The Legacy

The Legacy

Part I

But I wonder why I told Daniel I'd kill him—why it felt so natural to say. I think about my dad. And his dad. And the man he killed in front of him.

My parents divorced before I was two years old. They were high school sweethearts, married in a hurry, and had two kids before they turned 23. I can't even imagine having kids at 23. At that age, I was working odd jobs off the internet, getting high, getting drunk, destroying things for the sake of it—and earnestly searching for true connection.

My mom won custody of my sister and me—Joni is her name. So we lived with her for a decade before I made the mistake of seeking the love of a man who couldn't love himself. Still, the state had already decided that he had the right to spend time with us—every other weekend, and a few weeks in the summer.

Often he didn't show up. Often we were happy to see him after the long silences when he decided to play father. Often that happiness turned to fear, sadness, and resentment. And often, we were glad to return to our mother.

When he did show up, on rare occasions we'd go visit his father. They shared the same name—William Howard Hall—except my dad is No. 2. I never really knew No. 1. I didn't spend much time with him or his wife. She wasn't my grandmother—we called her Peg. She died less than a year after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Not long after, he married his sixth wife—a woman he'd allegedly been seeing while Peg was deteriorating.

As kids, Peg was in full force and No. 1—Papaw Hall—was quiet, stoic, and emotionally absent. I never felt honest saying "I love you" when we left his house, but it was always expected. He always said it. I never knew what it meant for him—probably as little as it meant for me.

When we visited, Joni and I were well-behaved—like a monk and a nun in a church. We weren't unruly children, especially around company. At Mom's house we might've gotten into normal mischief, but at Dad's, it wasn't even possible. We were guilty before we arrived—and the same was true at No. 1's house.

We were often threatened with a wooden spoon by Peg. She'd pull it out before we even sat down and say, "If yew don' behave, I'm gonna smack yew with this spewn." She never hit us—not even close. But we weren't comfortable enough to speak freely, let alone act out. We didn't know them. How could we misbehave?

I doubt Peg gave it much thought. My dad never stopped her. And No. 1 probably thought that's just how it goes. Children are loud. Children cause problems. Children need threats to stay in line. Children get beaten.

Part II

I don't know much about my paternal grandfather. He was raised by a single mom in the bluegrass hills of Casey County, Kentucky. They lived in a shack with his brothers and sisters. His last name was Hall, but he was adopted by one of his mom's husbands—Harland Hall. The rumor is she had an affair with a man named Weddle. Some Weddles showed up to the occasional Hall family reunion, but I never spoke to them.

He was taller than average. We didn't look anything alike. In younger photos, he looks almost Iberian—jet-black hair, sunken brown eyes like a raccoon, no smile—just a grimace. Short torso, lanky arms and legs. That's the only part of him I see in myself.

I take more after my grandmother Carol: fair skin, bright orange hair, blue eyes, freckles. Sometimes I wondered how we were even related. My dad doesn't look like him either.

Occasionally, on long drives when my dad bothered to show up, he'd open up a little. He'd talk about his childhood. What it was like living with No. 1.

On one hot summer drive from Lafayette to Franklin, Indiana—maybe two hours in—I asked him about the small, dark, faded, splotch tattoo on Papaw Hall's hand.

"Dad, what's that tattoo on Papaw's hand?"

A Cubs game played low on the radio. Rachel's Marlboro Lights filled the truck cab with cold, stale smoke. Joni and I sat on the bench seat in the back.

"Did you ever ask him about it?" he replied.

"No, I didn't ask. I was just wondering."

"Well, maybe he don't want you to know."

"I guess it doesn't matter. He's the only one with a tattoo," I said, and let it go.

The volume on the game lowered. Joni and I leaned in.

"I'll tell you why he's got that tattoo," my dad said. "He went to prison."

My sister and I looked at each other both with wide eyes.

"Hey went to prison?" I asked. "What'd he go to prison for?"

"He killed a man, Nicky." My dad said. When I was growing up, I was always called Nicky. It's a name I hated—it felt rightfully diminutive. It also felt effeminate. There were times in fights with my dad where he'd call me my mom's name to humiliate me. He'd yell, "you're just like your mom, Sandy. Want me to call you that? Get your ass to your room, Sandy."

At some point I shed the name Nicky. I just go by Nick now. But these days though, with certain people I'm quite fond of, there is an allowance. A kind loving forgiveness. A reaching back to find and reunite with Nicky.

Those select few can call me Nicky Nick.

"He killed a man?!" I said. "How come he ain't still in jail?"

Joni sat with her blue eyes in disbelief, her ruddy cheeks and curly brown hair bobbing along to the rhythm of the uneven road.

"Yup, they called it a crime of passion." He said. "In those days, if you got so angry you did something stupid, they'd call it that."

My dad was home when it happened.

Papaw Hall's nameless 3rd wife was in the middle of her affair with some nameless man when he came home from work. My dad —who was 10 years old at the time—was sitting in living room watching tv.

He got up when he saw the headlights of his dad's truck beam through the windows. He could hear the adults moaning and slamming in the background. My grandfather burst through the door and paused when he saw my dad staring up at him.

"How long they been going at it?" He asked the boy.

"I dunno. I been here since skew got done." The boy replied.

"I guess you ain't worth a shit," my grandfather said, and walked to the bedroom door, pressing his ear against it. "And I guess she's gon' learn—you can fuck but you can't fuck no.1"

My dad watched as his father turned and bolted out the back door toward the shed. When he reemerged, he was swinging a heavy-duty rusted iron chain. He brought the chain inside the house, grabbed a roll of duct tape, pulled out a hand length knife from his brown cowboy boots, and started wrapping it to one end of the chain.

"What you gon' do with that?" My dad asked. My grandfather didn't answer. He sat down at the table in the dining room, his breathing was shallow and fast, hands trembling as he finished binding the blade. The moaning in the bedroom had stopped. Now only quiet voices. But my grandfather didn't even hear them. He stood, rolling the chain in his palm, turning it over, tighter and tighter.

"I guess this is whut we're plannin' on doin' ti'night," he muttered. And then he kicked open the bedroom door.

And started swinging.