by Jon McDonald
He waved the piece of paper at her – a print out of his test results. “I have pancreatic cancer, and have about two months to live. I thought it might be a good idea to get my affairs in order.”
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Brandon had disappeared, unaccompanied, to Switzerland for a series of highly experimental monkey gland treatments that were the latest buzz in the alternative medical world for pancreatic cancer. He had never returned, and his attorney had announced that he had been cremated immediately after his death, in accordance with his wishes. His ashes had been shipped back to New York for the service at his loft this afternoon.
Clair had cheerfully assumed the role of Grieving Widow, even though she and Brandon had divorced ever so many years ago. But as she had been the only official spouse, she donned her widow’s weeds with the air and grace of a sanctified Mary Magdalene. Clair attended to the catering, floating through the loft emptying ash trays, pouring wine, and emitting occasional sighs, as she glanced up at the large David Hockney portrait of Brandon, draped in black crepe, hanging on the wall behind his desk. The service and the reading of the will, however, had been organized by Brandon’s attorney, Eludio Martinez.
It was clear that Clair anticipated the bulk of Brandon’s estate would come to her. (She was already mentally redecorating the loft. That shabby kitchen definitely needed remodeling, and the bedroom needed opening out – too confined and dark.) After all, wasn’t it her that Brandon had called to his bedside to discuss “the arrangement of his affairs?” However, she held the contents of that discussion very close to her vest (because she really didn’t know Brandon’s final wishes). Not even Binky Thornton could pry any details out of Clair. And Binky had been Clair’s Vassar roommate, and they always shared everything.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the loft, Abigail sported a smug smile of her own. She certainly had shredded several cocktail napkins to confetti this afternoon in nervous anticipation of the reading of the will, but she remained confident that Brandon had held her true and deep affection close to his heart when he laid out his final plans. She had, in fact, already insured the Picasso dove drawing, feeling certain that she would be taking it home with her later that afternoon.
Now Grover had a secret smile of his own. As a struggling painter, of somewhat dubious talent, he had nonetheless flourished by charming any number of closeted wealthy gentlemen with his gym toned body, his Julia Roberts smile, and his Jeff Stryker endowment. And he rejoiced in the fact that Brandon, in particular, had a very special soft spot in his heart for this tousled, boyish rogue. He was certain he would walk away, at the very least, with the diamond Rolex watch. He knew exactly where it was stashed in the sock drawer, and planned to slip by the dresser on his way back from the bathroom, if it wasn’t bequeathed him in the will.
In fact, every guest had the heart of a Wall Street Investment Banker, and had dreams of leaving the gathering with a very substantial bequest of their own. Every single item in the loft was spoken for many times over in the hearts and minds of the leering mourners.
A sudden a hush came over the entire assemblage as Eludio Martinez crossed to Brandon’s desk with his brief case. Now Eludio was a big man – not tall - fat. His shirt collar was too tight around his marshmallow neck, and his tie was not quite straight. He wiped his brow with a spotless white handkerchief his wife had so nicely ironed for him that morning. He looked up at the riveted, attentive crowd. No one stirred. Feeling the pressure, he fumbled with the clasp to the briefcase. Finally he pulled out the document he was looking for. Slowly the crowd began to draw closer. Eludio took out his glasses case and smiled as he opened it and carefully slipped on his glasses.
“Now then….” He paused as he scanned the will in preparation for the reading. He looked up and asked, “Are we ready?” What a stupid question.
“Okay, then. As Brandon’s Executor I can report that the court has found the will to be in exact and correct order. It has been witnessed and signed by a Notary. There is all the usual legal jargon at the beginning attesting to the sanity and sound mind of the author et cetera, et cetera.” He looked up again.
“Okay, who gets what?” Clair boomed out over the deepening silence of the group.
“Yeah, yeah….” Eludio turned a few pages and came to the cogent part. He became a little nervous, anticipating the group’s reaction. “Well, I want you all to understand that Brandon did not act under my advisement in this matter. He….”
“Just read the damn thing,” Milton shouted out.
“Very well. It reads: That I, Brandon Bonaventura, being of sound mind - and all that you already know - do hereby settle my estate in the following manner. All of you, who are gathered together here today for the reading of this will, are my very nearest and dearest. And it has been quite impossible for me to pick any one of you as my sole heir. Nor, in fact, is it possible for me to find any equitable way to divide up my estate amongst the many caring individuals that I know love me so dearly.
So it is my intention to settle my estate in the following manner: First, after careful consideration, I rejected the idea of having Clair as executrix, to be responsible for distributing the many bequests to friends. I can just see her establishing separate little piles of goodies for each of you. She would then pause and consider each pile, and would, no doubt, rethink everything and start all over again, and nothing would ever get accomplished. Then I thought about making separate multiple bequests to each and every dear friend, but the list was too exhausting, and I just could not face the task in my deteriorating condition. So what I finally decided to do was to throw it all up in the air like a bursting piñata, and to bequeath everything to everybody. Every single person here in this room today (my attorney is exempt, of course) is heir to everything I own. Have fun deciding who gets what. And please, be ladies and gentlemen about this. I am sure none of you are greedy.”
Eludio glanced up from the will. There was a moment of stark terror on the face of each guest. There was a beat of about two seconds, and then all hell broke loose.
“Don’t you want to discuss this as a group first?” Eludio tried to speak above the stampede. “We can do this in an orderly fashion.” But no one heard him.
Abigail shot forward in a mad dash towards the Picasso, with Clair in hot pursuit behind, both grabbing the framed drawing at the same time, and engaging in a monumental tug of war. Milton waddled towards the Hockney, already perspiring profusely with even this limited effort. Grover slipped into the bedroom and quickly found the desired Rolex, slipping it into his coat pocket. Melissa began rummaging through Brandon’s file drawers looking for the deed to the loft – she was no dummy, she was not about to waste her time on ashtrays and opera posters. Other guests were gathering silver, crystal, linens, small statues, and miscellaneous art works - anything they could fit into their purses or bags. There were not, as yet, any takers for the heavy furniture - as that would require a different set of logistics. But there were a few folks sticking masking tape on antique furniture pieces with their names written on it, staking out their claims.
Quietly, and without any notice, an elderly gentleman slipped into the loft. He walked to the center of the room, and looked at the chaos and frenzy around him. People whipped by, annoyed that he was in their way, and shoved him aside as they proceeded to strip the loft bare, but otherwise paying him no attention. Finally, he took a silver whistle out of his pocket and blew a sharp blast. The commotion froze. Everyone looked over to the man.
At first there was no recognition, but then Clair was suddenly shaken into awareness. “Brandon?” she asked, as she moved slowly towards him.
Now to be fair, Brandon was radically changed. He had lost a great deal of weight from his treatment, and was as trim as a runner. He had forsaken his contact lenses for a very fashionable pair of French glasses, and his hair, which had been longish and dyed before, was now in a short Caesar cut - a handsome natural silver.
“Greetings,” Brandon laughed and
surveyed the room. “Surprised to see me? Delighted? Horrified?” No one could respond. “No I am not a ghost. Surprisingly, my treatment was very successful, as you can see, and I am now in full remission.”
Clair came forward with a touch of anger, “What is this all about, Brandon? Why this charade of a funeral and a reading of the will? Why are you subjecting us to this?”
Brandon nodded and smiled, “What? No welcome home? No congratulations on your recovery? No how glad we are to see you all safe and sound?”
There was a tepid effort to respond, but it seemed a bit contrived, as everyone felt so embarrassed.
Brandon continued, “How many of you kept in touch with me during my treatment?” No one responded, but rather most looked away. “Who of you really cared about how I was doing?” A chorus of voices rang out with a parody of sincere concern. “Really?” Brandon responded.
Brandon began a slow walk through his guests. Looking at each one, continuing with his narration. “So because of your apparent neglect, I decided to try a little experiment. I wanted to know just what love and friendship meant in this Great Recession age where the phrase ‘friend me’ has taken on a whole new meaning in cyber space. Where anonymous friends are numbered in the hundreds, and where a real handshake or a kiss are never exchanged.
“You see I wanted to know exactly how healthy my supposed friendships were. So my plan was to return from the dead and surprise you all with this little visit. I wanted to see what people really felt about me - not to my face, but behind my back. I wanted to see what was most important to you in our relationship. And you are all holding the proof of that right now in your hands. Thank you all for making it so abundantly clear to me.”
“That’s not fair, Brandon,” Melissa stepped forward, now angry. “We all thought you were dead. Here is the urn with your ashes - Mr. Martinez, read the will - we all thought we were acting in good faith. I don’t see how you can accuse us of being greedy, when you were the one who perpetrated this deception.” The rest of the group responded in loud agreement.
Brandon considered her argument and nodded. “Yes, perhaps that is a fair assessment. I was deceptive. But you see, it’s not simply about how you treated me, but also how you treated each other.
Now I have a storage room right across the hall, and before you all arrived I had a video surveillance system installed so I could monitor this entire event. And it is quite clear to me now, from observing all of you, that you really are not very nice people.” Everyone was looking around the room for the hidden cameras. “Yes, the cameras are everywhere, and with microphones as well. I suggest you might want to reflect in a private moment about how you all behaved today.
And because I am not dead, the will is, of course, not in effect. And from what I have witnessed here today I shall also make the will null and void.
I find from my time of isolation in Switzerland that I have become quite content and comfortable being and living alone. And so, after you kindly return all of my possessions to their rightful places, I shall bid each and every one of you a very fond, but also a very permanent, good-bye.
◘ ◘ ◘
Finally, Brandon stood quietly alone in the middle of his loft - all the guests departed. The caterers were dismantling the buffet and cleaning up. He looked around at his still disordered home, but sighed with great relief. He looked forward to getting back to his creative life once again. What a journey! He was now ready to embark on his new much simpler life. But then he realized - with all his feisty old acquaintances gone, what in the world was he going to write about?
The Tribe Comes Together for a Sort-of Moroccan Easter Feast
Delgado was tending to the two large legs of lamb. The butcher had butterflied them beautifully. Now they must marinate overnight. They would go onto the grill on the deck just as the guests were arriving for an Easter celebration around noon tomorrow. Delgado, who was from Argentina, had a way with grilled meats. And although this was going to be a Moroccan feast, Delgado was preparing the lamb in his own very special way. First he had slathered the lamb with salt and pepper. Then he made a marinade of olive oil, tons of minced garlic, freshly grated ginger, soy sauce and handfuls of freshly chopped rosemary. He laid out the lamb in two large flat baking pans and poured the marinade over the lamb, turning it several times with tongs to make sure the entire lamb was entirely covered. He then placed plastic wrap over the pans and placed them in the refrigerator to infuse with flavor overnight.
Bryce and Delgado, who were both in their mid-thirties, lived in Laguna Beach, California in a very funky house perched high above the Pacific Ocean with a view that stretched all the way from the Palos Verdes peninsula in the north down to San Diego in the south. Easter was going to be in mid-April this year, and the weather was shaping up to be spectacular.
This was Laguna Beach back in the mid 1970’s before the real estate explosion and the sky rocketing housing prices changed Laguna from a sleepy little beach village to a trendy destination. Artists could still afford to live and work here then. The Renaissance Bakery still served its famous hearty borscht. And people would breakfast from eight-thirty till eleven, leisurely reading newspapers, and chatting over numerous cups of coffee. Eschbach’s was a downtown flower shop in a faux gnome castle with towers, turrets and a stunning Christmas display each year. People lined up outside the shop and were willing to pay fifty cents just to get inside and browse the multitude of decorated Christmas trees and do a bit of shopping. There were no tee shirt or frozen yogurt shops back then, and there were actually times when the beaches would be virtually empty on weekdays even in the summer.
The boy’s house had a steep flight of steps that wound up from the street below. There was one very large Eucalyptus tree slightly shading part of the house, but the rest of the hillside was devoid of trees and consisted only of rough ground cover barely supported by the poor soil. The house had one large room that stretched across the front, with the exterior walls a constant row of windows to take advantage of the spectacular views. There was a simple kitchen, a bedroom and a bath at the back of the house. A large deck warped around two sides - one side being the front of the house, and the other was along the entrance by the kitchen.
Both Bryce and Delgado were passionate about roses and had managed to enrich a plot of soil, below the deck by the entrance, enough to support a bed of quite hearty rose bushes just now about to burst into their first bloom of the season. They had been watching the buds carefully, with great anticipation, hoping they would bloom by Easter. They wanted to use them to decorate the long table set up on the deck for the dinner.
Just as dusk was descending on this Saturday evening before Easter, Delgado went outside, once again, to check on the roses. He inspected them carefully and was convinced that they would indeed open up into full bloom tomorrow morning. He checked the soil and decided not to water this evening, as he did not want to over-water and risk delaying the blooms.
Bryce was busy in the kitchen preparing Ommok Houria, a Tunisian carrot salad to be served with sliced hard-boiled eggs and pitted kalamata olives. He had peeled, sliced and cooked the carrots till they were tender and transferred them to a large bowl. He minced flat leaf parsley and added that. He finished it off with caraway seeds, olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper and a wonderful Moroccan spice paste call harissa. He mixed this well and covered the bowl and let it rest at room temperature overnight. He would add the eggs and olives when he prepared the platter tomorrow just before serving.
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Sandra, an expansive lady in her early sixties, lived just down the coast from the boys. She was perched in a tower over the ocean with the waves constantly crashing beneath her. Her apartment was part of a large old, early twentieth century, estate that spread across the cliffs above a private beach. The estate had been subdivided into apartments of various sizes and Sandra had been living in her small tower for several years.
She dressed mostly in beige and black, with larg
e hats, flowing scarves and bold contemporary jewelry; and as she was a tall woman, she could carry off the most stunning outfits with great aplomb. She had excellent and expensive tastes, and a large portion of her income as an architect went into her extensive wardrobe.
Sandra loved Easter and had been coloring eggs for several days. She planned to go early to the party and with Bryce’s help hide the eggs around the property for the hunt after dinner. She had a gold egg and a silver egg that represented first and second prize for whoever found them. She had neatly wrapped gifts in colorful Easter paper for the prizewinners. She also had chocolate eggs, marshmallow bunnies with pink ears and marzipan eggs wrapped in brightly colored foil.
Now Sandra knew that the theme of this Easter was to be a Moroccan feast but her culinary talents did not stretch too much further than her hard boiled Easter eggs. However, her one sure-fire dinner contribution and crowd pleaser was the always stunning canned green beans in mushroom soup, garnished with a can of French fried onions. Well, it was almost Moroccan. After all France had occupied Morocco for many years. Certainly by now her green bean recipe must be a Moroccan staple. All she would need to do tomorrow morning would be to heat it through in the oven just before she left for the party.
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Butch and Eva had known Bryce and Delgado from their New York City days. Eva was also from Argentina and had known Delgado when they were both dancers in Buenos Aires. Butch had been a taxi driver in Manhattan, though she was from Brooklyn. Butch and Eva had been a couple for almost ten years now. Bryce and Delgado had been together for four years.
Butch was New York Irish-Italian. She could make a great Italian braciole (her aunt’s recipe), an Argentine asado (thanks to her time in Argentina with Eva) or a bang up Irish corned beef and cabbage dinner - her dad loved it. Today she was making baklava with wildflower honey. This might be considered more Greek than Moroccan but who cared, Butch figured.