The Deeper Why
by David Henson
Ralph Hawkins is dead-heading roses at his home in a quiet neighborhood in Iowa when he hears his wife scream. He looks up and sees her cartwheel over the handlebars of her bicycle and land on her head. After that, everything is a blur: rushing to Carol, the odd angle of her neck, blood streaming from her ears and eyes, his frantic call to emergency services, the sirens. And telling the paramedics about the king cobra, which, hood spread, had raised up in front of his wife before slithering away.
A few days after Carol’s funeral, Ralph goes to see private investigator Steve Swat.
The PI stubs out a cigarette. “The news report said that the snake escaped from some fellow who lived a couple blocks from you.”
“That’s right.” Ralph reads from notes he’s written in a yellow pad. “Burgess McHenry. Born in 1940. Married in 1964, divorced in ‘66. Married again in ‘70, and divorced three years later. Collected poisonous snakes. Died of a stroke August 4. Snake got out through an open window. Caused Carol’s accident.”
Swat lights another cigarette. “Looks like you’ve done my job. What else do you need to know?”
Ralph waves his hand in front of his face. “I want to know why the guy kept poisonous snakes.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters a lot.”
“Your dime.”
* * *
Ralph answers the call from his daughter, who’s been checking on him almost every day either in person or by phone. He tells Melody about hiring a PI.
“I’m not sure what’s to be gained, Dad.”
“I want to understand why your mother had to die the way she did. Maybe then I could accept it.”
Ralph hears Melody sigh. “Me too, Dad. I’m just not sure a private investigator is the way to go. Anyway, William’s out of town, and I thought you might join Bobby and me for pizza.”
Ralph sees that PI Swat is calling. “Sorry, honey, gotta go. Rain check.” He grabs his yellow notepad. “What’ve you got, Swat?”
“Talked to some people who knew Burgess McHenry. I’ve learned...” Swat says. “Hold on.” Ralph hears the PI coughing. “I’ve learned McHenry had issues. Reformed alcoholic. Once addicted to pain killers he got hooked on when he was going through a period of self-harm.”
“Self-harm? Like a cutter?”
“Worse, in my opinion. He burned himself: lighters, matches, lit cigarettes.” Swat coughs again. “He finally got clean of all that but started collecting poisonous snakes. Apparently he let the snakes out of their cages and, if they didn’t bite him, he figured he deserved to live another day. Really disturbed.”
“So that’s why he had the snakes. But why was he so messed up to begin with?”
“Something in his past maybe? Unlucky genes? You wanted to know why he had the snakes, and now you do. I’ll send you my—”
“Hold on. I want to know the deeper why.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“Find out why Burgess McHenry was so damaged.”
“Well, I guess I can try. It’ll cost you though. Some people don’t spill for nothing.”
“It’s my dime.”
* * *
As Ralph gets out of his car, his phone sounds.
“Can’t talk now. Got an important meeting.”
“But, Dad, I want to tell you about someone I’m going to see.”
“Later, sweetie. Bye-bye.” Ralph goes into the PI’s office. “Swat, I haven’t heard from you in days. What’ve you learned about Burgess McHenry’s background?”
The private investigator stands up behind his desk and motions for Ralph to take a seat. “Hawkins, I was about to call you.” He shoves a square of gum into his mouth.
Ralph sits. “Tell me.”
Swat curls his lip and sticks out his tongue. “Nicotine tastes better in tobacco than gum.”
Ralph taps his watch. “I assume your clock’s ticking.”
“OK, OK. Actually, it was easier than I thought. I didn’t get to you sooner because I’ve had some personal business to attend to. Burgess McHenry’s father was Meredith McHenry. He died ten years ago. Had a police record. Some of it pretty minor stuff: petty theft, drunk and disorderly.”
“I don’t see how that explains anything.”
“Let me finish. Meredith McHenry also did time for abusing his wife, including burning her with lit cigarettes. There’s no record of son Burgess being physically harmed but, from what I’ve pieced together, the boy sometimes witnessed what was being done to his mother and blamed himself for not stopping it somehow.”
“But wasn’t he just a little kid?”
“Guilt doesn’t age-discriminate. Burgess grew up full of self-loathing. Started punishing himself. It’s lucky that, at the end, he didn’t do anything worse than collect exotic snakes.”
“Wasn’t so lucky for my wife.”
Swat coughs into a tissue then looks at it. “Sorry. You’re right... So now you know the... what do you call it? The deep why?”
Ralph writes in his yellow notepad, then looks at Swat. “I don’t think we’re there yet. How is it Meredith McHenry was such an SOB?”
Swat spits the gum into his hand and lights a cigarette. “It’s—”
“I know: my dime.”
* * *
“Dad, I’m afraid this private investigator is taking advantage of you.”
Ralph studies his yellow notepad.
“Dad, are you there?”
“Sorry, sweetie. Yes, I’m doing fine.”
“I’m glad. But I said I think Swat is taking advantage of you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I have it on good authority.”
“What are you talking about, Melody?”
“My friend Doris introduced me to Madame Zemira. I told her about your PI Swat, and she said he’s a fraud.”
“Honey, what possessed you to go to somebody like that? It’s not you.”
Melody clears her throat. “I just want to understand why Mom... why she... Madame Zemira said if Mom hadn’t taken up bicycling, she’d still be alive today.”
“Oh, Melody. Your mother took up bicycling because she was approaching the age when your grandmother had a heart attack. That makes sense.” As soon as the words are out of Ralph’s mouth, he wonders why Carol’s mom had a bad heart. Focus, he tells himself. “You mean well, Honey, but a fortune teller is not the answer.”
“I’m not sure your private investigator is either, Dad.”
* * *
“Take a seat,” PI Swat says. “I think we can finally wrap this up.”
“What’s that?” Ralph says, nodding at several bloody wads of tissue on the private investigator’s desk.
“Sorry.” Swat sweeps the wads into a waste basket. “I’ve learned...” He starts coughing, puts his mouth to a clean tissue and drops it in the trash. “You know, Hawkins, I was going to stop smoking a dozen times. I don’t know why I didn’t. Don’t even know why I started. Not really.”
“Sorry, Swat. Do you want to do this another time?”
“No, no. I’m keeping busy as long as I can.” Swat takes a sip of water. “Meredith McHenry. Born in 1906. Believe it or not, his parents died on the Titanic. No relatives took Meredith in, so he grew up in foster homes. Abused in more than one. Sometimes the abused become abusers. I think that’s why Meredith hurt his wife, why Burgess grew up full of guilt, turned to self-harming and ultimately started collecting poisonous snakes. There’s your deep why. Case closed.”
As Swat talks, Ralph scribbles in his notepad. “I don’t think so,” he says when the PI finishes.
“No?”
“Why did the Titanic sink?”
“It hit an iceberg.”
“Right, but why did it hit that iceberg? Did the captain make mistakes? I want to know everything about him. Was he distracted? How much experience did he have? Did he suffer from insomnia? Had he been drinking? I want to know what he had for dinner the night of the accident. What he had for breakfast. What about the crew? And the iceberg. Where’d it come from? How much did it weigh? What did it look like? I want a computer model of that killer ice. I want—”
“Whoa, Hawkins, whoa. Listen to yourself. I said I wanted to stay busy, but this is sixteen kinds of crazy. Some things are just random.” The PI stands up, walks around his desk and squeezes his client’s shoulder. “You have the deepest why you’re going to get, Ralph,” he says, coughing. “Sometimes acceptance is all that’s left.”
Ralph, closes his eyes, slumps in his chair for a few moments, then wishes Swat good luck and leaves.
* * *
On a wet and blustery Saturday, Ralph sits waiting on his front porch. He leafs through the yellow notepad and shakes his head. Can’t be random, he thinks and lays the notepad on his lap. A red umbrella, twisted inside out, scuttles down the road and catches his eye.
A few minutes later, his daughter pulls into the driveway. Ralph stands and waves. When he does, the swirling wind snatches the yellow notepad as it slides from his lap. Grandson Bobby jumps out of the SUV and, flapping his arms and quacking like a duck, chases the notepad toward the street just as a car rounds the corner.
Copyright © 2021 by David Henson
