Short Story Sunday: The Curse of Uncle Martin

Benny had delivered the instructions with the drop-off of gherkins. Charlie knew he’d only have to look under the middle jar in the shop-soiled batch to find it. But for some reason, and Benny wasn’t about to speculate why, Charlie was late. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and inhaled. He’d give it another five minutes before he radioed base. Best not to ruffle too many feathers while the sun was still up. 

It would only make that hothead newbie Frank lose his cool. And where was Frank, anyway? He checked the ledger under his seat. Right: on a job with S’bu down in Clanwilliam. All that had been written alongside the entry was “Big Beef” in Lance’s square caps. That meant there would be a bust-up and Frank The Tank was just the right man to do it. He was more of a Mike Tyson than a Muhammad Ali, but he got the job done.

          The radio crackled.

          “Radio Man, come in.”

          Benny decided to let them sweat before answering. “Radio Man, over.”

          “There’s been a delay with Lulu. New instructions via the depot. Over.”

          “I read you. Over and out.”

          He started the engine and let the motor idle for a moment. He thought back to when he was a foster kid in Auntie Maxie’s house. She’d had Uncle Martin round – her brother-in-law – with his four sons.

          “Let there be a curse on you, Martin, for the way you’ve dealt with me. I’ve lost all my money to your scheming and now I’ve seven mouths to feed on nothing.”

          Uncle Martin sat there, in the special armchair reserved for social workers and government people who visited the house and would take Benny away if he didn’t behave himself. Around him, were his four sons, all older than Benny and every inch the seedy villains he’d read about in Enid Blyton’s books.

          Without thinking, he shifted his foot and the bakkie stalled. He turned the key in the ignition again and floored it. The traffic was light enough and he would make it back to the depot before sunset.

“How did this happen?” Martin’s eyes were bloodshot and his hair had seen too many palms. He was glaring at Martie, his grandson and namesake, who was chomping at his fingernails and skirting the floor with his eyes.

          “It was an accident, boss.” Bill was the only one brave enough to speak.

          “Who put him on the job? Tell me his name!”

          “Nobody. Charlie decided to do it himself. By the time we got there, it was all over.”

          Martin slumped into the executive chair behind the desk and the wheels carted him backwards, into the bookshelf. He didn’t seem to notice. Martie was whimpering on the opposite end of the room. There was nothing to do but wait. And delay telling his wife. Bad news like this was sure to kill her. Most people would say that it wasn’t every day that you had to bury your son. He’d buried three already and, if what Bill told him was true, he was about to bury a fourth.

          “Get out of here.”

          Bill made for the door.

          “You too. And not a word to your grandmother, understood?”

          Martie quaked and left.

          When the door was closed and their footfalls disappeared, Martin swivelled on his chair until he faced the bookshelf. He tugged at a bookend to unlatch the door to his strong room where, amongst other things, he kept a stash of whiskey.

Maxie was filling the bowl with cat food when she felt a sense of foreboding. She steadied herself against the kitchen table and breathed deeply. The remnants of her tea with Flora were still there, so she picked up her cup and studied the dregs. The cup clattered against the saucer and the ear flew onto the floor, startling Mr Chips. Black spots appeared before her eyes.

          “Maxie, what is that noise? Maxie? Maxie!”

Delia grabbed her as her foster mother slumped to the floor. She patted her pockets for her cellphone and called the only person she could trust.

“Delia, I can’t talk now. I’m heading back to the depot.”

“It’s Maxie. She’s collapsed in the kitchen.”

Benny swore under his breath. “On my way.”

Martin was into his second double whiskey when he heard a knock on the door.

          “Not now.”

          “It’s Benny.”

          He stowed the glass next to his knife collection, retrieved the breath spray from his jacket and squirted into his mouth, stepped out of the strong room and positioned himself behind the desk.

          “Come in.”

          He was expecting to see the man-sized version of one of the urchins Maxie had taken in all those years ago. What he wasn’t expecting was another woman and Maxie trailing behind him.

          “What’s this about?” He watched them steer Maxie to the chair Martie had occupied.

          “Maxie collapsed in her kitchen. I called Benny and when she came to, she asked for you.”

          “They have doctors for this sort of thing. Why are you all here? And who are you?”

          “I’m Delia. I live with Maxie.”

          “Thank you, Benny, Delia. I need a moment alone with Uncle Martin.”

          When Delia began to fuss, she raised her hand.

          “We’ll wait outside.” Benny took Delia’s arm and steered her to the door before she could protest.

          Maxie swallowed. “I saw something in the tea leaves today.”

          “Don’t tell me you’re still up to those sorts of things at your age.”

          “The tea leaves never lie, Martin.”

          He snorted.

          “I saw the sign of Death today.”

          He shifted in his seat. “You don’t think...”

          She nodded, and tears stumbled over her wrinkles. “I’m sorry, Martin. I should never have cursed you twenty-five years ago.”

          “What? What are you talking about?”

          “I was angry. You encouraged me to invest in your scheme and I’d lost all my savings. You have no idea what I had to do to get food for those poor children. I almost lost my home. Do you remember? You were there, I think it was a Sunday, telling me how you’d lost all my money in a bad investment. I was so angry that I cursed you. I didn’t think it would really work. People say things all the time that they don’t mean. And now, now that Charlie... I’m sorry, Martin.” She stood. “But I finally think that your loss has equalled mine. Because nothing in this world can bring back your boys.”

Maxie let out a cry and fell to the floor.

Martin dropped the pistol. It happened so quickly. Benny and Delia burst into the room. One of them was screaming. There was too much noise, too much commotion. Maxie was slack-jawed and in Benny’s arms. He tugged on the book and slipped into the strong room. When he closed the door, there was silence. It settled around him with the weight of a winter blanket. The whiskey was where he had left it. He took the glass with him to the leather recliner on the far end of the room. He passed a row of photographs on the wall. Hugh had died from falling off a ladder. George was kicked in the head by a horse. Richard was crushed when a tractor fell on him. If he believed the reports from Lou, Charlie had been impaled by a forklift and Martie would grow up without his father.

He didn’t believe in curses or the occult. But something Maxie said made him snap. The nature of business meant that everything was a gamble. She knew that from the start. And hadn’t he taken care of her and the urchins all these years? Hadn’t he made sure she had lamb on Sundays and gammon at Christmas? For the first time since he was five years old, Martin wept.

“Delia, I’m going to ask you to stop screaming.” Benny sped down the street. “From what I can tell, it’s just a flesh wound and Maxie is going to be fine.”

          “How could he?”

          “I think he’s upset because he’s just lost Charlie.”

          “You can’t be defending him.”

          “I’m not. But if some woman showed up at my office and told me she’d cursed my family, I reckon I would have reacted as he did.” He looked at Maxie while waiting for the light to change. “Move that tourniquet higher, Dee. She’s losing more blood than she needs to.”

When they got to the hospital, he left Delia to deal with the doctors. It gave her a sense of being useful. Benny had something he needed to take care of first. He went back to the parking lot and got into the bakkie. He dialled the number and waited.

          “Benny.” He was drunker than before.

          “Uncle Martin, we’ve brought Maxie to the hospital. Looks like she’s going to be fine. I told them some neighbourhood kids were playing with their dad’s pistol and it seems to have done the trick. They’ve taken the casings I brought.”

          “How much dough did it take?”

          “None. I’m a good actor.” He cleared his throat. “Um, I know you want to be alone at the moment, but I wanted to tell you that I don’t think you are cursed. Your son is still alive.”

          “Charlie? Alive?”

          “No, not Charlie. I’ve known for some time that I’m your son too. Yours and Maxie’s. I was there on the day that she cursed you. If it was real, something would have happened to me by now.”

          Martin smiled. “Thank you, Benny. Phone me when she’s released.”

          “Will do.”

          “Goodbye. Son.”

          Benny grinned as he got out of the cab. He didn’t hear the shouts behind him and he didn’t feel the crunch of bone on steel when the runaway truck pinned him to his bakkie. 

          Across town, the ice in Martin’s whiskey cracked, startling him.