held a submachine gun across her chest, and her eyes were the eyes of of a killer. The very eyes of the old woman who now pointed that giant, silenced pistol at them. Behind the beautiful young woman stood the broad shouldered young man, her husband to be, along with several other unknown men, all carrying weapons. On the ground before them were three German soldiers. All were tied with barbed wire, and all were quite dead.

"You see, my late husband wanted you to know something. That's a picture of him receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor after the war, by the way. That's President Truman, not that you would know anything about that. My husband wanted you to know that old people have past lives. We weren't born old and helpless. See those German soldiers? They were SS, and had captured him briefly. His chest and back were scarred where they had put cigarettes out on him, then stuck him with hot metal. He never told them anything, and we got him back, along with them, and they paid the price of hell for what they did. And you thought that hitting him in the back of the head with a butt would frighten him?  No, no. Before it was over he killed forty-four of them himself. I killed thirty-one. And that does not include the bombs we set, or the things we caused to happen through our intelligence reports."

Wink cleared his throat, "What do you want us to do?"

"Just listen for the moment. When you first started coming around he was angry, because there had been a time he could have killed the three of you without breathing hard, but then it became a game. You amused us with your posturing and your antics. If you had crossed the fence, he would have used this," she twitched the pistol, "it was always in the front of his belt covered up by his shirt. He wondered how long it would take before you got up the nerve to come here in the night. We set up this room, and for the past few weeks we have been waiting each night, but you never came. We even shut off the lights and unlocked the window you crawled through tonight hoping you would pay us a visit. We did everything but send you an invitation in the mail. He was so disappointed, and then last week he grew terribly ill. We knew he would die, but since 1945 we have both been on borrowed time. Our lives together have been a blessing. We both should have died in that war, but we didn’t. We were blessed with time. He called it 'gravy time'."

She stood, never taking her eyes from them, and began unscrewing the silencer from the barrel of the pistol.

"So I made him a promise. It was his last wish that I talk to you about old people. We watched you terrify the old people in this neighborhood, and we wondered how many of those old people have forgotten what they once were, and how they would have handled you in a different time. We never forgot, you see. Some of us never do."

Scat Man watched the unscrewing of the silencer, and it gave him hope, "Look, if you want me to say I'm sorry...."

"No," she interrupted, "I just want you to die." She shot him in the face twice, the roar of the .45 automatic loud in the small room. Wink shrieked and tried to stand, but she shot him twice  through the body and he fell backwards, twisting onto the bed and quivered for a moment, his jaw working, then he was still. She walked over to the two, poking them with the muzzle of the pistol as she had so many times so long ago, until she was satisfied that they were as dead as the SS soldiers in the old photo.

Mrs. Ronald Burke then gathered up the photo albums and, throwing back a rug in the middle of the floor, she kissed the photo of her husband and touched it briefly with her fingers in a soft caress. She then dropped them, along with the silencer, through a trap door into a neat little storage area, then closed it and placed the rug back over it. The police, when they finally came, would never look there. They would have no reason to. She was a little old lady defending herself, wasn't she?