Please Burn

There it was, in the shed, as promised. A small wooden box – once used for gifting a bottle of wine – with the words “PLEASE BURN” scrawled in black paint marker on the lid. Jesse glanced around the shed, taking in the years of decaying clutter. It had all belonged to his dad, and now if it could be said to belong to anyone it was to the brown recluse spiders Jesse was sure lurked among the lengths of leftover two-by-fours in the corner, or in the deep grottoes of shadow under the workbench. Jesse pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He knelt by the box.

Why his dad had made burning the box such a priority, Jesse had no idea. It was on the first page of the notebook Jesse’s dad had kept in the months leading up to his death. He called it his “Adios Amigos Book.” Jesse had asked his dad what he was always scribbling in this coffee-damaged dollar store composition pad that seemed to come out at least once per visit.

“Passwords, account numbers, all the important shit,” answered his dad. “When I croak, read it!”

The book had already proven helpful, just three days after Jesse’s dad died by self-inflicted gunshot wound, ending his life on a muggy fall night in the passenger seat of a broken-down golf cart, next to a fence shared with a neighbor he didn’t like.

JESSE:

BEFORE ATTENDING TO ALL OTHER AFFAIRS, GO TO SHED, TAKE THE WOODEN BOX (YOU WILL KNOW) AND BURN IT!

DO NOT OPEN. ONLY BURN.

Jesse held the box in his hands. He was staring at it, wondering how and where his dad expected him to burn it, when he heard a scratching sound. Faint, brief, but frantic. Jesse might not have noticed if not for the fact he could also feel it through his gloves: sound waves touching Jesse’s hands, traveling through wood and leather from– something, inside the box.

Jesse froze. His mind flashed to a dream he often had but rarely thought of in his waking hours. Dream Jesse returned from a long vacation only to realize he had left his pet (usually Strawberry, his childhood dachshund) at home with no food or water. Standing on his doorstep, sensing Strawberry’s presence inside the house but not hearing a peep, Dream Jesse clasped the doorknob, torn between wanting to rescue Strawberry and desperately not wanting to see the mess of his own making that surely awaited him inside.

Real Jesse decided he needed to see inside the box. His dad wanted the box to stay shut. But that felt particularly rich coming from Jesse’s now dead dad. In life he’d had oppressively detailed rules for taking garbage to the dump, rules for handling the books in his mildew-stinking library and rules for using the banged-up Mr. Coffee machine on the kitchen counter. If you want your rules followed, thought Jesse, maybe don’t blow your brains out in a golf cart in the backyard.

Jesse’s hands trembled as he set the box on the workbench. He pried out a nail that secured the box’s sliding lid then slowly rasped open the box, uncovering, inch by inch, what looked like a folded American flag. Jesse stared at the narrow strip of red and white. The scratching had stopped. It had happened just once, and faintly – now Jesse worried he had imagined it. Shame stirred inside him for opening the box, for disobeying his dad’s final wishes. Then a smell hit his nostrils. He slid the cover open a bit further, uncovering the edge of a dark stain on the fabric. Jesse leaned in closer. A little more sliding revealed the stain was ringed in a chalky white deposit. It reeked of animal urine.

Suddenly: a flurry of brittle claws on wood. A white rat thrust its snout from under the folded flag, gasping for air. Clinging to the end of the rat’s snout was a single bead of pomegranate red blood.

“You’re supposed to burn a flag, right? If it’s, like, damaged, or in this case soaked in rat piss?”

Jesse’s wife Adria folded laundry on the bed. She was eight months pregnant. Nearby a YouTube video about hypnobirthing – a recommendation from her older sister – was paused on a laptop. Also nearby: the newly-folded, newly fabric-softened flag.

“I guess. But popping it in the washer works too, apparently?”

Jesse sat at his desk, looking at the rat. How long had it been in the box? Jesse had bought a small cage and a bag of rat food. In the shed the rat had been emaciated and listless. Now, just a day later, it was shy but curious, with a monstrous appetite.

“My dad put the rat in there.”
Adria shrugged. “Rats get into places.”
“And then nail themselves inside?”
“Maybe it’s some rat social media trend gone wrong.”

Jesse didn’t smile. He leaned back. Adria balled the last pair of socks.

“And, I mean… speaking of social media…”

Jesse sighed.

“Yeah, I’m wondering if it’s got something to do with my Uncle Allen.”

Allen was his dad’s brother who died in 1969. Growing up, Jesse had rarely heard about Allen. He knew his dad had a brother who was killed in combat in Vietnam, but his father was tight-lipped about it and Jesse had not been curious enough to pry.

Then, twelve years ago, doctors diagnosed Jesse’s mom with breast cancer, and she died after a quick decline that always reminded Jesse of the time lapse video of a rotting fox. She and Jesse’s dad had bickered tirelessly and threatened divorce for as long as Jesse could remember, but her absence left his dad strange and rudderless. He stayed up all night whittling sticks into sharp points. He raided neighbors’ gardens for vegetables, and after getting caught, kept returning, mischievous and defiant as Bugs Bunny towards neighbors who felt only gentle concern toward the widower from down the road ransacking their tomatoes.

He also joined Facebook and posted a lot. To Jesse’s surprise, it was mostly memes from P.O.W.-M.I.A. and combat veteran pages. He wrote long, passionate tributes to his heretofore rarely mentioned brother, posted photos of Allen’s Silver Star commendation letter and rubbings of his name from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Though never one to rally ‘round the flag in Jesse’s youth, now he picked fights over perceived patriotic lapses in his son and daughter-in-law. One night he threw a beer on Jesse for not putting his hand on his heart during the national anthem at a baseball game.

Then his dad got a Facebook message from a man named Greer, who claimed to have served with Allen and witnessed his death. Allen had led a successful mission to kill a sniper who was pinning down his platoon. On his way back to base, Allen tripped an explosive booby trap. Greer said he’d watched as Allen tended to the wounds of the men under his command before succumbing to his own.

Greer’s war stories, written in all caps over Facebook messenger and cut-and-pasted into long posts by Jesse’s dad, lent a mud-caked, mosquito-bitten three dimensionality to scenes only hinted at in official documents. Jesse’s dad started talking daily with Greer. They even sent each other post cards.

“We can still burn it. Without the rat this time. You’re welcome, little rat.”

Jesse turned to Adria and half-smiled.

“Yeah, maybe.”
“It’s what he wanted.”

Jesse nodded. In the cage, the rat ran in circles.