“Well. But. Okay, but, be that as it may, she wanted you to have something.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to accept.”
“I understand, but ... Here.” I seized the parrot brooch. “What about this. Or—or—okay, but, but it doesn’t have to be a piece of jewelry.” I heard myself, I sounded crazed. “Strictly speaking, okay, yes, it should come from here, that’s what she specified. But if there’s a book, or a piece of art, I’m fine with you going and having a look ... I mean, she wanted you to have something. She was grateful to you, and she wanted you to have something. It’s totally up to you, of course, but in the spirit of the bequest, it seems appropriate, I think, for you to ... I mean. There isn’t anything you want?”
Silence.
She said, “Why don’t you pick something out and send it to me.”
“I—uh. I guess I can do that. I mean, did you have a pref—”
“No.”
“Okay. Okay, well. If you’re sure—”
“I’m sure.”
“All right. Okay. Although, like I said, ha ha, I don’t know much about jewelry, so it’s not my fault if you don’t like what I choose.”
“I don’t really care,” she said. “I just don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“Well,” I said. “All right.”
She thumbed at the door. “I’d better go.”
Downstairs, her husband was examining the Audubon. “All set?”
“All set.”
Listening to them drive away, I made up my mind to send her more than one item. Two or three nice pieces, half a dozen of the cheaper ones ... Naturally she was upset. We both were: the image of Alma going into the ground was fresh in our minds. I considered, as well, the shock of losing someone to suicide after devoting so many years to healing her. I was angry, too, and I’d known Alma less than one-fifteenth as long. But I had gotten over my squeamishness, and so would Dr. Cargill. She would like what I would send her. She would, it was beautiful stuff, all in the best taste.
On some level I did worry that she would see my gift for what it was: a bribe. I couldn’t take back the clumsy things I’d said, though, and I needed her on my side. She of all people could best attest that I had loved Alma. That I had to prove so—to a court or to the police or to anyone at all—was degrading. But I reminded myself that none of this had to do with love anymore. It had to do with money, and I couldn’t trust anyone, not anymore.
20
The first snow came early, two days after Thanksgiving, though it didn’t stick, running from the roofs in gray stream-lets. Down by the corner, a gutter clogged, flooding the street and making the trip to the market a filthy, muddy chore. Alone with my thoughts, exhausted, I rubbed my eyes and stared at my computer screen. Is there any abyss deeper than the blank page? Anything more ominous than a winking cursor, its slow beat a death march?
The doorbell provided a welcome distraction. I inched back the front curtain and saw Eric standing on the porch, shifting from foot to foot. His lips were blue, his coat alive with vibration, and I took a shameful degree of pleasure in noting that the universe had not been treating him well of late. He looked shaggy, malnourished, sapped of confidence, his Adam’s apple prominent, his hand darting to touch a deep, unhealed cut that glistened above his left eye. If my meeting with Palatine had left me with any doubts as to Eric’s recent whereabouts, they were now dispelled: it seemed fair to assume that he had been in jail, fair also to assume that he deserved whatever rough treatment he’d gotten there. The change in him was profound, and I smiled as I watched him struggle to keep warm.
It then occurred to me that I had not seen him since the day he had threatened to report me to the police. If he had been locked up shortly thereafter, he could not have killed Alma. There was no reason to assume this to be the case. He might have been free until recently. But if in fact he had been away the entire two months—and I suspected he had; how else to explain his total absence?—then that would make Alma’s suicide just that: a suicide. It seemed that Eric had missed his chance, probably not for the first time in his life. It had taken her initiative and my neglect to realize his dreams. And thinking of my neglect made me feel implicated, and guilty, and angry all over again. These were feelings I thought I’d gotten past. I didn’t deserve to feel them again; I had more important things on my mind. I put the chain on, cracked the door.
“Hey,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Come on, man, lemme in. It’s like twenty below out here.”
I, nice and comfy inside my inheritance, while he stood there like a pauper ... I stilled my hand, moving unconsciously toward the chain. “What is it,” I said.
“I can’t come in.”
I shook my head.
“Why not.”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Listen, man, you don’t need to be like this.”
“Be happy I’m talking to you at all,” I said. “You should be speaking to my lawyer.”
“Jesus Christ, would you chill out?”
“I’m going to go now.”
“Wait.”
I waited.
“Just let me in for like five minutes,” he said.
“Goodbye,” I said, and closed the door.
Moments later he was at the side door, banging. When that failed he went around to the back. Finally the phone began to ring.
I picked up. “Knock it off or I’m calling the police.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down. I just want to talk to you, all right?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Sure there is. Come on. I’m dying out here. It’s important.”
“If it’s so important then stop wasting time and get on with it.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, shoot you?”
“How should I know?”
“Come on, man. Are you kidding me?”
I said nothing.
“Well, shit.” He sniffled. “Can I at least get some coffee or something.”
“I don’t have any coffee.”
“Tea’s good.”
“Goodbye, Eric.”
“Wait, wait, wait wait ... All right, look. I’ll show you, okay? Come to the front.”
He hung up.
I could all too easily imagine opening the door to a flashing muzzle. Instead I went upstairs, to the TV room, which overlooked the porch below. He had struck a pose of expectancy, the pockets of his coat turned out.
I raised the window, causing him to glance up.
He wiggled the linings. “See?”
“Take off your coat,” I said.
“It’s cold, man.”
“Take it off or I’m calling the cops.”
He muttered inaudibly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Here.” He took the coat off, flapped it around. “See? Come on, now.”
I told him to take off his shirt.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, enough already.”
“Do it.”
He gritted his teeth and complied. He was emaciated, his skin waxy white. He spun around like a fashion model—I saw the tattoos: the buck and the assault rifle—then grabbed himself for warmth, shivering violently.
“Fuck, dude, I’m gonna freeze to death.”
Part of me wanted to shut the window and walk away. Let him bang: I would ignore him. Let him learn who he was dealing with. I was not a man to be trifled with, no ho ho, I was a man of means, and of greater patience than he. I was wiser, and stronger, and better, and he could learn to fend for himself for once. Another part of me, though—I can admit this now—another part of me was enjoying humiliating him. After everything he had done, he deserved to be humbled.
I said, “Your pants.”
He turned out the pockets.
“Take them off.”
“What?”
“Take off your pants.”
“Here?
What the hell, man.”
“Fine.” I shut the window and stepped out of view.
Below, he began to yell. I counted to ten, then stepped back to the window.
“Fine,” he said. “You win. Okay?”
He undid his fly and let his pants fall to his ankles, revealing old boxer shorts in a camouflage pattern. His legs were hairless, and though I was too far away to tell for certain, they appeared to be dappled with tiny black spots.
“Now open the fucking door,” he yelled.
I closed the window and went downstairs. He stumbled across the porch, pulling on his clothing, crying out in surprise when the door bounced back on the chain.
“The fuck, dude.” He kicked the doorframe. “You said you’d let me in.”
“I never said that.”
He stared at me hatefully. “You’re a fuckin asshole, you know that?”
I started to close the door.
“Wait.”
Silence.
“Apologize,” I said.
Silence.
“I apologize,” he said.
“Now say your piece and leave me alone.”
His jaw bulged as he got control of himself. “All right ... all right, look. I’ve been thinking it over. I want to make a deal.” He paused. “What do you think?”
“I don’t have an opinion. You haven’t said anything yet.”
“Okay, so, fine, so, I’m getting to that. Now, I’ve been spending a lot of time on this. Like I told you before, I don’t need the house. As far as I’m concerned, you take it.”
“I already own the house. I don’t need you to give it to me.”
“I know. All right, I know. But—I mean. I’m telling you, it’s fine with me. I don’t want it. I’m not even going to try to ask for it.”
“Terrific.”
“Okay, so, but if you get the house, then I should get something, too. Fair is fair.”
I said nothing.
“Right?”
“What do you want, Eric?”
“So if you get the house, and—let’s not forget, it’s a big house. Tons of stuff. So, I mean, it’s only fair I should get the money.”
“The money.”
He nodded.
“As in all of it,” I said.
He nodded again.
Now I really did laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s only fair,” he said.
“And how do you figure that.”
“The house, that’s like a couple million right there. All her stuff. The books, I don’t even know what they’re worth.”
“I’m not selling the books.”
“Yeah, but you could if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well that’s up to you,” he said. “That’s your choice.”
“It sure is.”
“But I mean there’s other stuff, I know that for a fact. So, bottom line, you’ll be fine, and anyway you don’t need it like I do. Or— look. I’m willing to deal. How bout we say this. Ready? Okay, look. Let’s say I give you half.”
“You give me half.”
“That’s totally fair,” he said.
“No, it isn’t. It isn’t even remotely fair. Let’s get something straight: it’s not yours to give away. The money’s mine, Eric. That’s your starting point for negotiations.”
“So what. I get nothing? That’s what you’re telling me, I get nothing.”
“She did leave you something. It’s in the will. Have you read it?”
“How’m I supposed to do all that stuff she wants me to do? I can’t, man, you know that.”
“That’s really too bad, then.”
“I have learning disabilities.”
“You’ve said.”
“Yeah, so, help me out here. This isn’t fair and you know it.”
“She thought it was.”
“You have no idea, do you.” He sounded weary; his face softened to match. It was a command performance. “She made my life hell.”
“I suppose she smacked you around.”
“She did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She—”
“And even if I did, it’s got nothing to do with me, or the house, or the money.”
“I’m broke.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“It means you should have spent what she gave you a little more prudently.”
“Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?”
“What am I doing, Eric.”
“You’re taking everything.”
“I’m not taking anything. She gave it to me. And frankly, after what you tried to do, coming back here and asking for handouts is unbelievable.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“You know what you did.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Then that’s your problem.”
Silence.
“Stay warm,” I said. I started to close the door.
He said, “How’s the writing coming.”
I shut the door and bolted it.
HOW WAS IT COMING? Not well, of course, not that afternoon or the next. I had three pages of a new outline, which I was rereading when the phone rang. I let it go a dozen times. It stopped. There was a brief silence. Then it began to ring again. I closed my computer and went to the kitchen.
“Hello?”
Silence.
I hung up.
I started back down the hall to my office.
The phone rang.
I returned to the kitchen.
“Eric?”
Silence.
“Go to hell,” I said and hung up.
When it happened a third time, I disconnected the receiver.
This went on for the next several days. I had to credit him with tenacity: no sooner would I plug the phone back in than it would begin to ring. I rarely picked up, and when I did there was nothing on the other end. It was hard to understand what he hoped to achieve; my failure to finish didn’t entitle him to anything. I suppose spite was motivation enough.
I called the phone company. Someone in Bangalore told me that it was impossible to block a specific caller, suggesting rather that I get a new, unlisted number. I did, and immediately the calls stopped.
In their place, however, came something far more unsettling. I began to have the feeling that I was being watched.
How I knew this, I can’t say. I never saw Eric, or anyone else, for that matter. Tiny, niggling, liable to crop up at the most unlikely moments—when I was in the shower, or standing at the counter with the jeweler while he appraised the contents of Alma’s vanity—the sensation would not leave me. I went around the house closing the shades, restoring the sepulchral atmosphere that she had maintained. Still I felt it: a quivering, invisible eye. I went to the post office to mail the doctor her gifts, and as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I felt it again. Like a madman I spun in place, arms flying, nearly knocking over a bicyclist. There was nobody, nothing wrong, but I walked home briskly, then faster, it could be behind me, hovering, jellylike, bloodshot, obscene, all-seeing, all-knowing, and I was sprinting, my new shoes sliding on the sidewalk. Before I went inside I checked the perimeter of the house, and once in the kitchen I poured myself a tall drink. Feelings ought to mean nothing in the face of facts. I gave myself a shake, drank again, and set about to cook for my party.
I DIDN’T KNOW what to call it. Christmas was still ten days away. Drew said who cared, as long as there was booze. I spent the evening running around, refilling glasses, thanking people for their housewarming gifts, making light conversation, and agreeing that yes, it had been far too long since I’d seen anybody.
“Sounds like you found your soulmate,” they said when I described Alma.
I smiled.
“It must have been wonderful to have someone like that in your life.
”
It was.
“You made this cake?”
Indeed I had.
Yasmina never showed, and as the clock ran down, and the other guests—whom I considered filler—began to trickle out, I wrote the entire evening off.
“I told you,” said Drew on his way out. “Classy.”
Dejected, I went into the kitchen, turned on the radio, rolled up my sleeves, and plunged my arms into hot, soapy water. Terrible idea, this party. I felt annoyed at Drew for talking me into it. As I scrubbed hard at dried jam, it occurred to me that he might not have invited Yasmina at all, taking it upon himself to liberate me. I crushed the sponge; suds ran down my wrist and onto the floor. No more socializing, then. I would retreat into privacy and get the job done, then take my fortune and start a new life, one that had nothing to do with Harvard or any of these people.... So immersed in self-pity was I that I almost missed the doorbell. Expecting someone come back for forgotten mittens, I dried my hands and went to the entry hall. It was Yasmina.
Silence.
“Can I come in?” she said. “It’s kind of cold.”
I took her coat and led her to the kitchen, where I cut her a piece of Sachertorte.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do I get to meet Pete?”
“He’s in New York.”
“Another time, then.”
She nodded. “Nice shoes.”
“They’re oxblood,” I said.
“What happened to your loafers?”
“I threw them out.”
“Well, Joseph Geist. I never.”
I watched her chew. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Yeah, well. Neither did I.” She licked whipped cream from her thumb. “I hear you’re landed gentry now.”
“So it seems.”
“Congratulations.”
I nodded.
“So,” she said. “Do I get a tour or what?”
“HER FATHER MADE THIS VIOLIN.”
“Wow. Really?”
“He was an instrument maker.”
“It’s beautiful.... Why do you have all the curtains closed? Isn’t it kind of dark?”
“It’s nighttime.”
“Still ... See? Much better.”
I dragged the curtain back into place. “I like it better this way.”
“You would.”
The Executor Page 19