When the bell rang, I thought it was my mom coming to pick me up.

“I got it,” I yelled as I ran to answer the door.

There were two men in suits. One held up a badge.

“I’m Agent Brown from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Agent Henderson. May we come in?”

“Lily! There’s two men here from the FBI!”

My great-grandmother, Lily, came to the door.

“Get inside, Danny,” she said to me. I ran to the living room and sat next to my Granny who’d been dozing while watching the Mets lose. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Are you Ginny Dorsey?”

“No. I’m Lillian Hope. Ginny Dorsey is my mama.”

“Is she here?”

“What is this about?”

“Can we come in?”

“We’re two old ladies and a young girl. I don’t feel comfortable.”

“We can come back with the police, if you prefer.”

“What in God’s name is this about?”

“Let’em in, Lillian” Granny said in her raspy voice.

“Can we offer you some coffee or tea, gentlemen?” Granny asked once they were seated. Lily was standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, arms crossed and kind of evil looking. As usual. Granny was on the couch, me next to her. Mr. Brown was in the chair next to Buddha and Mr. Henderson was next to the tv. The Mets had just scored.

“No, ma’am.”

“I think you know why we’re here, Mrs. Dorsey.”

“I ’spose, suh.”

“Are you Virginia Dorsey, born December 8, 1886?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Were you raised in Dublin, Georgia on the Hicks plantation?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Did you leave the plantation in 1904?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Did you give birth to a girl-child that same year?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Was the father of that child, Harold Hicks, son of the plantation owner? The same Mr. Hicks you accused of raping you and who subsequently was found in his bed, neck slit and castrated?”

Granny was silent.

“Mrs. Dorsey?”

“Mama said he raped me. I didn’t say ’nuthin atall.”

"Ma’am. We’ve read the original file. The killer was never found. There were plenty of suspects, given that apparently Mr. Hicks was not a well-liked man, but no one suspected you because you’d been sent off months before he was found murdered. Isn’t that right?”

“Mama sent me to cousin Modene in Atlanta.”

“But you returned one night, didn’t you, Mrs. Dorsey?”

“I was gonna marry Henry Simple. But after Mr. Hicks put that baby in me, Henry didn’t want me no more. He said he loved me, but it weren’t true. I thought my life was over – like so many other girls Mr. Hicks cornered in the fields, around town and in his house when his mama and daddy weren’t around. It was his fault.

“A few years later, George Dorsey came along. He was a good man. A good husband and a good daddy.”

“I wish I had met him,” I said, hugging Granny.

“Mrs. Dorsey, did you or did you not return to the Hicks plantation and murder Harold Hicks in his bed in October 1904?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Agent Brown.”

“Agent Brown, I am 96 years old. Harold Hicks has been dead for almost 80 years. I have seen two world wars, the Korean War, the Vietnam War. I have seen the world go from horse and buggies to cars, trucks, buses, trains, planes and a man on the moon. I have seen more suffering than a body should, but I lived to raise my daughters, my granddaughter and my great grandchildren. My great- great- granddaughter is here with me now,” she said this, hugging me to her side. “I have been blessed with love and a good life, despite all the hardships.” She paused. “In spite of Mr. Hicks.”

“Did you kill Mr. Hicks?”

“You got my letter, didn’t you?”

“What letter, Mama?” Lily interjected.

“I sent Danny out last time she was visiting. I needed to get it off my chest before it was too late. Didn’t expect visitors though.”

“What are you talking about, Mama?”

Granny looked at Agent Brown. “Yes, suh. It was me.”

Agent Brown stood up while Agent Henderson took out his handcuffs. “Ginny Dorsey, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

Granny was too frail to walk, so Agent Brown carried her down the five flights of stairs. She died before they reached the bottom.

Natural causes.

I suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise why Great Uncle Elroy's pond had the biggest, best catfish in all of Taliaferro County. Hell, maybe even the South.

Unc used to say it was on account of the depth of the thing. His grampa had it dug as a public works project back in the New Deal. A crew was cuttin' a firebreak just east of his place, along the property line of Jenkins land.

Well, Old Man Evans, he went on down to the courthouse and had some words with a few county commissioners and a judge or two. As I understand it, they was pleasant words, with mentions of reelection and campaign funds, along with a couple of plain envelopes that never saw the inside of a mailbox.

Next thing you know, that work crew took a detour off the firebreak for a coupla weeks. Even the fellah from Atlanta in charge of organizin' all the labor, he seemed happy to help. 'Course, "helping" for him pretty much meant helping himself to quarts of the good stuff revenuers used to get all tied up about. He spent more than a few afternoons in a rockin' chair chasing the shade of the front porch while them fellahs went at the dirt to earn their keep.

Anyhow. That's the story as I've heard it told.

Old Gramps, he made em go extra deep on that pond. He swears it made for cooler water and better livin' conditions for them fish he had stocked before the War.

Times was lean when our boys landed in Normandy, 'cept over on Uncle Elroy's place. He always had plenty of ration cards, hell, he even managed to have chocolate and gas when everybody else was ridin' bicycles or walkin'.

Nobody never thought nothin' about it, not really.

But it did seem he always had comp'ny out of Atlanta a fair piece. Real city-slicker types. Greasy hair and easy smiles that never lit up them shady eyes.  I reckon it shoulda seemed odd, them folks always visitin' a country bumpkin and his ponds and pigfarm.

Anyhoo. Wasn't long after the war things picked up, so much as things've ever picked up in Crawfordville. Folks was comin' from all around, payin' a fee to fish the pond. Atlanta folks, especially; a whole mess of em always came out for nightfishin.

A right good business started to boom out on that place. It got to where he had to limit the number of tickets he'd let get out, on account of he didn't want to have to restock his pond any more than necess'ry.

Come to think of it, the whole thing was genius, really.

National Geographic came out one time in '64. By then Uncle Elroy was the only one left, runnin' the whole show.

Them magazine people came out 'cause of the catfish, see. They was big.

Goddamn, but they was big.

I remember once, I paid my fee to fish. Me! Family! Can you believe that? Anyhow, I just sat up on the bank with my cane pole. It was a slow day, maybe just one other couple out and about.

Before long, I hooked me somethin'. Damn thing near-bout broke my pole.

It was a monster. Had to be twelve pounds or so.

In a pond.

Goddamn anomaly, is what it was.

But I didn't mind. Made some fine eatin'.

I never spared too much thought on it, to tell th' truth; what fryin’ them fish meant, in a we-are-what-we-eat sense.

Not until that mess that came-to here a few years ago.

Worst drought we ever did have.

That pond, it dried right up. Damndest thing I seen. That thing been 'round long as any of us can remember.  The pig farm went sideways, too, once't Uncle Elroy died.

By then, the pay-to-fish thing had done played out. Folk had just lost interest, I reckon. So it took a while to catch notice.

The Eff-Bee-Eye, though. They sure paid attention when word got out.

It was the bones, see. Down in the mud. They eventually got bleached out by the sun. All these little white specks in the gray-green muck. 'Spite what my dentist says, turns out teeth are damn durable.

That's what started it all.

It's no wonder them catfish was so damn big, and less wonder that the place was always filled with Cadillacs and Town Cars.

For decades, they'd cruise in to town to feed those catfish. My uncle and his bunch charged every one o'those big city folk for the privilege of throwing things in a pond, and every one of us locals would pay to pull things out.

Goddamn, they was good catfish, though.

my grandfather at 103

randy romanian

born with a hard-on for life

the women who passed near

even now nursing home housed

suffered endured smiled laughed

at his roaming hands up their skirts

down budging begging bosom blubber

to be harassed sagging nipples sucked up

violets popping through warm spring earth

made to quiver between raspy puckered lips

blue veined forefinger probing prodding

gooey gummy grimy earthwormed flesh

to resurrect a feeling flutter flickers flow

wheelchair tires entangled causing alarm

a victimless crime really yet the FBI lacking

those posing existential threats to the globe

took him away

spoon in hand

a gulp away from slurping savoring

a bowl of celebratory fish head soup

The smell of life emanates from the oven, inviting those who dislike sweets to crave them. I rose from the chair in the living room, my steps taking me towards that fragrant smell coming from the kitchen. I find my grandmother standing wearing oven gloves, smiling as soon as she sees me. 'Would you like a piece?'

It's Grandma's famous dessert, of which a quarter of the population owns, a grandma that has a talent for making wonderful sweets.

With the spoon, I took the first bite, a strange charm in my mouth, a feast of flavors and sugar in my mouth; it's the most delicious thing I've ever eaten in my life.

She asked me, 'Do you like my sweets?'

I replied, 'Are you kidding? It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.'

My grandmother, at the age of sixty, turned her back on me, poured me another plate, and handed it to me on the kitchen table.

...

'Your grandmother has been arrested.'

I stared at my father's words as he spoke about his deceased wife's mother, I ran to my grandmother's house... I ran as fast as I could... I arrived.

In her house, the empty dessert plates were on the table, and the last piece of dessert remained from yesterday, but my grandmother, holding the large spoon she used to pour the dessert for everyone and put herself last in line, wasn’t in the kitchen wearing the gloves...

...

How could a dessert maker with the ingredient of love be a criminal? The dessert was the color of hidden blood, an invisible weapon, the end of the life of anyone who doesn't adore it. The spoon, the weapon of the crime, anyone who doesn't love dessert is killed by the spoon, I had eaten from a spoon wiped clean of blood twelve times...

I haven't eaten dessert since…

Aline-Janet, a great great grandmother who lived to the remarkable age of 103.

She outlived each of her siblings, both of her parents, and seven of her children.

Most say she was lucky.

Others say she was cursed.

Some even say she was protected by God.

But no.

She was not.

Aline-Janet may have lived a long life, but that doesn't mean it was a good life.

Cheated.

Abused.

Manipulated.

Robbed.

Attacked.

Aline-Janet had every reason to die early.

No one would blame her, at least, no one who knew what happened.

But she lived.

And then the FBI came, kicking down the door.

The family was scared, screaming, pleading.

Aline-Janet knew they were here for her.

She went with them willingly.

They were going to sentence her to death, everyone knew.

Aline-Janet knew.

That's why she called them.

Carl was an unsightly man, to say the least. Yet, he had so many sexual conquests of beautiful women that he stood as a wonder. Here at the wedding, he was unsurprisingly on the prowl, eyeing the bridesmaids.

He wasn't the best man, although, in a manner of speaking, he had been better than the rest of them.

How scorn and resentment, inherent in gestalting ugliness, mixes with envy is a force of nature. If you see it coming, you should just get out of the way.

And so they swept in, high-T cowboys and posse posers, SWAT'ing Carl and hustling him into the black Suburban. He had been cuffed and--just for good measure--had been tased.

Sexual conquerers everywhere moved up a notch.

Carl's younger brother, Alan, the official best man, said to his corresponding Maid-of-Honor, "Remember when you used to say 'being ugly isn't a crime...yet!'?"

Now Alan stood as the unofficial best man, too. He eyed the bridesmaids, and vowed a law-and-order plank for his platform.

Seeing my grandma dragged off in handcuffs was the last thing I ever expected to see. I arrived at the family reunion just in time to watch her being escorted out of Aunt Lucy's house. Cops stood on either side of her, holding her upper arms to keep her firmly in place. Neighbors peered into the yard while they pretended to mow their lawns and clean their windows. I've never seen any of these neighbors clean. I was at a loss for words as I watched a cop shove grandma's into the backseat of the police car. I turned to the house, where the whole family was standing outside, looking as shocked as I feel. I stumbled over to them, confused and disoriented. Somehow, I was able to get the words out. I asked what happened. Aunt Lucy looked directly at me, her eyes enormous from shock. She spoke four simple words that knocked the breath straight out of me.

"Grammy's a serial killer."

It was a cold and wintry night. Indoors, everyone could hear the dry wood crackling in the fireplace. Silence lingered. Eyes drifted, no one wanted to interrupt the quietude.

Out of nowhere, a metal clang sounded. All eyes turned to the one who had clumsily dropped the firewood poker while playing with it. The guy grasped the poker almost instantaneously. He was the youngest in the room.

A few exchanged glances later everything returned to normal as if nothing had happened. But there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. It was as though the room was now holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

"Let's break the silence now, shall we?" said the plump middle-aged woman.

"You already did...Aunt Marie." replied the man, Josh, leaning on the windowsill. "Also I think the silence was much preferred."

The 'Aunt' scoffed at his words and gave a glare of 'No one asked for your opinion'.

"Why are we gathered here, may I ask?" queried the younger blonde woman. It was a question they all had on their mind.

"Well, that is a great question but, the brat who knows the answer to that is apparently not present." Josh said, stating the obvious.

"That 'brat' is my son, you punk." the 'Aunt' retorted.

"And how does that change the fact that he's a brat?" Josh said temptingly prompting a fight.

"Let's not pounce on each other like cats and dogs." intervened yet another relative. "We're a family for Pete's sake. Maintain some composure.".

The former tranquility resumed, but only for a moment. The man of the day made an entrance, pushing through the double doors in a grandiloquent manner. He silently went straight to a side table to pour himself a glass of blood-red wine. Everyone's gaze stayed on the host.

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you, your Highness, but could you elaborate on the reason for gathering us in this hellhole?" Josh asked.

"I think we'd all like to know." backed the youngest.

"I just did as I was told."

"When have you ever done as you were told? And by whom?" asked his mother eagerly.

"The police, of course."

"Police?" inquired Josh.

"They intend to arrest one of us."

"What?!" they exclaimed simultaneously. Confusion ran in circles round the room.

"By the way, they're already here."

The FBI then barged in with guns in hand. "Robert Carmichael, you are under arrest under the charges of...blah, blah, blah." an officer announced while he cuffed one of them. The cuffed man was the one in his eighties, who had previously commented about family and composure.

For years, Robert had managed to evade being detected, using his innocent demeanor as a cover while carrying out his illegal crimes from the comfort of his suburban home. But his luck ran out when the FBI finally caught up with him, armed with evidence linking him to a string of bombing attacks that had wreaked havoc on national security.

It was a revelation that forced the members to confront the unsettling reality that even those closest to them harbored hidden depths and dark secrets.