By Megan Hemenway
(TW: sudden death, grief, cannibalism, drug use)
My uncle Vern died last week. I’ve been staying at his place, sorting out his stuff.
I loved Vern, obviously, but I’m bitter about being holed up in his dusty apartment. Out of me and my six cousins, the aunts and uncles designated me as the best equipped to go through his mess of cardboard boxes, bursting file folders, and his ancient computer. I tried to argue that a degree in Computer Science doesn’t make me an expert in Vern’s floppy discs or whatever, but no one listened.
Don’t be a brat, Alex.
So, I sit at his creaky desk with my phone in my hand, dreading the next pile of junk.
Vern was an anthropologist, but also a hoarder. He kept records of everything. Every class he took, every research project he led, every work trip he embarked on, and just about every thought he ever had.
His apartment is basically a museum. Every Beatles record sits on a shelf by the door. Picture albums are stuffed under the coffee table, spilling polaroids of babies in swings and faded people from the 1950s. Biographies and history books are stacked in the hall with sticky notes poking out the sides. I found his closet filled almost to the ceiling with moleskine notebooks documenting his life, scene by scene. At first, I read them, vaguely interested in teenage Vern. Eventually, I threw them into a pile for Mabel to go through.
Mabel is Vern’s daughter. She isn’t here going through her father’s things because she needed time after planning the funeral. His death, a brain hemorrhage after slipping in a Starbucks bathroom, was sudden and violent. Closed casket and everything.
Staying in Vern’s place isn’t totally bad, I guess. It’s the nice thing to do. And it gets me out of my parents’ house for a few days. Last night, I took an edible, threw The Eagles on the record player, and laid on Vern’s floor for an hour. No one forced themselves into my room to see what I was doing or bitched at me for eating cereal for dinner. I really should go back to college, now that I think about it. But first, there’s Vern’s crap to deal with.
There’s been no method to my organizing so far besides picking up whatever looks most interesting. I started with the shiny trinkets he collected from his research trips, compasses and figurines and treasures that looked straight out of Indiana Jones. Then I spent a few hours looking through his stacks of vinyls and hearing them crackle through his ancient speakers. Today, I’ve thrown every notebook I could find into a single corner. But now it’s onto the books and boxes. And the other stuff I’d rather not do.
On the first night, I started in Vern’s bedroom, thinking I would just do a little cleaning before conking out. I got freaked out by his sheets. They were still crumpled from the last time he slept in them. I moved myself and my pillows to the living room and played on my phone until I forgot what happened.
I always knew Vern was a strange guy, even when I was a kid. He seemed old my entire life, with thinning hair and a wiry, white beard. He smiled easily, but would get carried away in monologues that nobody ever asked for. He could talk for literal hours, especially about those that died out billions of years ago. But he also had plenty of opinions on politics, global warming, and how playing video games would give kids arthritis.
He was a nice guy, but kind of exhausting.
I put down my phone and return to the box at my feet. It doesn’t have a label like some of the others do. Argentina. Family Reunion ‘97. New Zealand 2003. Social security? Oxford.
I open the flaps and cough away the dust. Inside, random stuff is stacked. Stone idols of religious figures, an old safari hat folded in half, and napkins with notes scribbled on them. Wedged into the corner is a cassette tape with a piece of painter’s tape on it and Vern’s blocky handwriting: Mexico 1983. I pick it up.
Beside Vern’s 100-pound computer is an audio recorder and cassette player. Liam and I used to record raps on it when we were kids and Vern would shake his head in disappointment. Alex, you should spend more time reading and less time finding rhymes for “sucks.”
I slide the tape in with a satisfying click and press play. The machine whirs. At first, all I hear is static.
The audio goes for about 25 minutes. For the first ten minutes or so, I sneak peeks at my phone, bored. About halfway through, I start listening again. By the time the tape reaches its end, I’m running to the bathroom to throw up my dinner.
⚖
My brother Alex calls me a little past midnight.
His breathing is strained. I think he might be crying. My first thought is that he got too high and wants me to call an ambulance. It wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t get out of bed yet.
“I just need you to come to the apartment,” He whispers.
“Are you ok?”
“I don’t know.”
A stab of panic slices through my gut. I see blood spatters behind my eyes.
“Alex, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“No! Just come over.” His voice is ragged. “Please.”
I throw off my covers and fumble around for socks. “Ok. I’m on my way.”
“Ok.” Alex gives one more shaky breath before hanging up. Beep beep beep.
It only takes me a minute to grab everything I need. Keys, shoes, wallet, and a granola bar stuffed into my pocket in case this takes a long time. Vern never keeps much food in his apartment. Or, kept.
The streets are dark and quiet when I step out of my place. Alex is only a fifteen minute walk away, but it feels longer. The streetlights leave pools of white on the asphalt, and I hustle between them, weirdly uncomfortable being out here so late. I haven’t gone out much since Vern died.
I really liked Uncle Vern. He was a weirdo, and too smart for his own good. As a kid, I never thought liking books made me a loser because Vern always liked books, and made sure I knew it was a good thing. We would exchange titles all the time, spitting out authors like they were our peers in a secret club. He took me to the Harvard Museum of Natural History for every birthday too, and we would stare, awe-struck, at the looming skeleton of the giant sloth. He welcomed my curiosity when my parents were more eager for my mouth to shut.
We grew apart somewhat. Or maybe I just noticed the chasm between us for the first time. Vern was loving, but maybe not caring in the traditional sense. He would listen to your words just to get his own out. He didn’t care much for the parts of my life that weren’t interesting to him, like new girlfriends or tattoos or horror movies.
At a certain point, a phone call or a family dinner sufficed. He went on his trips and I got busy. I don’t think anyone was upset about it.
I do feel guilty though. As I walk toward his apartment, I think of him, not Alex. I can’t help but wonder if a part of him was upset with me before he died. I’ve been tallying all the things that I left unsaid, that I thought we would have time for. Book recommendations, new record stores, and New York Times articles clipped straight from the paper. I guess I’ll never know.
I jog the last few blocks and land on the front stoop of Vern’s apartment complex. I quickly type in the passcode to the building and jump into an elevator which drifts up towards the 10th floor.
At the end of the hall, Vern’s door stands open. Alex is in the doorway, biting his nails. His face is scrubbed red.
“What happened?” It comes out rougher than I meant it, but I’m sick with anticipation. Alex never acts like this. These days, he only calls me to complain about our parents or ask me to buy him beer.
Alex just shakes his head. I push past him into the apartment.
I take stock of everything. It’s a mess, but not any more than it usually is. There are boxes stacked near the door and down the hall. Junk is spread out over the floor. A pillow and blanket are rumpled on the couch. Vern’s computer screen is a bright blue canvas, and beside it, the audio player clicks.
“I found something bad.” Alex says.
“What?”
His words don’t really compute in my head. I’m looking for blood or drugs or evidence of a crime.
“In Vern’s stuff. There was a tape.”
Alex is pale. Sweat stains ring his armpits. My brain goes into overdrive, trying to figure out what’s going on. Is Alex more upset about Vern’s death than we thought? Has being here alone messed with him?
I ask him these questions. I try to be gentle. I lead him into the kitchen and grab a water bottle from the fridge. He just holds it in his hands, as if he doesn’t even know what to do with it.
“I’m not crazy, Liam.”
“I didn’t say you are. I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I just found something weird.”
I shrug. Maybe if I can minimize the situation, he’ll look normal again. “Vern had all kinds of strange stuff.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Alex groans. He slams the water on the counter and backs away.
I need a new tactic.
“Ok, ok. What is it?”
“It’s.…” Alex rubs his eyes with his knuckles, hard enough to leave red marks on his skin. “I feel like you won’t believe me.”
“Of course I will.” I wonder if there’s a chance I won’t. I can’t even fathom where this could be going. Alex isn’t the prank type, but then again, I didn’t think he was the calling-me-crying type either.
“Ok. Well. It was a cassette tape from the ‘80s. Vern went to Mexico or something. And it started out with him interviewing this guy, and I think they were in the woods or something, and then.…”Alex’s eyes start to flicker around the room, like he’s looking for an escape. His next words are barely audible. “I think he ate the guy.”
“What?”
My stomach churns. The longer I stare at Alex’s face, the more unwell I feel. He has to be joking, but I see no sign of a smile. I search and search, yet all I see is genuine fear in his eyes.
“Why would you say that?”
“I could hear it! Him.”
“That’s not possible.”
Alex just stares at me.
“Let me listen to it.”
Alex and I wind our way back to the living room. He sits in Vern’s desk chair and reaches over to the audio recorder. His finger hovers over play.
“It’s really bad, Liam.”
“That’s ok,” I say, not quite believing that it is.
“Um. Alright.”
Alex presses the play button. I listen for 25 minutes and don’t speak for an extra five after that.
As much as I try, I can’t steady my voice when I say: “We need to call Mabel.”
⚖
I can’t fucking believe Liam called me. I spend way too long in my bathroom after we hang up staring in the mirror. I was not made for late nights. Or grief.
Liam warned me that Alex found something weird at my dad’s apartment. I pick that apart as I wait for my Uber to pull up. I have a few thoughts about what it could be, none of which are worrying enough to merit calling me.
My dad loved his collections. It’s a cliché coming from the daughter of an academic, but I always thought he loved his books and his recordings and his relics more than he loved me. He certainly loved them more than my mom. Just two years after I was born, he asked for a divorce in an email so polite it could have been sent to a colleague. She came to his funeral, and I’m sure he would’ve done the same for her, but I never saw anything resembling passion between them. Not like the passion he had when he talked about ancient civilizations.
Now I’m crying on the sidewalk. I feel stupid, but I’ve rubbed at my face so much in the last few days that it’s completely raw, so I just let the tears stream down my cheeks. I wish I was asleep again.
A red Toyota pulls up. I open the back door and slide in.
“Mabel?” The man asks, giving me a once-over.
“Yup.” My tears must put him off because he turns back around and turns up the volume on the radio.
The last time I talked to my dad was about a week ago. Just hours before he fell, smashing his head into the dirty tile. I asked him how work was going. He seemed distracted. I could hear him bustling around his apartment, filling the coffee maker and typing on his computer. He mumbled something about Mesopotamia. I hummed along as if I understood.
I’m not sure why I let the call go on for so long. I guess I always did that with him. I picked up the phone, quietly hoping for a conversation that would make me feel like a kid again, and I came out feeling emptier than before. He never asked how I was doing, or when he did, it sounded like a chore. He was too invested in his own life to truly care about mine. I knew this, yet I kept calling anyway.
Of course, now there would be no more calls. No more pleas for comfort or attention. Just a dead phone line and an empty apartment. Just memories that are already starting to unravel. I cry into my hands as the sound of Earth, Wind, and Fire blares through the speakers.
After sobbing for a few minutes, I force myself to take a breath. I need to get my shit together. I can’t yell at my cousins with snot running down my chin. I use my sweatshirt sleeve to wipe my face, then roll down the window a crack. It’s drizzling, and I close my eyes against the raindrops.
I did much better than this at the funeral. I handled everything with grim-faced bravery. Flower arrangements and caskets and prayer cards. Rather than putting something biblical on them, I chose a Socrates quote that my dad loved. The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. I didn’t realize how bleak that was for a funeral until I held a card in my hand, printed with my dad’s closed-lipped smile. I really didn’t know anything in that moment, just like the Greek philosopher said. Where did you go, Dad? Why did this happen?
My Uber pulls up to the apartment. I mumble a quick “thank-you” before getting out.
I try not to look at anything too closely. I crush every memory that surfaces. Walks home from school. Birthday parties. Slow Sundays with stacks of library books. That one week where I was so sick with the flu that I didn’t go back to my Mom’s house at the end of the weekend, but just stayed here with Dad, listening to the scratching of his pen.
I don’t even consider knocking on my Dad’s door. I use my key, still hanging from my lanyard, and walk in. The first thing I see is Alex wrapped up in a blanket on the couch and Liam pacing like a caged animal. It feels like a movie scene, or a dream. I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“What’s going on?”
They look at me with wide eyes, like I’m a ghost. The hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s like everything in the room is just a centimeter from where it’s supposed to be.
“Hey Mabel,” Liam says, oddly gentle. “Do you want to sit down? I can get you a glass of water or something.”
“What’s happening? Why do you guys look so weird?”
“I found something bad.” Alex says it so softly, I barely hear him.
“What?”
“Here, just wait-” Liam holds up his hands. “Just, will you please sit down?”
“I don’t want to sit down. Tell me what’s going on.” I’m freaked out and the dread worsens by the second. Liam falters so I turn to Alex. “Alex, what did you find?”
“Well, we don’t know exactly what it is,” Liam interjects. “It’s a tape. It sounds like … well. It sounds like something is happening but we don’t know that for sure.”
My blood runs cold. I don’t like the sound of that at all.
“Where is it?” I snap.
I walk over to the desk. Among stacks of papers and the wheezing computer, the audio player sits, turned on but not playing anything. There’s a tape in there. I reach out toward the play button.
“Wait, wait!” Liam crosses the room, puts his hand over the machine. “I don’t think you want to hear it. Let me just explain what it is and we can try to figure it out from there.”
I’m getting hot with frustration and fear. Sweat is sliding down my back. “I need to hear it. Just let me listen. I bet it’s fine.”
“It’s really not,” Alex mutters, still paralyzed on the couch.
“It’s-” Liam shakes his head. “I really don’t think you should listen to it.”
I stare him down.
Liam moves his hand, a pained expression on his face. I press play. I cross my arms and wait for something to happen.
It starts with a vague crackle. Some muted bumps, like someone is moving the microphone around. It finally settles somewhere. There is the soft sound of rain and insects. Then, my father clears his throat.
“Are you ready to begin?”
“Sí.”
“Introduce yourself, please.”
“Um, hello. My name is Tozi.” The man pauses. “I’m from Mexico City. I’m a grad student of history at UNAM.”
“Good. And what is your area of study?”
“The Aztec empire. And other ancient Mexican civilizations. But mostly the Aztecs.”
“Fantastic.” There’s the sound of rustling. “Do you want a drink?”
The interview breaks for a second. Sodas are popped open and Tozi laughs.
“I’ve never had this before,” He says, sort of in awe.
This is how my father would break the tension when his subjects were nervous or unsure. I can even imagine the drinks he brought out. Fizzy mango sodas with a smiling sunshine on the cans. They slurp for a while and then Dad starts back up again.
“So, let’s jump right into it, then. I’ve recently been interested in tracking the similarities between religious rituals among pre-colonial civilizations in North and South America. As you know, it’s a lot of ground to cover. I’ve done research on the Aztecs’ rites, of course, but I was hoping you could give me a summary in your own words.”
Tozi jumps into a long monologue about the Aztecs. It’s easy to let my eyes glaze over. I’ve heard these kinds of rants before. Impassioned academics talk about their special interests like how runners train for marathons, sweating and huffing and pushing themselves to the limit of their thoughts and beyond. I glance at my cousins. Unlike me, they are transfixed. They are listening. I wait.
“And then, of course, there are the human sacrifice rituals.” Tozi continues. “I never like to bring that kind of stuff up first because it’s fuel for misconceptions. ‘Pulp fiction’ is what one of my professors calls it. Certainly, these rituals happened, but they aren’t really representative of the people as a whole.”
“Understandable. It’s unwise to minimize a civilization to their most gruesome activities. Though, it is pretty interesting, isn’t it?”
Tozi laughs. “Yes, they are. It sounds strange but the Aztecs treated their sacrifices with the utmost respect. They were proud to be chosen. The same goes for those who were cannibalized.”
“They ate their peers as a way to commune with the gods, isn’t that right?”
“Mhm. Many wrongly assume that the Aztecs practiced cannibalism because they needed the food, but that’s far from the case. They did it during harvest seasons, at times of plenty. It was less about being hungry and more about getting closer to the gods.”
“Do you think they succeeded?” My dad teases.
“I suppose we’ll never know.”
I’m having trouble seeing where this could be going. My father goes camping with a young grad student, and what? An animal attacks them? They get into a heated academic argument? I would be surprised to hear a racist comment from my father but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He’s dead anyway.
Tozi coughs a little. They start talking about the area, a section of jungle that both Tozi and my father are familiar with. There are ruins nearby, pyramids that have deteriorated and been forgotten by everyone. They joke that they are entirely alone out here, some of the only people in the country who still care about the Aztecs.
Tozi keeps clearing his throat and there’s the sound of water being gulped. Out of nowhere, he starts to hack and wheeze.
“Are you alright?” Dad sounds concerned.
Tozi keeps choking. Through coughs, he tries to speak.
“My tongue … I can’t breathe.”
The tent rustles. It’s hard to tell what’s going on. There’s clanging like objects falling to the ground. My father grunts. Tozi keeps gasping for air.
The noise stops all at once. For a moment, all I can hear is the patter of rain. Then, there’s ragged breathing. Dad swears. The audio becomes muffled for a moment, then my father’s voice comes in louder than before.
“Tozi has just suffered from what appears to be an anaphylactic shock. I-I can’t be sure what caused it. He, um, has passed away in the tent. He is dead.”
I feel sick. I’m chilled by my father’s voice trembling, how he sniffles. What a horrifying scenario to watch a young man die right in front of you. Yet, I can’t understand why Liam and Alex pulled me out of my grief for this. It’s terrible, but it could’ve waited until next week.
“Is that it?” I ask.
The audio cuts out for almost thirty seconds. When it picks back up again, it’s pouring rain. Thunder echoes.
“It’s been a few hours now.” Dad’s breathing is ragged. “I’ve been doing some reading. I think I have a plan.
“I’ve been reading up on Aztec rituals. Obviously, the time for sacrifice has passed. He’s gone.” For a moment, my father’s voice is unintelligible. He mutters to himself in hisses that send chills down my spine. The next thing I hear is. “There are other rites I can do. Just to see how it was back then. ”
Another round of thunder drums through the air. What’s coming next lurks in the back of my mind, an idea so awful that I can’t even let myself fully think it.
“Tozi would be happy. He would feel honored.” The tent swishes. “Ok, let me put you down here.” His voice becomes farther away. The tent rustles again, like something large is being dragged across it. A bag unzips. My father is breathing heavily. There’s a sharp noise, Tozi’s shirt ripping. “Oh, God. Ok. Ok.” The silence is unbearable, more so because of the tiny sounds hiding within it. Slicing. Dad’s grunts. Something cracking. The noises become wet. I think my Dad is crying. He sniffles and makes sucking noises. There’s chewing. Gagging. “Thank you, Tozi. Thank you. We will be one with Huitzilopochtli now.” He slurps. A smacking of lips. A squishing against the teeth. He moans and mutters in Spanish. After another minute, the cassette runs out of tape, leaving nothing but a void of silence.
“I’m going to throw up again.” Alex rushes out of the room. The bathroom door slams.
“So.” Liam speaks, but won’t meet my eye.
“So?”
“Well, you heard it, didn’t you? He ate him. He might have even poisoned him on purpose. What if he planned it?”
“It was an accident.” My own throat feels like it’s closing.
“You can’t accidentally eat someone!” Liam covers his mouth with his hand, as if he wants to push the words back in.
“He wanted to be closer to the Aztecs. He didn’t hurt anyone.”
Liam stares at me. He stutters, unable to get a word out.
“You can’t tell anyone, Liam.”
“Are you insane?”
“I’m serious. He’s dead now. It doesn’t matter what he did. You’re just going to hurt his memory. I’m already in pain and now you’ve made everything worse.” I start crying again and it’s almost natural.
“I just thought.…” Liam shakes his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Does anyone else know besides you and Alex?”
“No.”
“Ok, good. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll hold onto the tape for now.”
Liam has tears in his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Mabel. I just thought—”
I pull my cousin in for a hug. “I know. I’m sorry too. I can’t believe this is happening.”
It takes a few minutes to calm everyone down. Alex comes back from the bathroom and I give him the same demands I gave Liam. He nods along with glass eyes. I stash the cassette in my purse and it’s like I’m taking a curse out of the room. They relax the farther away I get.
I order my Uber home and finally allow myself to take a deep breath. I tell myself that once I get back, I’ll burn the tape on my stove then go back to bed. My hands will be wiped clean.
Weirdly, I feel lighter. I think my Dad would be proud. Even though he’s in the ground, I’m still keeping his secrets like the good daughter I am.