One might have seen us there, stepping in and out of the sunlight that sifted through the trees and the gaps of the Congress St. Bridge, sashaying down the cracked sidewalk like we were one of them. We might have been one of the leathery men playing Woodie Guthrie for just enough money to buy a beer, plucking rusty strings with fingernails that had collected so much dirt, so much dust, so much dirt. We could have had the ruddy cheeks of giggling girls, our legs like satin ribbons dipped into cowboy boots and licit lips that hold back cherry secrets. It's quite possible one might have spotted us in between the hipsters and their hand rolled cigarettes. We could have been reflecting the clouds off our sunglasses or making new ones with the tufts of white acridness, little wonderland caterpillars dressed in stovepipe jeans asking A-E-I-O-Who-Are-You?
We were all of them when we ate our rice bowls by the river while bats peppered the sky. We were all of them when we sucked down SoCo on the roofs of squatty buildings nestled between skyscrapers and loft apartments. We were all of them when we made love in that shapeless hotel.
And then one night, the rain began. It spilled out over the oily streets, washing all that sin and soul into hopeless rain gutters. And somewhere to the west, the hills lifted and pitched while the rain kicked up dust over the rocks. Our bodies rocked gently with the pop and hiss of beer cans and high heels down on sixth street, and I curled my coral toes into the disquietude of that city.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Inheritance
“Dad is dying.”
Evangeline St. Clair telephoned her brother Vincent for the first time in ten years to relay the news.
“What? Are you sure?”
The sound of men cursing and a tinny voice over the loud speaker caused Evangeline to wince in pain.
“What do you mean ‘Are you sure’? They don’t tell you that you’ve got terminal cancer if they’re not 100% sure. I’ve booked a flight for you back to Pembroke. We’re all meeting at the estate at 8:30. Don’t be late,” she snapped into the receiver. Evangeline hung up the phone and sipped her vodka tonic.
“Idiot,” she whispered under her breath.
On the other end, Vincent St. Clair rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the track where his lucky number 12 dog, Juniper, had just finished last place and was licking his crotch near the jump start gate. Vincent crumpled the ticket in his pocket and threw it on the ground near his feet. He reached down to grab the plastic cup full of flat beer and take a long drink, realizing just in time that the jerk-off next to him had thrown a cigar butt in there before leaving. The sun was setting on Griffin Park in east L.A. Somewhere, the sound of sirens filled the spaces between the cars on the Santa Monica Freeway, and Vince sat listening to the disquietude of the city, the clamor of his thoughts, on a flimsy rise of steel bleachers. He reached in his shirt pocket for another Lucky Strike only to discover that he’d smoked his last one.
“Just my luck,” Vincent grumbled, tossing the empty pack to the stairwell as he grabbed his moth-eaten coat. He rubbed one calloused hand on the back of his sunburned neck and wondered if his old pal Geoff the Chef would make him another sympathy meal at the diner. His father was dying, after all.
~
“C-C-Can you just check one more time? Y-Yes, Alfred St. Clair,” Charles St. Clair stammered into the phone to the nurse on duty at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.
“I’m sorry sir, it appears that line is still busy. I can have him call you later if you’d like,” the nurse replied calmly, with a tinge of frustration in her voice.
“N-No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you,” Charles responded, sighing.
He adjusted his tie in the hall mirror and attempted to flatten the sparse mass of salt and pepper hair over his ever-expanding bald spot. With a quick check of his watch, Charles grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door to visit his father. The sun reflected off the silver frames of his glasses and warmed the frail looking man into a light perspiration that almost always collected at the armpits of his white collared shirts. Charles stopped at the driver’s side door of his silver sedan and fumbled for the keys in his pants pocket. Today, he was a little more nervous than usual, as he’d be seeing his sister Evangeline for the first time in years. After much grappling with his case, the keys found themselves into the door and Charles was on his way.
He arrived at room 323 in little time and knocked politely on the door before letting himself in. He was surprised to see Evangeline standing over their father’s bed, her lithe figure dressed smartly in a black blazer and patterned skirt. She flipped her short, black bob and balanced a cigarette holder between two fingers decorated with French-manicured nails.
“I uh, d-don’t think they let you sm-sm-smoke in here, Evangeline,” Charles said, in almost a whisper.
Evangeline looked up from the bed to the overwrought man standing in the doorway. She regarded him with a raised eyebrow and defiantly took another drag from the end of the holder before removing the cigarette and ashing it on the windowsill.
“Oh, come now, Charlie. I’ve already got cancer, what’s she going to do to me?” Alfred St. Clair jested from his bed. His joke started a throaty chuckle which resulted in a raspy cough that shook his portly body.
“W-Well it can’t be helping you, any-anyhow,” Charles muttered.
“Good to see you again, Charlie,” Evangeline said, in a voice that was only slightly facetious.
“Have you h-heard from Vincent yet?” Charles asked, setting his briefcase down by the door and sliding up next to the hospital bed in a vacant chair.
“I called him yesterday and told him to meet us at the estate tomorrow morning. He’ll most likely be there by late afternoon. Dad’s been granted leave for a while so we’ll have time to discuss-,” Evangeline was cut off by a sharp ringing. She reached into the pocket of her blazer and flipped open a cell phone.
“Yeah? What’s the problem?” She reached into her purse on the bedside table and procured another skinny cigarette that she deftly fixed into the holder.
“I told Joan to sell when they got to that rate. Doesn’t that girl listen to a word I tell her? Look, I can’t talk about this right now. I’m at the hospital with my father for chrissake. Just fix it, Bob,” Evangeline yammered into the phone while she balanced it between her face and her bony shoulder. She lit the cigarette with a match and shook it out vehemently.
Charles shook his head and grabbed his father’s hand.
“How you feeling, D-D-Dad?” he asked tenderly.
“Good, Charlie. Just fine for an old fuddy-duddy like myself. I’ll be glad to get out of this bed for a while though, that’s for sure,” Alfred chortled.
Charles was sad to see the once ruddy color of his father’s cheeks had turned a wan and lifeless shade of gray. He knew his father hadn’t much time left. The two sat there like that for several minutes while Evangeline babbled into the phone. The acrid smoke from her cigarette curled around the scene like a hazy curtain.
~
“It’s almost f-four o’clock. Where is he?” Charles sat at the dining room table and tapped his fingers against the side of his head.
“I told you he’d be late. That worthless son-of-a-bitch couldn’t get to his own funeral on time, let alone his father’s. He’ll be here. Where’s Dad?” Evangeline asked, rummaging through an old oak liquor cabinet that stood collecting dust in the corner of a dimly lit dining hall.
“I th-thought you said you were picking him up from the h-h-hospital,” Charles stuttered.
“No, I asked when you were picking him up. I had a meeting this morning, I couldn’t have gotten him,” Evangeline grumbled. She seized a bottle of scotch whiskey from the back of the cabinet and dusted off a cocktail glass from the top of the cabinet.
The two stared at one another in disbelief in a moment of recognition.
“Dammit, Charlie. For a college professor, you sure are a dunce sometimes. Call the hospital,” Evangeline barked.
Charles scraped his chair across the hard-wood floor and jogged into the kitchen. Evangeline gulped down the shot of whiskey and grabbed her blazer from the back of a chair. She sifted through the pockets for a cigarette and raced out the door to her sports car. Charles ambled out moments later, and the two raced down the quiet suburban road to retrieve their father from the hospital. He was waiting outside in a wheelchair when they arrived, and Charles stumbled out of the compact vehicle.
“D-D-Dad, I’m so sorry! Have you been waiting here l-long?” Charles asked, out of breath as he wheeled his father toward the car.
Evangeline scooped up her belongings from the back seat and shoved them into her trunk. She walked around to the side of the car and opened one of the tiny doors so her father could get in.
“Where are we supposed to put the wh-wheelchair?” Charles asked, after helping his father into the miniscule back seat.
“Just park it over there. He’s going to be sitting down most of the time anyway,” Evangeline ordered.
With a little hesitation, Charles left the wheelchair in the handicapped parking spot at the hospital and hopped into the passenger seat. A quick shift into drive sent the family speeding back down the road to their father’s estate.
“Wow, Honey, that’s some little roadster you’ve got there!” Alfred laughed. He braced himself on his son’s thin arms and hobbled inside.
Vincent was sprawled out on a leather couch in the den. Startled, he awoke when he heard the front door slam closed and Evangeline’s stiletto heels clacking through the front foyer. He wiped away the drool from the corner of his mouth and went to meet his family in the kitchen.
“Chuckie! Evie! And dear old Dad. How the hell’ve you guys been?” He greeted each one with a firm pat on the back.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Evangeline said, shoving past her brothers and into the cavernous dining room. She resumed her afternoon cocktail by pouring another glass of scotch.
Vincent followed behind her, with Charles and Alfred pulling up the rear slowly but surely. The family sat down at the long table, with Alfred sitting at the head underneath a giant portrait of Mrs. St. Clair, long since deceased.
“Can you pour me one of those, Evie?” Vincent asked, gesturing toward the glass bottle.
“Y-You smell like you’ve h-h-had your fair share already,” Charles groused from his seat.
“Kids, kids, kids. Let’s cut the bickering and get down to business!” Alfred announced.
“Evangeline, would you mind getting my valise from the front sitting room, dear? It’s got all the paperwork in it,” Alfred requested. The amber light turned his white hair a dismal yellow color and caused the circles under his eyes to deepen.
Evangeline made her way to the room where Vincent had previously been asleep and retrieved a brown and battered case from a coffee table. She glanced on either side of her before opening the clasp and rummaging through the paperwork. The case contained her father’s will, and Evangeline wanted to know exactly how much of her father’s fortune she was getting before he went into a long winded speech about the importance of family.
A few minutes passed before Vincent walked up behind her.
“Find anything good, Evie?” He asked.
Evangeline jumped and quickly closed the case. She glared at her brother who stood there sheepishly in a suit he’d probably been sleeping in for the past three days. A mass of graying brown curls crowned his head in a pathetic looking halo, and his bushy eyebrows were raised in amusement.
“Fuck off,” she replied, embarrassed at being caught.
She walked hurriedly past him into the dining room and set the case in front of her father.
“Have some trouble finding it, honey?” Alfred asked. His eyes told her that he knew otherwise.
“Uh, yeah Dad. I just um, had walked right past it,” Evangeline mumbled, sitting at the table and staring at her hands.
Vincent walked back in and plopped down in a chair next to his father. Alfred stacked the papers neatly together and folded his hands over them. He pulled a pair of half-moon glasses from inside the case and glanced around the table at his three children.
“Well, it’s no secret I’m dying. Who knows how long it’ll be before I’ve gone to lie with your mother, God rest her soul. I suppose all that’s left now is the matter of who gets left with what,” he began. Alfred cleared his throat and sorted the papers into three piles.
“It was a tough decision,” he explained.
“Y-y-you know Dad, I would have been happy to let someone look th-th-things over for you. Y-you shouldn’t be having all this extra stress,” Charles interjected, patting his father’s hand.
Evangeline rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust. Vincent shook his head and chuckled in his seat.
“That’s just like you, Chuckie Boy. Always being the first one to stick your nose up someone’s ass for a good sniff at their gullibility,” Vincent rubbed the sides of his temples.
“I-I told you not to c-c-call me Chuckie anymore. And besides, I’m the o-o-only one who’s ever even stuck around to t-t-t-take care of Dad,” Charles said indignantly. His beady eyes scowled at his younger brother behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Oh, right. And did what exactly? Suck up his money to pay for your thirty-three weddings and divorces? I’m the one who’s helped him expand his company. I’m the one who invested my own profits into his ideas. If anyone deserves anything it’s me,” Evangeline griped. She had leaned across the table and was jabbing her square nail into Charles’ shoulder.
“At least I was able to get married, you sh-shrew!” Charles shot back, standing from his seat.
“Hey, come on pals and gals. Let’s not sit here and squabble while our father’s wasting away. Let the old man speak!” Vincent interrupted, throwing his arms between the two.
“Oh don’t get me started on you, you shiftless sack of sh-,” Evangeline began.
“Okay, okay. Everyone just shut the hell up!” Alfred shouted, slamming his fists on the table.
The siblings turned to stare at him and awkwardly sat down in their seats.
“These piles have your names on them and discuss the matter of inheritance. I’m tired now, so you kids just sort through this yourselves. Vincent, my boy, would you mind wheeling me to the bedroom so I can get some shuteye?” Alfred’s voice was haggard.
“Sure, Pop,” Vincent agreed, pulling his father away from the table and letting his eyes linger on the stacks of papers to see who’s was bigger.
“I’ve not done teaching you the things you need to learn, my children. But I’ve done my best,” Alfred called back to them as he disappeared into the shadows of the other rooms.
As soon as the squeaking from the wheelchair was out of earshot, Evangeline shot out of her chair and snatched up the pile of papers with her name on it. Charles bounded after her, stumbling over the leg of one of the dining chairs and scattering his stack all over the floor. Evangeline snickered, but soon her malicious mirth was cut short when her eyes scanned the first page. Vincent came gamboling into the dining room and scooped up his pile.
“So what’d you get, Evie? A lampshade, some of Mom’s old nightgowns, a pair of ivory dice?” Vincent joked. His laughter too was interrupted by the draining of the color from his face.
“W-w-well what is it? D-did you guys make a fortune or…” Charles voice trailed off as he looked from face to face. He had finally managed to collect his papers in order and wondered if he even wanted to read them.
Evangeline snapped out of her bewilderment and plucked the papers away from Charles.
“What does yours say?” She asked ferociously.
“Oh, Jesus. You’’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered under her breath. She threw Charles’ papers back onto the floor, sending him scrambling after each one.
“Is this a joke? I mean, Dad always loved a good knee-slapper but this is… this…” Vincent trailed off as he traded pages with Evangeline.
Each pile had the same message written on it in their father’s perfect scrawl. It read:
To my children:
The matter of my inheritance has been a very difficult one to struggle with. Each one of you has taken part of my life in equal ways, and there was simply no way for me to decide who ended up with what. So I present each of you with a challenge. The entirety of my fortune has been separated into three locked boxes which can be found in the same location. Each one of you has been mailed a key which will open all three of the boxes. Inside the envelope containing the key is your first clue. Whoever reaches the boxes first gets to keep however much of the inheritance they want. Good luck to you, my kids. I love you all.
--Alfred James St. Clair
“Maybe we should just talk to him about this tomorrow. I’ll make a few phone calls, get a decent lawyer over here, and we’ll settle this like adults. This had to be the chemo talking,” Evangeline explained. She shook her head and walked out of the room.
“Sh-She’s right you know. D-D-Dad was probably just making this up to sc-scare us into getting along or something. We really should j-just talk to him,” Charles said to Vincent, who was busy gawking over the letter.
“Yeah. Yeah, talk to him,” Vincent mumbled.
“Well, good night, Vince,” Charles patted his brother on the back and headed off to sleep.
“Good night, Chuckie Boy,” Vince replied, to no one in particular.
The next morning, Charles knocked on the door to his father’s room and let himself in. Evangeline was already there dressed in her usual business attire and standing over the bed.
“He’s dead,” she said flatly.
Charles’ eyes shot wide open and he dashed to his father’s bedside. Alfred’s eyes looked like two gray stones, lined with tiny lashes. His face looked like it had been molded out of clay, and his arms lied lifeless against his bloated belly. Evangeline stared for a moment longer before gliding across the floor and out of the bedroom.
“Vince is gone, too,” she called after Charles, who could not tear his eyes away from his father, lying in his bed as dead as anything could be.
“W-what?” Charles asked suddenly. He chased Evangeline into the kitchen. She was collecting her belongings in her hands and had stepped out into the misty morning.
“He left last night, I think. I’ve already called the ambulance and made arrangements with a funeral home. You can take care of all of this, right Charles?” She tossed her purse and her coat into the passenger’s seat of her sports car and hopped in.
“W-w-well I guess I…” Charles began.
“Good. See you at the finish line,” Evangeline cut him off and zipped away down the road into the encompassing fog.
Charles dashed back inside and fetched his briefcase from the dining room. Without a second thought, he slammed the front door and was racing down the road toward his home, toward the mailbox that contained the key to his fortune. The sound of a siren rolled somewhere up a hill, and Alfred St. Clair lay dead in an upstairs bedroom, his final plan unfolding just the way he would’ve liked.
Evangeline St. Clair telephoned her brother Vincent for the first time in ten years to relay the news.
“What? Are you sure?”
The sound of men cursing and a tinny voice over the loud speaker caused Evangeline to wince in pain.
“What do you mean ‘Are you sure’? They don’t tell you that you’ve got terminal cancer if they’re not 100% sure. I’ve booked a flight for you back to Pembroke. We’re all meeting at the estate at 8:30. Don’t be late,” she snapped into the receiver. Evangeline hung up the phone and sipped her vodka tonic.
“Idiot,” she whispered under her breath.
On the other end, Vincent St. Clair rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the track where his lucky number 12 dog, Juniper, had just finished last place and was licking his crotch near the jump start gate. Vincent crumpled the ticket in his pocket and threw it on the ground near his feet. He reached down to grab the plastic cup full of flat beer and take a long drink, realizing just in time that the jerk-off next to him had thrown a cigar butt in there before leaving. The sun was setting on Griffin Park in east L.A. Somewhere, the sound of sirens filled the spaces between the cars on the Santa Monica Freeway, and Vince sat listening to the disquietude of the city, the clamor of his thoughts, on a flimsy rise of steel bleachers. He reached in his shirt pocket for another Lucky Strike only to discover that he’d smoked his last one.
“Just my luck,” Vincent grumbled, tossing the empty pack to the stairwell as he grabbed his moth-eaten coat. He rubbed one calloused hand on the back of his sunburned neck and wondered if his old pal Geoff the Chef would make him another sympathy meal at the diner. His father was dying, after all.
~
“C-C-Can you just check one more time? Y-Yes, Alfred St. Clair,” Charles St. Clair stammered into the phone to the nurse on duty at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.
“I’m sorry sir, it appears that line is still busy. I can have him call you later if you’d like,” the nurse replied calmly, with a tinge of frustration in her voice.
“N-No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you,” Charles responded, sighing.
He adjusted his tie in the hall mirror and attempted to flatten the sparse mass of salt and pepper hair over his ever-expanding bald spot. With a quick check of his watch, Charles grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door to visit his father. The sun reflected off the silver frames of his glasses and warmed the frail looking man into a light perspiration that almost always collected at the armpits of his white collared shirts. Charles stopped at the driver’s side door of his silver sedan and fumbled for the keys in his pants pocket. Today, he was a little more nervous than usual, as he’d be seeing his sister Evangeline for the first time in years. After much grappling with his case, the keys found themselves into the door and Charles was on his way.
He arrived at room 323 in little time and knocked politely on the door before letting himself in. He was surprised to see Evangeline standing over their father’s bed, her lithe figure dressed smartly in a black blazer and patterned skirt. She flipped her short, black bob and balanced a cigarette holder between two fingers decorated with French-manicured nails.
“I uh, d-don’t think they let you sm-sm-smoke in here, Evangeline,” Charles said, in almost a whisper.
Evangeline looked up from the bed to the overwrought man standing in the doorway. She regarded him with a raised eyebrow and defiantly took another drag from the end of the holder before removing the cigarette and ashing it on the windowsill.
“Oh, come now, Charlie. I’ve already got cancer, what’s she going to do to me?” Alfred St. Clair jested from his bed. His joke started a throaty chuckle which resulted in a raspy cough that shook his portly body.
“W-Well it can’t be helping you, any-anyhow,” Charles muttered.
“Good to see you again, Charlie,” Evangeline said, in a voice that was only slightly facetious.
“Have you h-heard from Vincent yet?” Charles asked, setting his briefcase down by the door and sliding up next to the hospital bed in a vacant chair.
“I called him yesterday and told him to meet us at the estate tomorrow morning. He’ll most likely be there by late afternoon. Dad’s been granted leave for a while so we’ll have time to discuss-,” Evangeline was cut off by a sharp ringing. She reached into the pocket of her blazer and flipped open a cell phone.
“Yeah? What’s the problem?” She reached into her purse on the bedside table and procured another skinny cigarette that she deftly fixed into the holder.
“I told Joan to sell when they got to that rate. Doesn’t that girl listen to a word I tell her? Look, I can’t talk about this right now. I’m at the hospital with my father for chrissake. Just fix it, Bob,” Evangeline yammered into the phone while she balanced it between her face and her bony shoulder. She lit the cigarette with a match and shook it out vehemently.
Charles shook his head and grabbed his father’s hand.
“How you feeling, D-D-Dad?” he asked tenderly.
“Good, Charlie. Just fine for an old fuddy-duddy like myself. I’ll be glad to get out of this bed for a while though, that’s for sure,” Alfred chortled.
Charles was sad to see the once ruddy color of his father’s cheeks had turned a wan and lifeless shade of gray. He knew his father hadn’t much time left. The two sat there like that for several minutes while Evangeline babbled into the phone. The acrid smoke from her cigarette curled around the scene like a hazy curtain.
~
“It’s almost f-four o’clock. Where is he?” Charles sat at the dining room table and tapped his fingers against the side of his head.
“I told you he’d be late. That worthless son-of-a-bitch couldn’t get to his own funeral on time, let alone his father’s. He’ll be here. Where’s Dad?” Evangeline asked, rummaging through an old oak liquor cabinet that stood collecting dust in the corner of a dimly lit dining hall.
“I th-thought you said you were picking him up from the h-h-hospital,” Charles stuttered.
“No, I asked when you were picking him up. I had a meeting this morning, I couldn’t have gotten him,” Evangeline grumbled. She seized a bottle of scotch whiskey from the back of the cabinet and dusted off a cocktail glass from the top of the cabinet.
The two stared at one another in disbelief in a moment of recognition.
“Dammit, Charlie. For a college professor, you sure are a dunce sometimes. Call the hospital,” Evangeline barked.
Charles scraped his chair across the hard-wood floor and jogged into the kitchen. Evangeline gulped down the shot of whiskey and grabbed her blazer from the back of a chair. She sifted through the pockets for a cigarette and raced out the door to her sports car. Charles ambled out moments later, and the two raced down the quiet suburban road to retrieve their father from the hospital. He was waiting outside in a wheelchair when they arrived, and Charles stumbled out of the compact vehicle.
“D-D-Dad, I’m so sorry! Have you been waiting here l-long?” Charles asked, out of breath as he wheeled his father toward the car.
Evangeline scooped up her belongings from the back seat and shoved them into her trunk. She walked around to the side of the car and opened one of the tiny doors so her father could get in.
“Where are we supposed to put the wh-wheelchair?” Charles asked, after helping his father into the miniscule back seat.
“Just park it over there. He’s going to be sitting down most of the time anyway,” Evangeline ordered.
With a little hesitation, Charles left the wheelchair in the handicapped parking spot at the hospital and hopped into the passenger seat. A quick shift into drive sent the family speeding back down the road to their father’s estate.
“Wow, Honey, that’s some little roadster you’ve got there!” Alfred laughed. He braced himself on his son’s thin arms and hobbled inside.
Vincent was sprawled out on a leather couch in the den. Startled, he awoke when he heard the front door slam closed and Evangeline’s stiletto heels clacking through the front foyer. He wiped away the drool from the corner of his mouth and went to meet his family in the kitchen.
“Chuckie! Evie! And dear old Dad. How the hell’ve you guys been?” He greeted each one with a firm pat on the back.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Evangeline said, shoving past her brothers and into the cavernous dining room. She resumed her afternoon cocktail by pouring another glass of scotch.
Vincent followed behind her, with Charles and Alfred pulling up the rear slowly but surely. The family sat down at the long table, with Alfred sitting at the head underneath a giant portrait of Mrs. St. Clair, long since deceased.
“Can you pour me one of those, Evie?” Vincent asked, gesturing toward the glass bottle.
“Y-You smell like you’ve h-h-had your fair share already,” Charles groused from his seat.
“Kids, kids, kids. Let’s cut the bickering and get down to business!” Alfred announced.
“Evangeline, would you mind getting my valise from the front sitting room, dear? It’s got all the paperwork in it,” Alfred requested. The amber light turned his white hair a dismal yellow color and caused the circles under his eyes to deepen.
Evangeline made her way to the room where Vincent had previously been asleep and retrieved a brown and battered case from a coffee table. She glanced on either side of her before opening the clasp and rummaging through the paperwork. The case contained her father’s will, and Evangeline wanted to know exactly how much of her father’s fortune she was getting before he went into a long winded speech about the importance of family.
A few minutes passed before Vincent walked up behind her.
“Find anything good, Evie?” He asked.
Evangeline jumped and quickly closed the case. She glared at her brother who stood there sheepishly in a suit he’d probably been sleeping in for the past three days. A mass of graying brown curls crowned his head in a pathetic looking halo, and his bushy eyebrows were raised in amusement.
“Fuck off,” she replied, embarrassed at being caught.
She walked hurriedly past him into the dining room and set the case in front of her father.
“Have some trouble finding it, honey?” Alfred asked. His eyes told her that he knew otherwise.
“Uh, yeah Dad. I just um, had walked right past it,” Evangeline mumbled, sitting at the table and staring at her hands.
Vincent walked back in and plopped down in a chair next to his father. Alfred stacked the papers neatly together and folded his hands over them. He pulled a pair of half-moon glasses from inside the case and glanced around the table at his three children.
“Well, it’s no secret I’m dying. Who knows how long it’ll be before I’ve gone to lie with your mother, God rest her soul. I suppose all that’s left now is the matter of who gets left with what,” he began. Alfred cleared his throat and sorted the papers into three piles.
“It was a tough decision,” he explained.
“Y-y-you know Dad, I would have been happy to let someone look th-th-things over for you. Y-you shouldn’t be having all this extra stress,” Charles interjected, patting his father’s hand.
Evangeline rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust. Vincent shook his head and chuckled in his seat.
“That’s just like you, Chuckie Boy. Always being the first one to stick your nose up someone’s ass for a good sniff at their gullibility,” Vincent rubbed the sides of his temples.
“I-I told you not to c-c-call me Chuckie anymore. And besides, I’m the o-o-only one who’s ever even stuck around to t-t-t-take care of Dad,” Charles said indignantly. His beady eyes scowled at his younger brother behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Oh, right. And did what exactly? Suck up his money to pay for your thirty-three weddings and divorces? I’m the one who’s helped him expand his company. I’m the one who invested my own profits into his ideas. If anyone deserves anything it’s me,” Evangeline griped. She had leaned across the table and was jabbing her square nail into Charles’ shoulder.
“At least I was able to get married, you sh-shrew!” Charles shot back, standing from his seat.
“Hey, come on pals and gals. Let’s not sit here and squabble while our father’s wasting away. Let the old man speak!” Vincent interrupted, throwing his arms between the two.
“Oh don’t get me started on you, you shiftless sack of sh-,” Evangeline began.
“Okay, okay. Everyone just shut the hell up!” Alfred shouted, slamming his fists on the table.
The siblings turned to stare at him and awkwardly sat down in their seats.
“These piles have your names on them and discuss the matter of inheritance. I’m tired now, so you kids just sort through this yourselves. Vincent, my boy, would you mind wheeling me to the bedroom so I can get some shuteye?” Alfred’s voice was haggard.
“Sure, Pop,” Vincent agreed, pulling his father away from the table and letting his eyes linger on the stacks of papers to see who’s was bigger.
“I’ve not done teaching you the things you need to learn, my children. But I’ve done my best,” Alfred called back to them as he disappeared into the shadows of the other rooms.
As soon as the squeaking from the wheelchair was out of earshot, Evangeline shot out of her chair and snatched up the pile of papers with her name on it. Charles bounded after her, stumbling over the leg of one of the dining chairs and scattering his stack all over the floor. Evangeline snickered, but soon her malicious mirth was cut short when her eyes scanned the first page. Vincent came gamboling into the dining room and scooped up his pile.
“So what’d you get, Evie? A lampshade, some of Mom’s old nightgowns, a pair of ivory dice?” Vincent joked. His laughter too was interrupted by the draining of the color from his face.
“W-w-well what is it? D-did you guys make a fortune or…” Charles voice trailed off as he looked from face to face. He had finally managed to collect his papers in order and wondered if he even wanted to read them.
Evangeline snapped out of her bewilderment and plucked the papers away from Charles.
“What does yours say?” She asked ferociously.
“Oh, Jesus. You’’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered under her breath. She threw Charles’ papers back onto the floor, sending him scrambling after each one.
“Is this a joke? I mean, Dad always loved a good knee-slapper but this is… this…” Vincent trailed off as he traded pages with Evangeline.
Each pile had the same message written on it in their father’s perfect scrawl. It read:
To my children:
The matter of my inheritance has been a very difficult one to struggle with. Each one of you has taken part of my life in equal ways, and there was simply no way for me to decide who ended up with what. So I present each of you with a challenge. The entirety of my fortune has been separated into three locked boxes which can be found in the same location. Each one of you has been mailed a key which will open all three of the boxes. Inside the envelope containing the key is your first clue. Whoever reaches the boxes first gets to keep however much of the inheritance they want. Good luck to you, my kids. I love you all.
--Alfred James St. Clair
“Maybe we should just talk to him about this tomorrow. I’ll make a few phone calls, get a decent lawyer over here, and we’ll settle this like adults. This had to be the chemo talking,” Evangeline explained. She shook her head and walked out of the room.
“Sh-She’s right you know. D-D-Dad was probably just making this up to sc-scare us into getting along or something. We really should j-just talk to him,” Charles said to Vincent, who was busy gawking over the letter.
“Yeah. Yeah, talk to him,” Vincent mumbled.
“Well, good night, Vince,” Charles patted his brother on the back and headed off to sleep.
“Good night, Chuckie Boy,” Vince replied, to no one in particular.
The next morning, Charles knocked on the door to his father’s room and let himself in. Evangeline was already there dressed in her usual business attire and standing over the bed.
“He’s dead,” she said flatly.
Charles’ eyes shot wide open and he dashed to his father’s bedside. Alfred’s eyes looked like two gray stones, lined with tiny lashes. His face looked like it had been molded out of clay, and his arms lied lifeless against his bloated belly. Evangeline stared for a moment longer before gliding across the floor and out of the bedroom.
“Vince is gone, too,” she called after Charles, who could not tear his eyes away from his father, lying in his bed as dead as anything could be.
“W-what?” Charles asked suddenly. He chased Evangeline into the kitchen. She was collecting her belongings in her hands and had stepped out into the misty morning.
“He left last night, I think. I’ve already called the ambulance and made arrangements with a funeral home. You can take care of all of this, right Charles?” She tossed her purse and her coat into the passenger’s seat of her sports car and hopped in.
“W-w-well I guess I…” Charles began.
“Good. See you at the finish line,” Evangeline cut him off and zipped away down the road into the encompassing fog.
Charles dashed back inside and fetched his briefcase from the dining room. Without a second thought, he slammed the front door and was racing down the road toward his home, toward the mailbox that contained the key to his fortune. The sound of a siren rolled somewhere up a hill, and Alfred St. Clair lay dead in an upstairs bedroom, his final plan unfolding just the way he would’ve liked.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)