Chapter 1
My father died by suicide, but he didn’t kill himself. I understand that’s confusing, so let me explain:
In the summer of 2023, Jumpin’ Jack Hastings (terrible nickname, he never jumped) took a solo trip to Pensacola, Florida, where he would stay for one month to oversee what he called “rollout week.” During rollout week, he’d watch as chefs developed new menu items. The process took three days, but he’d always schedule out for a month to do fuck-all in his favorite state.
I had not spoken to him in four years, so I was surprised to see his phone number pop up on a random day in August. I’d imagined all the terrible things I could say, knowing damn well I didn’t have the courage to say anything of value to him. I picked up the phone, hoping to keep it as brief as possible.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Hi, sorry, uh…” The voice said. It was high-pitched, and slightly anxious in tone. This wasn’t my father.
“Sorry, who is this?”
“I, uh…” The voice continued. “Sorry, give me a moment, please. I’m sorry, one second.”
I heard the man hurl on the ground, then cough, then hurl again. Had his crew gotten food poisoning from their soon-to-be-released Barbacoa Bites?
“I was sitting across the street, and uh… Sorry, is this Jack’s son?”
“This is Gavin Hastings. Please take a breath and tell me what’s going on.”
I could hear the man’s heavy breathing, each inhale followed by a slow exhale. In about twenty seconds, he’d make another attempt.
“I was sitting outside at a coffee shop across the street from Silver Ave Spa in Pensacola. A man stepped outside just as a woman was jumping off the top of the building. I think she was trying to kill herself; she’s not moving. She crushed him; it had to have been a seventy-foot drop. Oh shit, I can see his spine. He’s bleeding a lot. Grayson, he’s not breathing. Neither of them are. There’s so much blood, Grayson.”
I ignored the incorrect name out of courtesy to a man I’d never speak to again. I would stay on the phone with the man for another twenty minutes. For the duration, I would do my best to help this absolute stranger (whose name I never got) get out of shock to help me better understand the situation. I would learn that my father was midway through a text to Frankie that he’d “just left the office for lunch” rather than having just left a jackoff parlor for what I suppose could be described as lunch. The phone, still unlocked next to the bodies, had “Son” listed in the contacts, and the man chose to call me over other contacts like “Son 2,” “Wife,” and “Doc.”
The conversation devolved into a play-by-play of what was happening to the bodies, mangled and intertwined by the sheer acceleration of a seventy-foot fall. Both bodies had gone stiff — an EMT attempted to close my father’s eyes, but they were too bulged out to stay closed. As the bodies were shifted, he’d name each bone exposed by the impact, along with any teeth that had fallen out when his open mouth hit the curb.
The woman had gotten her wish; she died on impact. My father would unintentionally be the plus one to heaven or hell, whichever would choose to take a man practicing infidelity and a woman who saw more cons than pros in her life. I would find out that she shared my mother’s name, Jenna, as well has her knack of dying young.
Frankie was inconsolable at the news. Amy cried at the loss of life, and I knew well enough to not outline the gruesome details of the freak accident. James insisted on knowing every detail, claiming it would bring him closure. The details, instead, left him in a state of silent shock for the six days leading up to the funeral.
Six days ago, Jumpin’ Jack Hastings was flattened on a sidewalk by a jumper. Against his wishes, no doubt, his body rested in a closed casket in a church in Coventry he had never once stepped in but was the closest church that would host a body that never observed religion. Frankie insisted he quietly observed the lord, though I was sure the last place he said “Oh God” was in the Silver Ave Spa in Pensacola, Florida.
I kept my eyes fixed on the oak pew in front of me. In twenty-two years, I had spent no more than ten or twelve hours in a church. It was either weddings for people I never knew or funerals for family members my father insisted I knew but who turned out to be arbitrary cousins who showed up to my first birthday and never again.
My father had a knack for terrible judgement, as in he could not comprehend the mind of a child. He was exhausted by me and my brother, James, as we were constantly at each other’s throats as a kid. Instead of approaching us to teach us the important lesson of forgiveness, he “taught us lessons,” or inflicted fear that our verbal fighting would lead to… physical fighting.
The phrase “I oughta lock you two in the basement until one of you finishes the job” escaped his lips quite often — until James came at me with a knife. Then, my father walked back his trademark phrase and claimed he was being facetious.
A seven-year-old doesn’t know what being facetious means. Yet any time my father said something horrible instead of conducting actual problem solving, he reminded us he was being facetious, thus abdicating himself of any responsibility for his words. Of course it was my fault and James’ fault for not understanding dark humor. We should’ve learned the nuances of his twisted, hilarious mind.
I didn’t want to be here today. I didn’t need the closure any more than I needed it when I first said goodbye to my father at nineteen. Neither did James, but James was lucky. He got here late and had to sit at the back of the church, so as to not disrupt the ceremony. I sat with our stepsister, Amy, who’d kept an arm clenched on my thigh since we sat down. She was no more a fan of my father than she was of her mother, Frankie. Add religion to the mix, and her anxieties were practically inconsolable. Her father had died before she was born, and at a young age Jack would become the only father she’d ever known. It was not the example she’d hoped for when she asked Santa for a dad every year.
We’d developed a comfortable friendship, hindered only by the teasing from our friends (James included) that her moving in with my family gave us a free-pass to be taboo stepsiblings. The edge wore off quickly, like boring jokes do. I’m comfortable enough to call her my sister, and I could do without the rest. I’m lucky that, through the arduous relationship Dad and her mother had, there was a rational voice to rely on, and that she had the same.
A few days after his death, her mother, Frankie, called hoping I would deliver my father’s eulogy. The idea was born out of sheer ignorance of the facts; Frankie had just as poor judgement as my father, but with the added benefit that she got a majority stake in his estate. There were no consequences for her to continuing her buffoonery, as she’d just move on to bigger and better things once the funeral was over.
“He’s family,” she’d claimed. “You gotta take care of family. And you’re such a good writer.”
Mind you, she’d once called my aspirations as a writer wasteful and petulant. She insisted that I would be better off continuing in my father’s path of franchising fast casual Mexican spots. It didn’t matter that we had no ties to Mexico or the culture — she was a kept woman with restaurant money. It didn’t matter long-term anyway — the restaurants went to the estate, which would sell off all the assets in a month’s time. Perhaps it was the upcoming payout from the estate that changed her mind. All I know is that if I had to work with my father, I’d have blown my brains out.
Organ music makes me cry. It always has. There’s a feeling of futility, of finality, that comes with organ music, particularly in a church. I’m sure there are plenty of churchgoers who get comfort in this music — the sense that the lord is speaking to them through song — but this kind of music reminds me that I’m one day going to die, and I hate it. Minutes away from giving my first speech at a funeral, Amy’s hand tightly clenched on my thigh, I stared straight into the pew in front of me and did my best to tune out the noise. I did not want to give my father a single tear.
A priest older than God himself approached the casket, bowing over it to show respect. He turned to the crowd, revealing a face with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei.
“All rise.”
Fifty-ish visitors stood in unison. The organ gradually faded, leaving a heavy silence that blanketed the crowd, broken only by the shuffling of pages and the occasional muted cough.
“We are here,” the priest continued, “to honor the life and legacy of Jack Hastings. Father, Husband, Brother, Son, and Businessman. While Jack did not attend our church, we are compelled by his story, and of his connection to the community. Many of you are familiar with Jumpin’ Jack Mexican Grill, which has served the east coast and contributed millions of dollars to culinary technical programs in Rhode Island and across New England. We admire his commitment to doing good, and we hope to send him off today to the gates of heaven, where he will be welcomed with open arms.”
For the next ten minutes, the priest waxed poetic on a life that I was grossly unfamiliar with. In the days leading up to the funeral, I offered up what information I could to the church’s funeral organizer. I explained that he was reserved until instigated, quick to anger, and traveled more than he was at home. From that, they projected to the audience that my father was troubled but well-meaning and fiercely dedicated to his work and what it meant to the community.
The priest bounced between anecdotes, songs, and waving a thurible over the casket. I imagine that if my father would alive that he would say, as he’d said at many funerals before his, the theatrics were a genuine waste of time between death and burial. It was one of few things we saw eye to eye on.
“I’m going to invite up Jack’s son, Gavin Hastings, to say a few words on behalf of the Hastings family.”
Amy loosened her grip. I ended my staring contest with the oak pew and made my way to the altar with two envelopes containing completely different speeches. I’d yet to decide which one would see the light of day. I always preferred two options for every circumstance, and my father’s funeral was no different.
Envelope One was sweet, sappy fanfare. It contained what little good I could honestly say of my father — how he was a skilled tradesman, how he taught me everything I know about fixing a car, and the genuine fact that, yes, he contributed millions of dollars to educational programs, even though it all came with a caveat. This envelope redacted stories of how he’d regularly insisted that anyone who didn’t meet his standards was mentally challenged and his quiet hope that any scholarships he sponsored went to men and not women because, in his eyes, women didn’t have the entrepreneurial spirit to own and run restaurants. There was no mention of his request for a divorce in the middle of my mother’s breast cancer treatment. I’d diluted the entire message to be socially palatable.
Envelope Two was the truth.
I scanned the audience for familiar faces. These were all loose acquaintances of my father — franchise owners and investors who had come to offer their prayers for the man who would sell out from under them, effectively shutting down all fifty locations next month. Despite there being many open pews, James was sitting in the far back. Amy sat alone, twiddling her thumbs and pulling on a skirt she worried was too short for a funeral despite going down to her ankles.
In the front sat Frankie with a handful of her sisters. She had a substantial flair for the dramatic and established as much in her head-to-toe black outfit, which included a small black hat and a black veil that shielded her from the world. Her dress was as low-cut as they come, though, revealing pale white cleavage that would make any clergyman blush.
I knew six percent of the audience. Envelope Two was the choice, and I did not care how or who it would affect. I opened the envelope, unfolded the paper, and cleared my throat.
“Fuck your God,” I began.
You could hear a pin drop. The priest stood up immediately. It was the fastest he’d attempted to move all day. I waved him down. To my surprise, he obliged. Perhaps he imagined that this was my way of grieving. It’s more likely that he was too old for conflict, and thought I might beat him down to please the devil.
“There is a 2004 song with that title from the band Deicide. I know nothing of the song or its lyrics except that it’s death metal. He didn’t care for The Wiggles, so he just played whatever he felt like in the car when he drove us to work. This particular song, I’ve never heard. Nor do I care to, I’m more of a punk pop guy.”
Nobody knew what I was getting at. Some were still shell-shocked from my graphic introduction to his eulogy. I didn’t care.
“The town of Pensacola, Florida decided the logical thing to do was to return all of my father’s belongings to me. A man whose name I’ll never know found my information on his phone and shared it with the town, which then sent everything to my house. This included a suitcase with his clothing, prescribed oxycontin, a damp sexual massager, and his phone. It took me one guess to get into his phone, 4-2-0-6-9. There were text exchanges with various women with ridiculous names. Blonde with Glasses. Old With Nice Feet. Looks Like Stepdaughter. Each shared photos and he would share the same, though his gut always censored his groin, so I am at least thankful for that.”
Public speaking was never my strong suit. I was fueled by pure adrenaline and the conviction that my father didn’t deserve a pleasant eulogy. I would need to walk back the stepdaughter comment later, but only if Amy brought it up. A cheap shot, but I wanted to let Frankie know that she was getting too old for Dad.
“That was the last song playing on his phone. A song by Deicide. Which, by the way, is defined as the killing of a god. He made it fifteen seconds into the song; that’s when the earbuds were ejected from his ears. But I won’t go into detail on that, anyone who wants to can read the Pensacola Daily from Florida. They saw it fit to send me a news report like it was a memento.”
People were wriggling in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with the content of my speech. I wasn’t necessarily comfortable with what I was saying either, but it was important to me that people knew what my Dad was, what he was doing when he died, and why it made no sense to commune for services in a chuch.
“Jack Hastings will be remembered as a cheat. A marriage cheat, a business cheat, a charity cheat, and a time cheat. What you may think of as a charitable man was actually a man who knew how to hide his money. Are any of the culinary students his foundation helped here tonight?”
Crickets.
“Didn’t think so. Jack Hastings is laughing in all of your faces for being here. I question anyone’s well-wishes. God bless.”
I didn’t care to clock anyone’s expression as I left. As if I were collecting a posse, I swiftly left between the center pews with Amy and James not far behind. We exited to the parking lot and communed by my car, a beat-up Accord.
“You didn’t feel like running that one by us first?” James asked. Amy stood next to him, quiet but not anxious.
“Not really, I think I made my point,” I replied.
He contemplated my message. It was less a eulogy and more a diatribe against a man who could no longer defend himself from mockery.
“That was awful, Gavin. And he deserved every second of it. Good riddance.”
I wasn’t interested in celebrating what I’d done. There was a dead man’s body fifty feet away that I’d once called my father. But it was nice to know my brother felt the same way. Amy was still dead silent. James noticed, too.
“What’s on your mind?”
She peered up. “Looks like stepdaughter?”
“She didn’t, if that makes you feel better,” I responded. “There were ten-ish names that referenced James, which was super weird to go through.”
“No there wasn’t,” James chided.
I nodded with a half-grin. Amy pondered the situation further.
“It’s… a good thing he’s gone,” she admitted, “and I feel terrible saying that.”
“He was gone four years ago,” I insisted.
“Two for me,” James continued, “I was the late bloomer to the whole ‘leaving forever’ thing. Thanks, by the way.”
It took James a little while longer than us to come to terms with the situation. Amy was the stepchild and never experienced more than an acquaintanceship with our father. If anything, he saw her as someone freeloading on his hard-earned fortune. I was a thorn in his side from the start, asking questions that complicated his line of thinking — when I called him abusive, he called me weak. He waved the inheritance over my head to get me to comply. That was the last straw.
We waited in my car for the rest of the church to exit, hoping to tune-in to any conversation on my speech. There wasn’t any. A few suits talked business as they discussed next steps now that Jumpin’ Jack was being stripped for parts and sold off. There wasn’t a sadness. I’d actually have felt better if someone was at least angry about it — it’d be nice to be told I was wrong, and learn that my father had done some good in this world.
I thought back to the only time he ever taught me to change the brakes in my car. I hated every minute of it at the time because I didn’t understand why a man with so much money still had to change brakes. I remember the words ‘good job’ escaping his lips. I wished I could remember him as a teacher of good habits. But I couldn’t. That version of Jack Hastings was a character, a fiction. He didn’t take the time to role-play as a father in any other way.
Frankie was the last to exit, her silhouette now cloaked by a black fur coat worn more for dramatic effect than warmth on an August afternoon. She stormed over to us, signaling with an index finger to approach her, just like she did when I was young. I rolled down my window.
“Are you satisfied?” she demanded.
“Well I don’t have a dad,” I quipped, “so not really.”
“That was an embarrassment to your father and to the Catholic church.”
“So is your dress.”
“This is a dress your father bought for me. It was his favorite, and I wanted to honor him.”
“I think his eyes might still be on his girls in Florida.”
Frankie huffed, opening up her coat to release the heat.
“You’ll hear from the estate lawyer soon, and then I suppose you’ll be rid of me forever. When we bury your father—”
“He’s being cremated,” James chimed in.
“What?”
“It’s all in the paperwork,” he continued. “He’s being taken to the facility after this, actually.”
“That’s not what we discussed.”
“It sounds like there’s a lot you haven’t talked about,” I said. “Why don’t you take this?”
I leaned out the car door and handed Frankie his phone.
“Password’s 4-2-0-6-9.”
Frankie took the phone, her eyes affixed on it like a child who just discovered the Santa at the mall was a fraud. There was willful ignorance in never opening that phone, and she knew that; Frankie slipped it into her purse without a second thought. She did, however, stare at her own daughter in the backseat and questioned the validity of a contact labeled ‘Looks Like Stepdaughter’ and what it meant to be considered less attractive than her.
“Your eyeliner is crooked,” she said to Amy. Without another word, she adjusted her coat and turned to find her white Jaguar in a sea of compact cars. It took longer than expected.
“Are you even wearing eyeliner?” I asked.
She shook her head no. I knew she wasn’t, but acknowledging it would validate that Amy had done nothing wrong. Throughout our friendship and siblinghood I’d become fiercely defensive of her. Frankie instilled the vision of a perfect ballerina figure that was genetically unattainable without those detox teas that make you poop. I’m proud of her progress and the healthy choices she makes. Frankie punches down whenever she can, and while the damage has been done, I’m doing everything I can to reverse it.
We watched as the casket was rolled out of the church and into the back of a hearse — this bizarre hodgepodge of ceremony meant that the casket, a loaner, would be separated from my father at the cremation facility. His body was encased in a vacuum-sealed plastic that would melt away once the furnaces turned on. Fortunately none of us had to see it, but it was all explained to me when I first met with the man facilitating the cremation.
He had tried to reassure me that while it was unusual, it would be the most hygienic option for someone who hadn’t been embalmed. I found it bizarre, and he seemed way too enthusiastic about it. Nobody seemed to question, either, why a mangled body even needed to be in the church. With a closed casket nobody would have been any the wiser.
The hearse drove away, and James exited my car for his own beat-up Accord.
“What’s next?” he asked through the window.
“We could grab dinner and go home,” I suggested.
“No, I mean with him,” he continued. “It won’t be official until we see that estate lawyer, but the paperwork said that you would get the urn.”
I’d only skimmed the papers to see how the estate would be divided up. I’d skipped over anything that wasn’t monetary. I’d assumed that anything else — homes and vacation properties, cars and the like — would be going straight to Frankie. Why I’d be receiving the ashes was disconcerting.
“I think I’d piss on his grave if given the chance,” I declared.
James, not sure of my tone, simply nodded and drove away. I wasn’t quite sure either. It wasn’t what James asked, and I didn’t really know what to do with an urn, but it didn’t feel like a bad idea for the time being. The man pissed a meaningful life away, and it would cap off a life of going out on bottom.
