At My Grandma’s Funeral, My Dad Opened The Casket And Put His Fingers Inside
The Tooth, The Coffin, and The Contract
At my grandma’s funeral, my dad opened the casket and put his fingers inside grandma’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” everyone shouted at once, including me.
Dad was leaning into Grandma’s casket, his fingers literally in her mouth like he was searching for something.
The funeral director rushed forward while mom screamed his name.
“I just need to find it now.”
Dad’s voice was desperate, manic.
“Before it’s too late.”
Uncle Tony and my cousins grabbed him, trying to pull him away from the casket.
Dad fought them, still reaching for Grandma’s face.
“Please, you don’t understand.”
“There’s thousands in there.”
Nobody listened. Four men now wrestling him back.
In the struggle, Dad’s elbow hit the casket’s edge. The whole thing tipped.
Grandma’s body rolled out onto the funeral home carpet.
Flowers scattered. Someone’s aunt fainted.
Mom was sobbing and hitting Dad’s chest.
“You ruined everything.”
“Your own mother’s funeral.”
But I saw it. Something small and gold had rolled from grandma’s mouth when she hit the floor.
While everyone screamed at Dad, while the funeral director called security, I watched that glinting object slide under the side table where they kept the guest book.
Security arrived. They dragged dad out, still babbling about money, about inheritance, about running out of time.
Mom followed, apologizing to everyone. The funeral was basically over.
I knelt by the table, reached under. My fingers found it.
A gold tooth heavy, but there was a seam running down the middle.
I glanced around. Everyone was either leaving or helping the funeral director with grandma.
I twisted the tooth. It opened like a locket. Inside a tiny rolled paper.
I unrolled it carefully. Just numbers—coordinates.
In the bathroom, I plugged them into my phone. The pin dropped on Macky’s bar on the south side.
I knew that place. Dad used to go there before he got sober.
It closed 5 years ago after the owner died in a fire. I told mom I needed air.
Drove 20 minutes to the old bar. The windows were boarded up, graffiti covering the plywood.
The door was chained shut, but on one board someone had carved Alan Donnagy in deep letters.
My dad’s name. Below it, an arrow pointing left.
I followed the building around. More arrows carved into boards.
Into the brick itself, leading me to the back alley.
There, hidden behind a dumpster, was a suitcase.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside, wrapped in plastic, was a revolver and a note.
“The inheritance is yours.”
“All you have to do is take it.”
“One job, one trigger, 1 million.”
“The target’s photo is under the gun.”
I lifted the gun, saw the photo. It was my father.
“I’m sorry, son.”
I spun around. Dad stood at the alley entrance, pointing his own gun at me.
Not angry, just sad.
“This was meant to be for mom and me,” he said.
“She was supposed to outlive me.”
“Take the contract on my life.”
“$1 million to make sure you and your sister were set for life.”
“You hired someone to kill you.”
“Life insurance won’t pay for suicide, but mom was dying anyway. Cancer.”
“She had maybe weeks left. We figured one quick trigger pull, she collects the money, dies naturally soon after.”
“You kids inherit everything clean.”
“That’s insane.”
“But she died first. 3 days ago. The contract was already paid for. Non-refundable.”
“Someone’s going to collect that million.”
“Son, they gave me 48 hours to find her tooth, get the coordinates, assign a new shooter,” Dad continued.
“Time’s almost up.”
“If nobody claims it, they send their own guy. Professional.”
“Might take you and your sister out too, just to be clean.”
“So you want me to?”
“I want you to live.”
“Take the money.”
“Take care of your sister.”
“Tell your mother I had gambling debts.”
“That I was dirty.”
“Let her hate me.”
“It’s easier than the truth.”
“I can’t kill you, Dad.”
“Then we both die.”
“Maybe mom and Sarah, too.”
He lowered his gun.
“I’m already dead, son.”
“Have been since the diagnosis.”
“Lung cancer.”
“Stage four.”
“I’ve got maybe a month anyway.”
“This way it means something.”
The weight of the gun. The photo of my father’s face.
The million dollars that would save us or damn us.
“Grandma knew—it was her idea.”
“She loved you kids more than anything.”
His voice broke.
“10 seconds, son.”
“Choose.”
“Save the family or lose everything.”
I raised the gun.
Dad smiled, tears running down his face.
“Tell your mother I loved her.”
“Tell Sarah I’m proud of her.”
“Tell yourself this was mercy.”
I stand there frozen with the gun still aimed at his chest.
My finger resting against the trigger but refusing to move.
The metal feels heavy and wrong in my hand, like it weighs 1,000 lb instead of whatever a gun actually weighs.
Dad just watches me with those sad eyes, not begging or yelling or trying to talk me into it anymore.
He already knows I can’t do it. I can see it in his face.
The way he’s standing there calm and ready, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
And now that it’s here, he’s almost relieved.
My hand starts shaking so bad I have to lower the gun before I accidentally pull the trigger just from the trembling.
I back away toward my car one step at a time, expecting him to chase me or grab the gun or something, but he just nods once.
It’s a small movement, barely there, but it says everything.
The distance between us is maybe 10 ft, but it feels like we’re standing on opposite sides of a canyon.
He doesn’t move to follow me.
I shove the gold tooth deep into my front pocket, feeling the weight of it against my leg.
Dad’s photo goes in there, too, the glossy paper already getting bent and creased.
The suitcase stays where it is on the ground next to the dumpster.
