I Think My Grandson Might Be A Serial Killer
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At my age, sleeping through the night is not an option. Every three or four hours, my bladder jabs at me, groans at me, presses at me, sending waves of discomfort through my old body. When I was young, hell, just a decade ago, I didn't need to get up twice in the damn night to piss. Now, if I only have to go once between the time my head hits the pillow and the sun comes up, I consider that a win.

So it should come as no surprise that at 3 o'clock in the morning, this cold December night, I'm standing in the dark, aiming my stream by muscle memory at the porcelain target, and I happen to glance out the bathroom window and see my grandson in the backyard. The no surprise part is that I have to take a leak. Again, I am, however, 100% surprised to see my grandson out there in the cold and dark.

Pissing at my age is an event. It's not like I turn on the hose and out it all comes. Then I give a shake, tuck my junk away, flush, and that's that. No. With a fucking ornery prostate like mine, pissing is a step-by-step affair. Trickle, trickle, piss. Trickle, trickle, piss.

So it takes me a minute or so before I can tuck my junk and turn fully to the bathroom window to watch my grandson's nocturnal goings-on. "What are you doing?" I mutter to myself as the kid goes from the shed into the woods behind our house, back to the shed, and back to the woods, over and over and over. "Get yourself a damn wheelbarrow." On the first trip, he has a shovel. When he comes back, he doesn't have the shovel.

Then he leaves with a coil of rope. He has something else in his hands, but I can't tell what it is. He doesn't come back with the rope either, or the axe, or the handful of black trash bags. When he finally grabs the wheelbarrow, I've about had enough. I throw open the bathroom window, stick my head out and shout, "Boy! What in the hell are you doing?" My grandson, Ichabod, but we call him Bodhi, with wheelbarrow in hand, stops dead.

His back is to me and he slowly looks over his shoulder. Then he slowly looks up at the bathroom window where I'm freezing my junk off since all I got on are some thin white boxers. "Go back to sleep, Pappy," Bodhi says. "Nothing for you to worry about." "Boy, that's my damn job," I yell. "Worrying about you." Which is true. When I say we call the boy Bodhi, I mean just me. My wife died years ago.

A bad fall down the basement stairs. She hung on for days, but just wasn't strong enough to pull through. My daughter, Bodhi's mom, and her husband, Bodhi's scumball father, also died in a tragic car accident. They didn't find them or the vehicle at the bottom of the canyon for eight days. I had to identify the bodies. They weren't pretty. That left my only grandchild in my care and my care alone.

And for the last 16 years, it has been holy hell. When he was little, his elementary school counselor mentioned she had some worries. "Worries? Like what?" I asked, when I finally had to go in and speak with her. Otherwise, they wouldn't let Bodhi come back to school. "He's a good boy. Gets good grades. Does what he's told at home." That last part was a lie. The little shit didn't listen worth a damn. No matter how much I yelled at him,

"That may be, Mr. Edwards, but your grandson's behavior here at Jones Elementary has not been so well behaved," the school counselor said. "I studied her. This woman who was gone and stuck her nose in my family,

She's an older woman, not as old as me, but well past her baby-making years, that's for sure. A frumpy bitch. Beige sweater over a lighter beige blouse, paired with beige slacks. She looked like a goddamn khaki orgy happening on a huge bag of lumpy mashed potatoes. "Mr. Edwards?" she said. "Did you hear me?" "It's just me at home," I said, my voice trembling a little for effect.

From the second I walked into her office, I could tell she only saw me as some sad old man. I could take advantage of that. "I have been doing my best since my sweet daughter and her fine husband passed." "I know, I know. And your wife is gone too, yes?" "She is, yes. Thank you for bringing up such pain. It's not like I don't think about her every minute of every day. I appreciate your sympathy."

That mind fucked her. She didn't have a clue what to do next. Was I serious? Was I making fun of her? Was I playing her? Or just some old bastard in over his head? It could hardly be the last part, since I was in my late 50s when Bodhi was in elementary school. But to the dumpy bitch in front of me, in no small part due to my performance that day, she saw me as some senile pain in her beige ass.

"You have endured great loss," she said, and actually reached her wrinkled hands across the desk. I stared at them like they were two turds that had just sprouted legs. After a second, she pulled her hands back. "Yes, well, even with yours and your grandson's losses in mind, Ichabod's behavior can no longer be tolerated. I've done all I can, so I am recommending an outside therapist for him to see." "Therapist?"

"You want him to go see some loser wacko who couldn't get his own shit together, so he got a damn degree to fuck with other people's shit? No thank you." She blinked at me a few times, frowned, then straightened up and cleared her throat. "I'm afraid it's mandatory." "Is that so? And what happens if he doesn't go to this therapist of yours?"

"He's not my therapist. He's a colleague who-" "Cut the crap, woman. Get to the bottom line. If Bodhi don't go to your damn mandatory therapy, then what happens?" "Well, Ichabod would have to leave Jones Elementary and find a new school to attend," she said, a nod without a little satisfaction in her voice. "There are some fine schools in the area that would be happy to take Ichabod." "Would they now? They'd be happy?"

She nodded and smiled. "So his school records won't follow him?" Her smug smile slipped a little. "Well, no. We would have to send his records over so they know where to place him." "And I bet there'll be a note from you in there saying what a little angel he is, right?" "Mr. Edwards, Ichabod's issues have been well documented. We do have to alert the new school of any past negative behavior."

It is our moral, professional, ethical, and legal responsibility to do so. Then what you're saying is Bodhi will have your stink on him until he graduates high school. That it? I certainly would not use those terms, no. So it won't be your assessment in his records that torpedoes his life? Again, I wouldn't use those terms. What terms would you use, lady? Tell me that.

She clasped her hands together and tried to get things back on track. If I hadn't been having so much fun fucking with her, I'd have laughed. "Your grandson shows signs of antisocial behavior, as well as a propensity for dangerous and violent tendencies." "You don't say 'tendencies' if you've already said 'propensity.' Where'd you go to school? State? I bet it was State."

"Yes, I went to state." She cleared her throat again, and then again. "Excuse me." She took a sip of whatever was in her coffee cup. My guess? Whiskey with a dash of coffee. I'd like to think she was drunk, and not just stupid. But from looking at her face, she was probably both. She continued to clear her throat over and over. She coughed hard, and then stared down at her desk. "Oh dear."

Specks of blood were splattered on her desk calendar. "Um, oh," she mumbled and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then stared at the smeared blood left behind with surprise. Not sure why she seemed surprised. What did she expect to see? "You cough up blood and wipe your mouth, you're gonna get blood on you." "Looks like you need to see a doctor," I said and stood up. "Maybe that therapist friend of yours can help." "Mr. Edwards, we aren't finished," she said around coughs.

I smirked and shook my head. "Oh sweetheart, you are definitely finished." She coughed harder and harder. Bloody spittle flew through the air until she clamped her hands over her mouth. I made sure to get well away from the spray. "You have a good day, miss whatever your name is. And don't you worry about Bodhi, I got this handled." I left the beige bitch to her TB fit or whatever it was and walked out of her office.

Bodhi was sitting in one of the chairs that lined the wall between the bitch's office and the assistant principal's office. "Come on, boy," I said, and smacked him on the shoulder. "We're going home." "Okay," he said and followed me down the hall and out of the main office. "Sir, sir, you have to sign out." The pretty young thing they had as receptionist shouted after me. "Sir!" Normally, I would have gone back in and smoothed it all over.

Plus, get me a good look at them perky tits that pretty young thing has. But that day? Fuck that school. I wasn't signing shit because I wasn't planning on bringing Bodhi back ever again.

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"What happened to Miss Nichols?" Bodhi asked me as we crossed the parking lot to my pickup truck. "Who?" "Miss Nichols, the counselor lady." "That her name? Nichols?" "Yes, Pappy." That was when the boy still had manners. "Got me," I replied. "Looked like TB the way she was coughing up that blood." "Or it could have been something she drank." I paused and looked down at my grandson. He looked up at me and just smiled and smiled.

"Boy, you was in there with her before I got there, right?" "Yes, Pappy." "Was she drinking her coffee when you was in there?" "Yes, Pappy." A twinkle filled his eye. "Body, did you put something in that woman's coffee?" "No, Pappy." "You sure?" "I'm sure, Pappy." I watched the boy for a moment. He looked like his mama when he smiled that way. "Okay, good. And if anyone else asks, you tell them the same thing."

"I will, Pappy." He smiled even wider. "Because it's the truth." "Sure it is, boy. I'm sure it is." I homeschooled Bodhi from then on. Only thing I could do after that bloody, beige bitch ruined things. Moral, professional, ethical, and legal responsibility, my wrinkled ass. That woman just liked fucking little kids over, because she was probably fucked over when she was a little kid. She should have known better than to fuck with my grandson.

But then she did go to state, so it wasn't all her fault, just bad education. Which was the opposite of what my grandson would be getting under my tutelage. No, Bodhi was gonna learn right by me. I bought all the books and forms and folders and binders and materials the government said I had to, so that Bodhi could get his diploma or GED, or whatever it is they give homeschooled kids when they are finally old enough and can leave the nest.

Not that Bodhi ever left the nest. Once a month, another beige bitch would come by to inspect "the facilities" as she called them. I called it a fucking breakfast nook, where I'd hung a chalkboard and put up some shelves for all of Bodhi's new books, forms, and folders, and binders, and materials. We passed with flying colors every time, not that they set a high bar.

That woman would come in, sniff around a little, pretend like she was jotting something down on her clipboard, then hand me a sheet of paper clearing me to keep teaching. Not that I needed any damn paper from the government telling me what I could and could not do with my grandson. Especially, to be honest, since I weren't sure that new beige bitch could even read. She was dumb as a bag of rocks and about as useful. So, it was left to me to teach the boy.

I learned him his numbers and letters. The boy ain't dumb. Takes after his pappy in the brains department. It's what got him kicked out of that prison of an elementary school. Seeing things his way and not the way the system wanted him to. Well, I showed them. I taught that boy everything in those books and folders and binders and materials.

Then, when that was done, I taught him what I knew: how to set snares and catch rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, possums, and every other critter who scurried across our property, all 60 acres of it. Sometimes we'd see deer, and I'd take Bodhi with me as we tracked them down.

I showed him how to read tracks, and how to look for broken branches and fallen leaves. Taught him how to keep his breathing even, so as not to spook the prey. Then how to slip and slide through the underbrush, silent as a wildcat and just as deadly. Now, you ain't supposed to shoot does, just bucks. But I say if it's on my land, then I get to shoot it, whether it's got nuts down there or not. Bodhi learned how to kill and dress an animal in the field.

How to dig a deep hole and let all that blood drain into it. Then cover over that hole so no one was the wiser. I taught him how to slice a body from stem to stern, taking out all the organs and setting them in a bucket for later. You don't waste good organ meat, even if it can be a little gamey. But that's why the good lord invented sausage, if you ask me. And I showed him how to butcher your kill right there in the field too. Cut it up into smaller parts makes it easier to haul back to the cellar.

and already having it portioned out like that meant all I had to do was wrap them parts in a layer of butcher paper, then a layer of heavy-duty plastic wrap, toss 'em in the freezer, and we got good eats for the rest of the winter. Between them books and shit, and our field trips out on our land, I taught Bodhi everything he needed to know if he was gonna survive in this shit heap of a world.

So that's why it pains me to watch my grandson, my only family left, look like a stupid idiot as he goes back and forth from the shed to the woods, from the woods to the shed. "Go back to sleep, Pappy," Bodhi says. "Nothing for you to worry about. Boy, that's my damn job!" I yell. "Worrying about you!" I slam the windows shut and storm out of the bathroom. "Tell me not to worry and go back to bed? Who in the hell does that boy think he is?"

I worry when I want, and I'll go back to bed when I want. He may be 21 now, but I'm still the adult here. 21-year-olds don't know shit. No, that ain't true. They know shit. And that's all they know. Shit. I find my jeans by my bed and pull them on. Then I hunt for my damn t-shirt, which should have been by my jeans, but is over my dresser instead. Must have kicked it there when I got up to piss.

Dressed, I grab socks and hustle my old bones downstairs. Socks and boots on, I snag my parka from its hook by the back door and slip into it since it's colder out there than a witch's clit sliding down an iceberg. When I get to the shed, the boy is inside, rummaging about for something. "What the hell are you doing out here at 3 o'clock in the morning?" I snap. "And in the dark? You think you're a bat or something?"

I step into the shed, reach up, and pull the string attached to the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. You're welcome. Turn that off, Pappy! Someone will see the light! So fucking what? It's the middle of the goddamn night, and the closest house is a mile down the road. What if somebody drives by?

So what if they do? This shed is behind the house, dumbass. And the house is an acre from the road. Didn't I teach you math and shit? Didn't I teach you geometry and angles and shit? I wait, but he keeps rummaging. Boy, I asked you some questions! He stiffens, stands straight, and turns around. He's got my tackle box opened and resting in one hand. He slowly withdraws my boning knife, sets the tackle box back down, and then smiles at me.

"Found it," he says. "Good for you. And what do you plan on doing with that?" "Well, I hope so. Because that's what that knife is for." I rub my tired eyes. "You gonna answer my question or not?" "Sorry, Pappy. I wasn't listening." "Did I teach you geometry or not?" "Why are you asking me that?" "Answer the damn question, boy!" My voice ain't playing, but he rolls his eyes anyway. I'm one more bit of disrespect away from slapping that smile off his face.

"Yeah, Pappy. You taught me geometry." "Yes, I fucking did. Now do you know why geometry is important? Do you know why I asked you that question, here in this shed, at three o'clock in the morning?" "Not really, no," he says and tries to walk past me. I put a hand on his chest and he looks down at it, then looks back up at me. "Pappy, I'm busy. Can we talk about my homeschool days in the morning over breakfast? I'll make pancakes." "Line of sight." "What?"

He stares a moment, then nods. "Line of sight. Right."

"Sorry, Pappy. I just been in my head with all of this and I forgot that part. You're right, no one can see the shed from the road. They don't have line of sight." I suck my teeth a little and study the boy closer. "Where you been tonight?" I ask. There's light gray clay on his boots, so I can guess, but I want to hear it from his own mouth. "Nowhere," he says and shrugs. "Don't lie to me, boy."

A little anger flashes in those eyes, and I have to struggle not to grin. "Good for you, boy. Get yourself some backbone." "I was," he says. "Where? At the Thunderbird Tavern? That where you were out at?" His smile slips. "Maybe. Don't you maybe me, boy," I point at his boots. "That clay you got on your boots? Only parking lot in twenty miles that has clay is the Thunderbird Tavern. Dead giveaway right there."

"Shit, I didn't know that." I slap him across the cheek. Hard. He instantly recoils, his hand going to his face while his other hand holds out the boning knife. "What you gonna do with that?" I snap and go to grab the knife out of his hand, but he's too fast and yanks it out of my reach. He takes a couple of steps back, rubs his cheek a little, then smiles again. "I gotta pay better attention," he says.

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"Line of sight! Clay on my boots!" He looks down at himself. He nods. "Drop of blood on my shirt! No, two drops! One at the hem and one by the collar!" "And you have a tear in your jeans, see there?" He cocks his head and turns around in a circle. "No, where is it?" "By the seam of your left pocket, up top. See it?" He looks and looks, and finally nods.

I see it. It's tiny. He glances up at me, and that big smile is back. How'd you even see that? What's that mean? You think my eyes are too weak to notice your mistakes? Boy, if I don't notice them, then who in the hell will? No one would have noticed that. Turn out your pocket. What? Turn out your damn pocket. He turns out his damn pocket. That all you got to say? He stretches the inside-out pocket even more, then steps closer to the light.

"Blood," he says and nods again. "Missed that too." "Yes, you did miss that too. You missed a lot." I shake my head and turn my back on the boy. "Did I fail you, Bodhi?" "What? No, Pappy. Why would you ask that?" "Making all this racket in the middle of the night, taking several trips from this shed and into the woods, when all you needed to do was get the wheelbarrow first, load it up, and make one trip."

"I'm sorry, Pappy." "Sorry ain't gonna keep you safe. Sorry is just an excuse to fuck up again, and again, and again. I don't want you sorry, boy. I want you prepared. And from what I've seen tonight, you are not prepared." "I am, Pappy!" He exclaims and comes around in front of me, his eyes pleading. "I did it all right! I swear I did!" "From what I'm seeing, I find that hard to believe."

His face scrunches up and he glances at the boning knife. Then he holds it out to me. "Here, Pappy. I don't deserve this." Seeing his shoulders slump as he tries to give me the knife nearly breaks my old heart. I sigh and shake my head slowly. "Ah, Bodhi, no. It's me who should be sorry," I say and pat him on the shoulder. "I was just frustrated because I had to pee again." "You've been peeing a lot at night." "Yeah, I know." I snap.

I take a deep breath and continue. "I was frustrated, and I saw you out here just bumbling around, and I don't know, just got me riled up." "I'll do better. I'll do as you taught me," he says, still holding the knife out to me. "Line of sight, clean boots, watch for blood spatter." "How many people saw you at the Thunderbird?" "Just the regulars. Carl, Amy, Jorge, and that new bartender, what's her name? Laura." "That's all?" "That's all." "What about the girl?" "What girl?"

Boy, I ain't the cops. I ask a question, you goddamn answer it. Sorry, Pappy. What about the girl? She have friends? Or was she alone? Alone? Or why bother, right? I smile at that. Don't worry. I didn't shout her up or nothing. None of the regulars even knew I was watching her. You sure? I'm sure. Even that new bartender? I ain't met her yet. Nah, she doesn't like me. So she ignored me most of the night.

"Because you're a shitty tipper." I shake my head. "Your damn generation. If it isn't already calculated out for you, you just say fuck it and throw down a buck. You think any hard-working person can get by on a buck? What do you care if that Laura chick gets by? Because if she gets by, then she's happy. If she's happy, then she's less likely to be a problem." I pat his shoulder again, then push past him and step back out into the frigid night. "I'm giving you some homework, boy.

"What? Homework? I'm not being homeschooled anymore, Pappy." "You want homework from me or homework from a judge?" "What homework does a judge give?" "Prison time, dumbass!" "Right," he grimaces and kicks a clump of frozen grass with his clay-encrusted boot. "What's the homework?" "Get that Laura bitch to like you." "Why?"

Because if she likes you then you're off her radar and you don't want to be on a bartender's radar They talk a lot and you know who they talk about Asshole customers who don't tip worth a shit. Sorry Pappy stop being sorry and start being smart Can you do that? Yes, Pappy good. I

So next time you're at the Thunderbird, be nice to Laura. She won't be nice to you, not right away. But after a few visits and some nice tips, she'll come around. Will she? Because you know how people treat me, Pappy. Even the regulars like to give me the cold shoulder. That's because you're weird as fuck, boy. I'd assign that as homework, to stop being weird as fuck. But that's a lost cause. You were born weird as fuck and you'll die weird as fuck.

then how do i get laura to like me if i'm weird as are you not listening which part of tip good did you not understand so she's like a i pay her to like me no she ain't no she's a bartender she never has to like you this homework is sounding kind of hard pappy you think if it was easy it wouldn't be called work now would it

So what you're saying is, I have to wear her down to get her to like me. Tip good, be patient. Hip hip fucking hooray! Now you are getting it! Tip good, be patient. You'll see, once she's on your side, then the regulars will warm up some. Pretty soon, you'll be all bosom buddies and no one will look sideways at you when you leave with some pretty stray fresh off the road.

And now is the real test. Time to see if the kid has any brains in that skull of his, or if he's truly a lost cause. Like that damn beige bitch from the elementary school obviously thought. You leave with her tonight? What? No! And from the force of that objection, I know he's telling the truth. No, Pappy. I finished my beer and paid up a good 15 minutes before she left the tavern. Where'd you wait? I parked the truck under the old oak around the side. Gave me a great view of her car.

That's a good ways away though. I let her get in and drive off. Then I followed her until she pulled over. Why'd she pull over? She had nails in her two back tires. Big ones. She made it about three miles before she couldn't keep going. Where's her car now? At the bottom of Blount Reservoir. You take the shortcut I showed you back to the highway? Yup. Cut about 40 minutes of walking time. Took me right to my truck. I hope that truck was on a side road.

It was in the large grove. You'd have to shine a spotlight on it to see it. I nod, happy with his answers. Phone? Purse? In her car. Phone was turned off, and I destroyed the SIM card. Good, good. Then I wince. What? What's wrong? Did I screw something else up?

Nope. Gotta piss again. I sigh a happy sigh. Okay, not bad. You'll do better next time. But a good start. You need any help? No, Pappy, I got this. You go take a leak. Alright. Night, dumbass. Night, Pappy. I walk back to the house and step inside. Bodhi watches me the whole way. I can feel his eyes on me. Once inside, I go upstairs and turn the bathroom light on.

Then I slip back downstairs and into the night once again. Bodhi is nowhere to be seen, so I move slowly, carefully in the direction where I saw him hauling all the gear. The woods are dark as fuck, and I have to stop for a few minutes to let my eyes adjust, to have Bodhi's young eyes again. I used to see like a fucking cat at night. It doesn't take me long to find him. He's humming some tune to himself, so he's easy to track down. I'll have to talk to him about the humming.

It's fine when you're in a soundproof basement, but out here? Not so smart. Hidden in a clump of rhododendrons, I watch as he takes the boning knife and circles the girl's body here strung up by the ankles under a large fir tree. Good choice of tree. Looks like a strong limb that can hold a body and also take the friction from pulling on a rope. Then he disappoints me and uses the boning knife to cut the girl's clothes away. Damn it! That just dulls the blade!

I'll add that to the list of things to mention over breakfast in the morning. I don't stay for the whole process. I've seen it myself so many times that it's just lost its edge. As Bodhi bleeds her out, I slip away silently and walk back to the house. Is my grandson a serial killer? Well, he's on his way, but not there yet. As far as I know, this is his first kill. He's gotta get at least a few more under his belt before he can add "serial" to just plain "killer."

It's a numbers game. Just like I taught him with all those books and folders and binders and materials. And they say homeschooled kids won't amount to nothing. Well, that's bullshit. My grandson will go on to do great things. Just like his pappy did at his age.

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