Cabernet

By Asche Keegan

“You’re a racist, Bibbs,” I said, tipping the glass towards the ancient oil painting. The portrait continued to stare moodily into the distance, perhaps pondering a world where someone else might be as great as he.

“And now I’ve gotta get rid of you somehow.” I swirled the glass, watching the Cabernet slosh back and forth. The sight made me queasy, but I downed the liquid anyway, not once taking my eyes away from Captain Bibbs. I choked on the swallow, coughing it up back into my lap, heaving and bellowing the thunderous coughs of a dying man. Once subsided, I leaned back again, turning my gaze from the painting to the book in front of me.

I opened it to the first page.

“Let’s recount your sins. You endorsed slavery and owned many slaves of your own. You are directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of African Americans in our own country. You served in the Confederate army as an officer for three years. I could go on.”

I paused, glancing back up at the man on the wall. “But you’re also the reason children go to school. And you saved many lives from being lost with your brilliant wartime tactics. You created a legacy. Built a business from the ground and became a national powerhouse.”

I couldn’t think of the other things.

“You’ve got some good pieces to ya, Bibbs, but you’re still a racist.”

I wanted him to respond, to tell me what to do. I could picture the growl he’d make—an echo of my great grandfather’s snarl whenever we came up to him after church. We’d always shake his hand politely before shrinking back against the pews. Until the day he died, he’d see us and throw back his head and laugh.

But in this scenario, I could even imagine what Bibbs would say.

“You filthy lot carrying on with all manner of immorality. There are women walking about with virtually nothing on. Where are the masters for these slaves?”

He’s probably throw the n-word in there a couple of times too.

I took another dreg, swallowing the last of what was in the glass. Almost without looking, I refilled it.

“But what am I supposed to do with you? Half the people I know want me to get rid of ya. Sell you off to an auction and donate the money for reparations, you know?” I laugh at myself. “No, you wouldn’t know. You’re the reason I’d have to give up $50,000 in the first place. I hate this.”

With a start, I realize the cup is dry again, so I set it aside, pulling my head into my hands. I sit there, propped up halfway on the armchair for several minutes.

The entire time, Bibbs taunts me. “I may be a racist, but I’m no coward. I’m not the one who ran away from war. I fought even when six of my bones were broken. And instead, you intentionally broke your bones to stay home. You hurt yourself to stay home. Yer a coward.”

“I’m not a coward. You are,” I retort, petulant as a child.

“You are a child.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan.

I look up again, almost expecting Bibbs to be looking down on me, but no, he’s still looking up, off to his right, that snooty “holier-than-thou” look on his face.

“But you killed hundreds of people, Bibbs. That don’t make you brave, just a bully.”

I poured myself another glass, relaxing a bit as the cabernet settled in.

“But some people want me to keep you. Saying you’re an artifact. A piece of history that can’t be re-written. Someone to be proud of.”

“They mean to say they’re prouder of me than of your sorry ass.”

“Hey, at least I’ve got one. You’re just a head on a wall.”

“And I died with my head on a stick. You’re gonna die fat. In your bed. Screaming.”

“But at least this sorry ass will be attached,” I replied. It was a poor comeback but the only one that came to mind.

Almost without thinking, I stood, the cabernet sloshing in the glass. I approached Bibbs, keeping eye contact. “You’re an utter fool. The butt of too many of my problems.”

“If you were capable of solving your own problems, you wouldn’t need to blame them on me.”

“But you know what, I know better than you. I’m smarter after all. I don’t kill people in the name of protecting a family—

“Because you don’t know have one or because you don’t know what honor means?”

“—Because I’m just f*cking better than you are! You’re a racist, a sexist. A misogynist. You’re all the things. I’m just better. And you. You were a terrible person.”

“And you are only a pathetic one.”

The words hung in the silence.

Then, again almost without knowing what I was doing, I had my hands gripped around the sides of the painting, attempting to yank it from the wall. The wine spilled over the edge falling onto and staining the $50,000 antique, but in the moment I didn’t care about antiques or money or reparations or any of it. I just wanted him gone.

I pulled it off, stumbling backwards and hurling it down onto the floor ten feet away from me. A splintering crack filled the room and staring at the broken remnants of the giant frame, the conversation came fully into focus.

All of it.

Even the imagined parts.

Now it looked like red dripped from Bibb’s haughty eyes. I wondered if that’s what it looked like when he got his head impaled.

I laughed, a little unstably before downing the rest of the cabernet. Tossing the glass onto what remained of the frame, I went to bed.