The Will

by Reed Arvin

  Henry reminded himself that the best thing he had learned since leaving Council Grove was that nobody anywhere else in the world gave a damn about the Crandalls or how much money they thought they had. He smiled without answering, enjoying the distance between his old and new life. It made tolerating Roger so much easier. It would all be over soon enough. In a couple of days he would be back in Chicago and Roger could keep on living the pipe dream he loved, the pipe dream in which he was the new hero of a tiny world called Council Grove.

  Roger scowled and rose. “Well, looks like you’re the only lawyer here. So let’s get this over with.”

  Henry stood, feeling that Crandalls were going to be the best dust of all to lose. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Daddy’s office. We’ll grab a couple of extra chairs.” Roger motioned to Sarah to go ahead, and she obediently rose, leading her mother. When they had passed out of earshot, he turned, his expression serious. “I got somethin’ to say.”

  “What is it, Roger?”

  “Thing is, you’ve been gone a good while. By my reckoning you ain’t really from around here no more.” Henry could taste the satisfaction in that statement, but said nothing. Roger continued: “So I figure you need to be brought up to speed.”

  “Which means?”

  “There’s things you don’t know. Like I’ve basically been running things around here for some time now. Daddy had it in mind for me to take over, and I been doin’ just that for a good while. The farm, the businesses, everything.”

  If what Roger said was true, it was certainly a change from what Henry remembered. In those days Tyler had treated his son as little more than a water boy, dismissing him publicly. It was, in fact, the one place where Henry had ever felt any empathy for Roger; it was hard to imagine him not despising his father, the way he had been treated. But he merely nodded and said, “I appreciate the information, Roger. I don’t expect any problems.”

  “Just so you know,” Roger said, walking out toward the study. “Daddy and me didn’t have no secrets.”

  Henry nodded and followed Roger into Ty Crandall’s office. Like the rest of the house, it was ornate and overstated. The room was dominated by a large desk with a polished birch top, supported by highly filigreed legs that tapered down to elaborately carved lion’s claws. Behind the desk the wall was cluttered with framed certificates, photographs, and memberships: Rotary Club, Lions Club, Evangel Baptist Church Fund Drive, Chairman of the Deacons. Clustered to one side were the invitations to the inaugural balls of four governors. Track lights were focused on the invitations, illuminating them against the dark, paneled walls.

  Roger pointed to the big, well-worn chair behind the desk. “Right over here,” he said. Henry, mildly surprised that Roger would relinquish center stage for even a moment, took the seat. Roger walked over toward the little bar situated at the other end of the room. He popped some ice cubes into a tumbler. “Can I get you a drink?”

  A wave of embarrassment flashed across Sarah’s face, which Henry scrupulously ignored. “Not at the moment, no,” he answered. “I’m fine.” It occurred to him that perhaps Roger had begun his drinking earlier in the afternoon; his eyes appeared bloodshot, and his motions seemed deliberate.

  “Suit yourself.” Roger casually poured himself a straight scotch, swirled the ice cubes noisily, and positioned himself in a wing chair directly in front of the desk. Sarah and her mother flanked him, so that the trio made a half circle in front of Henry. And now these little possessions will be passed on, as if any of it mattered, Henry thought. Out loud he said, “I know this is a hard time for all of you. We’ll take things one step at a time, and I’m sure everything will be clear.” He picked up the will, fingering the envelope. “Tyler stipulated that this be opened only in your presence. As you can see, the seal is intact.” Grasping the envelope, he tore it open and carefully pulled out a short, typewritten document.

  There was no point in delaying; the tension was already thick in the room. Tyler Crandall hung over them like a specter, a ghost come back from the dead for a few last words about the small fortune he had amassed on the backs of the people of Council Grove and the oil underneath it. Henry began to read.

  Being of sound mind and disposing memory, I, Tyler William Crandall, do hereby give my last will and testament.

  Margaret, who until that moment had been silent, now gave a low, unsteady wail that ran up Henry’s spine. He ground to a halt. One line and she’s already losing it. Sarah turned to her mother and took her hand, stroking it softly. The sobbing eased slightly, and Sarah nodded to Henry to continue.

  Henry took a breath and went on: This document represents my unencumbered and free decision. It is my express wish that all decisions written herein be honored immediately and without delay. Henry glanced briefly up at Roger, who was staring back at him unevenly. Yes, he decided, he had been drinking.

  He continued: Article One: This will is to be held in terrorem.

  “What’s that?” Roger interrupted. “That terrorem stuff?”

  Henry read the line silently again, but didn’t show his surprise. It means the dearly departed didn’t think you were going to like this, he thought. But Margaret had only just stopped sobbing, and he felt the need to press ahead. “Tell you what,” he said. “Once we’re through the whole thing I’ll explain any legal terms anyone’s not clear on, in case there’s anything else we need to talk about.” Roger swirled the ice in his glass and leaned heavily back in his chair, submissive for the moment.

  Article Two: Dispossession of property. First, to my beloved wife, Margaret.

  Ty’s widow fell completely apart at the sound of her name, sobbing and heaving in her chair like a child. Henry put down the papers, unnerved by her unashamed grief. “We could do this another time,” he said quietly. “Maybe in the morning, after some rest.”

  “Read on,” Roger said, gesturing with his glass. “Read on, she’s all right.”

  Henry looked for Sarah to intervene, but she merely tended silently to her mother. He stared at Roger a moment, profoundly annoyed. He attempted to show as much with a look of displeasure, but Roger was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to receive the message. Henry picked up the will again; it was fairly short, and if he kept on, he could get it all out in a few minutes and then regroup. To his surprise, Crandall’s words turned personal.

  I know I was a difficult man. I kept you out of a lot of things, for better or worse. But if you’re hearing this then all that’s behind me now. I can’t undo my wrongs. Not as far as you and me are concerned.

  To my beloved wife, Margaret, I bequeath sole possession of the family home and lot, and all the contents therein. I also leave to her the seven hundred and forty acres east of the house, including all buildings and assets located on that land. In addition, she is to receive the sum of three hundred thousand dollars in cash.

  Henry paused, subtracting assets from the total he had familiarized himself with on the flight. It appeared, strangely, as though Crandall had left his wife the absolute minimum required by law in the state—one third of the assets.

  He read on. To my daughter Sarah: You never gave me any trouble, girl, and for that I’m grateful. To Sarah Eleanor Crandall I leave the sum of thirty-five thousand dollars a year, paid annually from a trust established for this purpose at the Cottonwood Valley Bank, until the time of your marriage. On your wedding day you will receive a payment of one hundred thousand dollars. In addition, I want you to have the two fine lithographs I bought in New Orleans, and the oil painting of myself that hangs in the feed store. It’s my wish that you would keep that painting in your home, wherever you live. Henry knew the painting; it was nearly six feet wide, and dominated the front of the store. It portrayed Ty Crandall as a kind of western hero, on horseback with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and a long leather jacket.

  He left Sarah next to nothing, Henry thought. But the in terrorum didn’t mean anything. Roger is the big winner. He looked at Crandall’s son; Roger
’s slightly mottled face stared back at him, a thin, humorless expression of triumph. In that expression an unpleasant thought came to Henry: for Roger, this was the completion of a final, grim competition. If he couldn’t control his father, at least he could outlive him. Left in the estate were eleven hundred acres of prime land. The enormous granary, the feed and equipment store, the rental properties, together worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Over a million dollars in cash and securities. The wells, which, although mostly depleted, were still the symbol of Crandall family power. And what to Roger meant much more: control over Council Grove. As long as he stayed in his little world, he would never again have to take an order from a living soul.

  Henry began to read. To my son Roger: I’ve made my share of enemies, although I never wanted one in my own house. But it came, and I accepted it. All that’s over now. You may not understand my way, but that doesn’t matter to me now. I know my mind. Maybe you can make something of yourself. That would please me. I’d like one Crandall to do right before it’s all said and done. To Roger Tyler Crandall I leave my canary yellow Cadillac Eldorado, and the sum of fifty thousand dollars in cash. There was a paragraph break, and Henry glanced upward reflexively; Roger was staring back intently, his smile had evaporated. Hostile energy radiated from him across the table.

  “Go on,” Roger commanded tersely. “Get to the rest of it. He’s leaving me the rest of it. Read.”

  Henry looked back at the will. All possessions not previously named I hereby bequeath to Mr. Raymond Josiah Boyd, 313 Owendale Street, Council Grove, Kansas. The executor will transfer all necessary documents to this effect without delay. There followed a lengthy description of assets, but Henry was unable to read them. With his previous sentence, a kind of chaos seemed to fill the room. Roger reached out in a blinding motion, ripping the papers from his hand, and Henry released them to avoid their destruction. Roger gripped the papers and stared down at the last page for several seconds, his face red. Then he jerked his head back up at Henry and shoved him hard, ramming him back into the big chair, sending it sliding on its rollers across the hardwood floor. Henry was thrown backward into a bookcase and several books spilled down onto the floor. In the midst of the chaos there was a second crash, and Henry saw Roger, already back across the room, staring unsteadily down at a floor lamp he had toppled in his rage. Sarah and Margaret were clinging to each other, retreating into as small a space as possible.

  Henry, initially taken by surprise at Roger’s outburst, pushed books from his lap and leaped to his feet, instinctively preparing to defend himself. But a voice in his head said, Associates of Wilson, Lougherby and Mathers do not get in fistfights. This is a career move. He marshaled his anger with some difficulty and said, “Give me the will, Roger. We’ll go over it again and sort all this out.”

  Roger spun toward him like an animal and spat, “Were you listening to what you read? It says I been cheated out of what I deserve! It says I waited twenty-nine years for nothing!” He strode across the room, face-to-face with Henry once again across the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth. “You don’t even know who Raymond Boyd is, do you?”

  Henry looked back blankly. “I don’t,” he admitted.

  “Raymond Boyd,” Roger spat derisively, “is the Birdman.” He stared, eyes bulging. Then he sputtered, “Daddy left his money to the lunatic in the park.”

  The meaning of Roger’s words overwhelmed any immediate response. The best Henry could do was mutter, “I don’t understand.”

  Roger turned savagely toward his mother. “Do you understand what’s happened here? Daddy left his money to the fool that talks to the bird!”

  Henry sat heavily back down in the big leather chair. Then he’s still alive, he thought. “Give me the will, Roger,” he said. “I want to look at it again.”

  Roger shoved the papers across the desk. Henry read the final paragraph and read it again. It was crystal clear. If Raymond Boyd was in fact the Birdman, then the county’s most famous sideshow was now the richest person in Cheney County, its largest employer, and its biggest landowner. He literally held the future of the county in his weathered, sunburned hands. “I don’t follow this,” Henry said. “Why would your father do something like that?”

  Roger looked at Henry derisively. “To keep me from getting anything, of course.”

  Henry forced himself to think rationally in the midst of Roger’s emotional outburst. “He didn’t have to give the money to Boyd to do that,” he said after a moment. “He could have given it all to your mother, for one obvious choice.”

  Roger’s agitation, if anything, increased. “How the hell do I know what he was thinking? I never saw him say a word to that lunatic,” he said bitterly. “And why should he? What the hell would they have to talk about?”

  “Then what is this? Think, Roger. You’ve got to have some clue as to what this is about.”

  Roger’s face hardened, but the rage drained away, replaced by a deep, unresolved pain. He paused a moment, then uttered a single word. “Punishment.”

  Henry stared. “Punishment for what, for God’s sake?”

  “For being me, damn it. Punishment for being me.”

  In more than two grinding, busy years of practice, Henry hadn’t represented many individual clients, attractive or not, and the select few that the firm represented had made a career out of not falling apart. They were, on the contrary, the highly efficient carnivores who ate the smaller, weaker animals. Henry was repulsed by Roger’s open avarice and greed, but he knew that growing up at the hands of Tyler Crandall would undoubtedly leave its mark on anyone. This, Henry realized with a start, was the law his father had practiced, the law of dissolving hopes and desperation. “Then why punish the whole family?” he asked quietly, determined to stay logical. “You’re not the only one affected here, Roger.”

  Roger ignored the question. “I’ve got to think,” he muttered. “Just shut up and let me think.” He sat for a moment, clenching the armrests of his chair so tightly he left marks in the fabric. But he couldn’t sit still, and soon he was pacing the room again. “You got no idea what I’ve been dealing with here,” he said bitterly. “I’ve been kissing up to the meanest bastard in the state of Kansas for twenty-nine years. I did every little task he ever asked me to do. I bided my time. Go over them books again, boy,” he spat, mocking his father’s voice. “Don’t you never interrupt me in a business meeting. You come into the room behind me, and you talk when I ask you a question. You’ll do what I say while I’m alive. While you was alive!” Roger said derisively. “That’s what you said! And now you’re dead, and you still won’t let me be a man! You still won’t let me go!”

  At this, Sarah came to life; transfixed by Roger’s outburst, Henry had almost forgotten about her and Margaret. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Daddy is only four hours in the ground, and this is still his house.”

  “What do you know about it?” Roger demanded, whirling toward her.

  “There is nearly three million dollars involved, Roger,” Henry intervened. “Sarah was certainly affected.”

  Roger ignored him and spoke directly to Sarah. Evidently this was a long-running conflict between brother and sister. “You’re a woman,” he said bitterly. “You don’t know nothing about this, and you ain’t gonna miss that money. You ain’t the one that got screwed by that bastard.”

  Sarah was trembling with emotion. “There are some things you aren’t going to say, not here, not now,” she said. “He’s barely in the ground, and it’s a little early for you to disrespect him.” She turned to Henry. “I’m sorry that you had to see all this,” she said. “All this history. So now you know. Our family is a mess. Among other things, Daddy and Roger hated each other. One secret, at least, is out in the open.” She returned to her mother, collecting her in her arms. Margaret stood shakily, no longer crying, fully retreated within her own mind.

  “Look,” Henry said, “I don’t pretend to understand what’s happened he
re. I’m not judging anyone. I just need some kind of order to move things forward.”

  “I’m ashamed for us all, of course,” Sarah said, “but we are what we are.” She took her mother by the arm once again and led her, shaking like an injured animal, from the room.

  When Henry looked back across the room, Roger was laughing, a brittle, condescending sound. “Well, Henry,” he said, “we’ve all shocked you, all us Crandalls.”

  Henry shook his head. “Get over that, Roger. My personal feelings about you aren’t important here.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody in Chicago can stand their father.”

  Henry had entered the Crandall home assuming his role would be as comforter, facilitator. Instead, he had found himself facing off with Roger. That was a role he had no desire to play. If things were going to get this far out of control he would head back to Chicago and let the courts work it out. “Look,” he said, “let’s get something out on the table. I don’t pretend to know what you’re thinking. I grew up here, but that was a long time ago, and we’re not children anymore. I really don’t know you at all. But it doesn’t shock me to find out you’re human, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Is that some kind of pity?” Roger rasped. “Because pity is one thing no Crandall will ever need from a Mathews.”

  Henry’s own emotions were strung tight by now, and he steadied himself with an effort. “When I said I don’t understand what you feel, I meant that,” he said. “But it’s obvious you don’t understand me either.” He fixed Roger in a level gaze. “I’m going to tolerate some of this because you don’t get out much, Roger. But evidently I need to explain some rules about how business is conducted outside of Council Grove. Rule number one is that you don’t lay hands on lawyers.”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The shove, Roger. I’m simply telling you that my professional courtesy doesn’t extend that far.”