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Uncle Jack

Christmas ended right before lunch. Mom was already in bed. Aside from a couple of our favorite ornaments, the tree was naked. Uneaten Chinese carryout littered the table. Uncle Jack's chair was noticeably empty.

Mom's physical and mental health had been declining for years, but she took a turn for the worse September when Jack died.

Jack had been living with us for years. He had lost his job and mom was afraid he'd go back to the bottle. She always looked after her baby brother, though I could tell my uncle's presence was helping her even more. Mom started painting again. Her smiles returned. She was always a family person and a caregiver. Mom needed to be needed.

Uncle Jack seemed to know that too. He'd take me aside and give me money whenever I needed it. I just had to swear to never tell mom.

I never asked how a guy with no job and no apparent direction always had cash at his disposal. I was even more shocked when his body was found in the river; his head cleanly lasered off. We thought some random supervillain must have killed him for no reason. Jack didn't have an enemy in the world.

The authorities then discovered Uncle's 'lair' which explained most everything. For decades, Century City had been haunted by a serial killer who called himself Ripper Jack. He'd kill random superheroes then send cryptic notes to the newspapers bragging of his achievements.

In a basement below Uncle Jack's abandoned dilapidated house, they found an army of mannequins all dressed up in the costumes of the heroes Jack killed. His trophies.

Ripper Jack never killed anyone famous. All his victims were Z-raters. Many were killed before I was born. There was a guy who dressed like a bug. Another with a floral emblem on her costume. Yet another with spandex that changed color every second. The heroic forgotten. Their memories were briefly resurrected, then shut away in the FBI's closed files.

Jack left behind a whole library of scribbled notebooks where he'd outline the reasons for his killings. His manifesto blamed superheroes, rabbits, demonic possession and the number nine. He'd draw mazes that went nowhere and paragraphs in made-up languages. Did he somehow believe what he did was right? I wish I knew.

Mom refused to believe her brother was behind any of this, but hanging in his closet was Ripper Jack's black spandex costume that allowed him to blend in the shadows and stun unsuspecting victims. DNA tests sealed the deal. Uncle Jack was the Ripper.

Maybe mom hasn't come to terms with this, but I slowly have. The truth is never easy.

Still, I remember the Uncle Jack who'd brighten every Christmas dressed like an elf complete with jingly bells on his cap. The man who could whip up the best brownies you've ever devoured. The guy who volunteered twice a week at the children's hospital. The father I never had who taught me to be a man.

Uncle Jack was all these things and more. I hold on to these memories because they're true and real. Nothing can take that away from me.

I miss you, Uncle Jack.