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Gran’pa Gave Me The Finger From The Beyond
by Shireen Khatri
They put gran’pa in the oven today an he smelt like old meat an sounded like polythene in the wind an I asked uncle why we didn’t put him in the ground like uncle j— an uncle said some basters deserve to burn HA, an then we all went inside for tea an mum said well good riddance, at long last, the old crank, an dad said some people deserved what they got an I said what’d he get but mum hit me in the back of the head an told me to go play outside so I did. I’d never seen gran’pa when he was alive an when I saw him dead I knew how he would be alive, his transparent eyelids an mottled forehead leathery an thin an the little hairs all over him something that made you feel itchy to look at, an I looked some more an knew his eyes behind the cold lids an how the pupils would be small an close like those of the bad people in the cartoons with his thin long lips an sunken cheeks puffy an thin hair as if floating a little off his head, already ready to leave the skull in anticipation of the burning. They had prepared the oven special for gran’pa an he didn’t look much pleased about it. I wondered if he had ever looked pleased an I asked dad but dad said go play outside. Uncle said gran’pa was a satanist an a baster who used to write filth an didn’t deserve the peace of eternal rest, curse him an his filthy soul an the evil that took his mind an flowed from him like poison that had no place in this family, he said tho he. He only wished it were an open
fire that he might spit at it, his father as he burned, he said. Come come said dad, enough of that. He’s gone now an that’s the end of that, may god forgive him an us an let’s leave the past behind an make it our way to serve the lord as best we can now that the family is clean an can look toward redemption. What’s a saint-ist, I asked, but they went away for more tea an I went outside to look at the oven an see if it was hot still but it wasn’t. They were cleaning it, the men in dirty overalls an I asked them if I could look inside but they said go an play somewhere else, so I watched them clean an asked them how many people they’d burned an if any of them had been alive. They shared a cigarette an didn’t tell me anything so I hung around an waited to have a peep when they started walking away with the ash an scrubs an then I saw in the grass something small an black that’d fallen out an picked it up before they came back with the brooms. It was gran’pa’s finger , I didn’t know which one but I thought about it an realised it wasn’t an accident, an maybe he was trying to reach to me in death an maybe I could still help him be saved. Gran’pa was giving me the finger from the beyond. He had never given me anything before being dead, but now he was giving me the finger as an offering. I kept it in my pocket, the charred nail a little scratchy through the hole in my shorts’s pocket, but they were black so I wiped my hands on them an went back inside to think about it all with a biscuit.
School was great the next day. Turns out a spare finger is a useful thing, ‘specially in school. People’re always saying they need a hand, but a finger’s pretty good too, ‘specially that day. It was Sunday an I didn’t remember to pack my things after burning gran’pa, an I didn’t have any clean clothes, an mum hit me in the back of the head an said well jus go as you are, it’s too late to do anything about now, so I went with my lunchbox an notebook in my funeral clothes. Teacher was very angry an said well you’re late an dressed like a little beggar, an where’s the rest of your things? I told her I had everything I wanted an then I
confused an I checked the answer again an it was still 666 but teacher wouldn’t come back to look. Maybe she made a mistake because she forgot I was behind in class an doing yesterday’s question. In art class we had to draw fruit an I drew two oranges an then I drew a banana to make it balanced, an then added a big star behind to make teacher happy because I knew she liked stars, but she took the drawing an tore it up an took me to the principal who said I couldn’t come to Sunday school anymore. I guess I had gotten better after all an I went back home happy, the fingernail still scratching my thigh an when I got home I saw that gran’pa had been writing a message that said come visit, it’s a nice time of year.