Authors: Bill Rowe
Ten feet away, Mom was embracing Rosie and saying, “Oh, Rosie, I’m so glad I
ran into you here. I’ve been meaning to tell you: That was the proper thing you
did to that bastard, that perverted freak of bloody nature. And I’m profoundly
sorry Joe and I…” She struggled and then said, angry and fast, “We never should
have sent Tom over to—we—for God’s sake! You and Tom should still be…” She never
completed the thought aloud, but with a triumphant look, as if she had achieved
a great end at last, she stepped away again and strode resolutely, aimlessly,
down the corridor.
Dad went over to Rosie. “Did I hear Gladys actually call you by
name just then?”
Rosie was motionless, dazed. Her eyes were moist. It took her a second to
answer. “I think so, Uncle Joe.”
“That is amazing. Meeting you again after so many years must have fanned a
spark from long ago.”
We said goodbye to him, and on the way to the door Rosie murmured to me, “There
seems to be a good few sparks still alive from long ago.” I said nothing and
squeezed her arm.
As I punched in the numbers to open the door out of the secure area, a slim,
petite old woman in a cocktail dress and brocaded flat shoes danced towards us,
swirling, glissading, and curtsying, ending with a tiny, six-inch grand jeté.
Smiling broadly, she introduced herself with her usual, “I’m a real party girl.”
Then noticing my hand on the handle and the door partly open, she said, “Oh,”
in a small voice, “you’re leaving.” Her tone changed immediately to a loud and
harsh, “You’re not even inmates of this godforsaken place.”
I said, “We’ve got to go now, Gertie, but I’ll be back to party with you in a
couple of days.” Appeased, Gertie took hold of the sides of her dress, spread it
wide, and twisted coquettishly from side to side, before curtsying deep.
Outside in the car, Rose settled back with a big sigh, and I asked, “Harrowing
enough for ya?”
“Uh huh,” said Rosie. “Did you hear what your mother said?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t worry about that. No one would pay any attention to that.
They know she has dementia.”
Rosie looked at me. “No, not about killing fathers and stepfathers. I mean
about you and me—sending you over to England—you and I should still be
together…”
“Oh yes. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the sentiment.”
“Jesus,” breathed Rosie.
Those were our last words till I was pulling the car into my driveway. Then
Rosie said, “You must wonder sometimes why you go at all. She doesn’t even know
you’re there. How often do you visit, twice a week?”
“About. I used to drop in every day when she still knew me. Don’t tell anyone
this or I might lose my reputation as an old softie. But the only reason I go
these days is so the staff will always be aware that there is someone who is
jealously watching out for her.”
“But your father is there every day.”
“Oh, right.”
“You
are
an old softie.” She punched me in the arm.
“I know, and if it was your mother, even after everything that happened, you’d
be going down there every single day.”
Rosie didn’t answer immediately. She breathed in deeply and I expected another
big sigh, but none came. Instead, she said with a chuckle, “Yeah, but you know
me—the dutiful daughter, the little woman.”
I parked the car in my driveway and we walked into the house. “Can I get you
something while we talk?”
“Have you got any white wine in the fridge? I noticed that the sun is over the
yardarm, so I wouldn’t mind taking the edge off things a little.”
“Now your synapses are perkin’ good. How about some champagne in honour of the
occasion? I just happen to have a Veuve Clicquot in the fridge left over from
New Year’s Eve, when things didn’t go according to plan with my then dearly
beloved.”
“You’ve had a bottle of champagne sitting there in the fridge for over six
months? Honest to God, Tommy, we’ve got to get you a life.”
“This has not been a delightful year for me.”
With a pat on my hand, Rosie said, “Me neither. Maybe we can find some silver
linings in those clouds.”
I brought out the extra-slender flutes for the champagne, a reliable
panty-dropping combo in my more libidinous past. But today, of course, there was
no thought of that. I just felt an urge to impress Rosie with how classy I
was.
Having poured our champagne, I was sitting down opposite her in the living room
when I saw that her glass was already empty. She had tossed the bubbly back like
her morning orange juice. I’d better watch what I got involved in again with my
darling Rosie. Perhaps there
was
an echo in her of her father’s and
mother’s alcohol and substance abuse. “A little more?” I asked.
“What are you trying to do—get me to wrestle you to the floor and have my way
with your pink little body or something?”
“No,” I said in a cracked falsetto, eyes innocently wide, as if she’d caught
me in a nefarious plot.
“I’ll wait awhile, Tom. I downed that too quick. I don’t even know how to drink
anymore. I don’t suppose I’ve had five drinks in the last ten years. But I liked
the feel of that. I’m getting nice and relaxed.”
I, I, I… six, maybe seven I’s out of her in ten seconds. Well,
if she was a self-obsessed narcissist, at least she wasn’t a falling-down drunk
one. “That champers ought to do the trick,” I said. “The stuff goes straight
from stomach to bloodstream.” Her left foot was on the floor and her right leg
was resting on her left thigh. This afforded me a good view of four inches of
the inside of her svelte right ankle between shoe and hem of jeans and the
joinder of ankle with the instep and arch of her perfectly proportioned foot.
Jesus Christ Almighty, that was one beautiful piece of architecture. “And it’s
making me feel more like myself already,” I observed. “Well, your ladyship,
what’s going on?”
“I’ll give you the bare bones and you jump in any time with questions.”
“Will do. Go.”
“Okay.” She smiled, drew a breath, and burst into tears. I had only seen Rosie
cry like that a couple of times in my life, always under pretty ghastly
circumstances. I stayed in my chair, taken aback for a moment before I could
move. Then I got up and sat beside her on the sofa, passed her my handkerchief,
and put my arm around her shoulders. She dabbed her eyes, now in control of
herself again. “That was stupid,” she said. She blew her nose. “Sorry, Tom.
Brent is dying with cancer.”
“Dying? My God. I mean, how bad is it, Rosie? Cancer can be treated and managed
for years these days. He can get the very best treatment in the States,
Sloan-Kettering or somewhere. Surely the old man will spring loose the money
for—”
“It’s too fast-paced. It started in his liver and has metastasized. It’s in his
pancreas and lungs and the radiologists now say it has reached his brain and
heart. The cells in his liver, lungs, and pancreas are growing and spreading so
fast the doctors estimate he has about three months.”
“He needs to get a second opinion on that, to see if treatment is really out of
the question.”
“We got that, and a third. We were supposed to be here a month ago but delayed
for that. We had to tell his father we ran into a little trouble clewing up our
affairs.”
“So the old man doesn’t know.”
“No. Nobody knows except the doctors down there, and me, and now you. One of
the reasons I delayed awhile before coming to see you was that we were waiting
for the very last test results.”
“Any reason why you’re keeping it secret from everyone? Three months is not a
long time. Why not tell the old man?”
“Because of his father’s will. Here’s my husband dying and he’s
worried about his frigging old father’s will. He calls it an unmitigated
disaster.”
The likely problem was coming to me: “He’s afraid he’s going to die before the
old man does?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Have you seen the will?”
“Yes. We have a copy.”
I made an educated guess. “And it says Brent gets the bulk of his father’s
money provided he survives the old guy, and if not, the money goes to the
grandchildren.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Standard clause in many wills. You personally are not in the will, I take
it.”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll have to figure something out. Otherwise you’re out in the cold.
How much money does the old man have, anyway? Do you know?”
“Over eighteen million dollars. Some of it still tied up in business, but most
of it is in government bonds and guaranteed investment certificates. He wasn’t
hurt at all by the recession or the collapse of the stock market like the rest
of us.”
“Crafty old codger. You and Brent were hurt too? My registered retirement
savings fund was nearly cut in half. I’ll still be practising law after I’ve
moved in with Mom at the nursing home.”
Rosie laughed and shook her head. “Join the club. We feel your pain. And by the
way, we’re aware of that negligence claim against you on account of your
partner.”
“Well, as you will remember, Rosie, there are few secrets back here.” Knowing
that my impending disaster was shortly ahead of me, why had they come to me for
legal advice? Perhaps it wasn’t legal expertise they wanted after all. “Who else
does he leave his money to in the will?”
“A million to his wife’s sister, and—”
“The one he was supposed to be, ah, servicing, long before his wife
died.”
“That’s the vulgar rumour. The noble and exalted sentiment, as expressed in his
last will and testament, is that it’s in memory of his beloved wife as
represented by her loving sister. Take your pick. And then a million to each of
his two grandsons and a million to their mother.”
“That’s four million, and all the rest and residue goes to your husband
if he survives the testator? He’d get about thirteen million
after expenses. That’s a lot of money to slip through anyone’s fingers. We’ll
have to stop that from happening. How come you have a copy of the will?”
“It was part of Brent’s deal with him.”
“For you two to come down here and see to his needs and look out for
him?”
“That was their big idea. They became reconciled more or less over the past ten
years. The old man visited us two or three times a year until he was diagnosed.
He would even invite us to come back here and visit him, but we never came—I
didn’t want to—but he loved to come to New Mexico and drive around the Southwest
and visit the grandsons.”
“Your stepsons. How are they? They must be in their twenties by now.”
“Twenty-four and twenty-three. The last time I saw them in person they were
teenagers. That’s when they told me they wanted nothing else to do with me. I
think their mother brought them up on fairy tales about evil stepmothers. Plus,
of course, I was the slut who stole their daddy away from their darling mommy.
You’d know how silly that notion is, Tom. Physically, they’re okay, I hear.
Mentally? That’s a whole other story. Brent says they inherited the worst side
of their grandfather without any of his brains or work ethic or money-making
ability. They both dropped out of college in their freshman year and now seem to
spend their time hobnobbing with some fringe criminal types in Las Vegas, living
this lavish lifestyle hand-to-mouth—the big cars, fancy girls—from God knows
what source, plus what they can cadge from Gramps. Two big lugs, basically. Or
thugs, more likely. Brent says he wouldn’t be surprised if they break legs, or
worse, for the mafia.”
“Good God. I wonder how much they’ll like it when they find out after Gramps
dies that we somehow screwed them out of the extra six or seven million each of
them should have gotten? Does he still send them money from here?”
“Some. But I’m told it’s not the same as when they’re in his presence and can
turn on the devoted grandson charm. I’m expecting them to land on his doorstep
here any day now. I know he has invited them. Brent thought it was a healthy
sign last week when his father complained that they were never satisfied, and
called them ungrateful young buggers. But then he backed off and said we had to
remember that they’re the last of his family to bear his name and his last hope
for posterity. That was the only important thing to the old fu—”
Rosie stood abruptly, took two steps to the ice bucket, and grabbed the
bottle of champagne. “I need some more of this.” She poured too
much into her flute, causing the foam to overflow and run down her hand and arm.
“
Pephyka
,” she said, smiling at me.
“What?”
“A little classical Greek. You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do. What does it mean?”
“‘Fucked.’ It’s what happens when a mere girl tries to do men’s work.” She
flicked some of the champagne off her hand and picked up my hanky from the
coffee table and sat back down again to wipe.
I said, “I don’t think it’s gender-specific. Because I think I know now what
the Greek gods and furies have been doing to me all these years.”
She laughed. “And they’re really good at it.”
“Yeah. Back to the current
peph
… whatever. Do the boys know how much
money Gramps really has in the vault?”