Not Always

Jack always scheduled his summer vacations for the first week of his children's school when the weather was still warm and the teacher's weren't expecting too much. The beach was less crowded and the tourist traps had all lowered their prices for the season. He always congratulated himself on how clever he was for this. As he watched his family from his beach chair, soaking in the rays of a dog day August sun, he told himself this time was no different.

Watching his wife and children playing in the foamy wash at the edge of the beach, he believed he had everything he could ever want. He'd married his college sweetheart and she was as beautiful and full of life as the day they'd met. His boys, twins, were athletic, smart, kind, and rarely ever caused him any concern. They were all perfect and perfectly situated to spend their days reveling in each other's company making life whatever they wished it to be.

A waiter appeared to fill up his rum and raspberry cocktail and he tipped him 30 percent. He prided himself on his generosity and found every opportunity to mention it to friends and strangers alike. "Why not," he'd say, "I can afford it."

Billy, his youngest by a minute, came running over to get him to play catch with them.

"I guess my knees can take it for a bit," he said. His modesty too, was unrivaled in his opinion.

Jack played football in high school and still believed he would've played in college if not for a knee injury. When he played football with his kids, he treated it like he'd never stopped playing-never stopped aging-that his body was as spry and strong as it was 20 years before. Sometimes, someone would get hurt and his wife would tell him not to play so rough. "They'll have to learn sometime," he'd say. "If they ever want to be as good as I was." She would just shake her head and smile. "You're incorrigible," she'd say.

Brad, the oldest by a minute, got a bloody nose from one of his throws and ran crying to his mother. She gave Jack a stern look and he came over to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Brad," he said. "You know I don't know my own strength sometimes. It's just muscle memory, son. I won't do it again."

With that reassurance, they went back to playing and Jack was careful not to throw it that hard again. He laughed to himself at how easy parenting had come to him. He was a natural.

When it was time to leave, they packed up what they'd brought to the beach and headed back to the hotel. Jack carried almost everything-dropping things from time to time and stopping everyone until he regained control over the load. They made it back to the hotel and Jack encouraged the boys to operate the elevator to their room. He didn't even give them pointers on how to do it.

After showering, they dressed in the best clothes they'd brought. Jack's were Armani and several times more expensive than the clothes the rest of his family wore. He told his wife, it was for work. He had to project an image of success and competency.

At the hotel restaurant, Michelin rated, they ate until they couldn't anymore and retired to their rooms. It was their last night on vacation.

In the morning, they had breakfast and checked out. A valet brought their rented SUV around and Jack tipped him forty percent. He kept this a secret from his wife. It was the last day, he thought, I can be more generous than usual.

On the ride home, they sang songs and played games and Jack looked back often at his wife and kids and smiled at how lucky he was. They were all so perfect. Nobody could have asked for better, he thought.

When they got home that night and into bed, Jack went through the house methodically with a shotgun. He murdered his wife first so she wouldn't have to outlive her children and then shot the boys who were the light of his life. It was harder with them. They'd been awaken by the sound of the first blast and were running toward him. He told them there was an intruder in the house and he was looking for him and that they needed to go back to their rooms and lock the door. When they turned around, he shot both of them in the back and went into the kitchen. He placed on the counter a letter he'd written and called 911.

When the police arrived, they found Jack sprawled out on the kitchen floor, a puddle of blood emanating outward from his head. A shotgun lay a few inches from his right hand. One of the cops noticed the note on the counter on top of a large stack of mail and picked it up.

He thumbed through the mail-bills, repossession notices, and a few foreclosure warnings before opening the note.

"It can't get better than this," was all it said.

At the bottom it was signed by Jack.