by Bill Rowe
Brent came out the main door. “I had to make sure any loose ends were tied up,” he said. “Everything’s okay with the staff.” A family of visitors was walking up to the door. “Let’s go over by my car.”
“Well, I managed to shag that up royally,” I said. “I’m sorry I let you and Rosie down like that.”
“No, Tom, I’m sorry. I should have warned you that the old prick might still be strong. He tells everyone in there that if I was as strong as him I wouldn’t have blown my professional hockey career. When he went in there first, he used to prove it by beating everyone, staff as well as residents, at arm wrestling. But I figured he’d be weak enough by now.”
“Well, why wouldn’t you? Christ, he can hardly breathe. What are you going to do now?”
“The jig is up. No way I could do it physically myself. I wouldn’t have the strength—or the heart.”
“No, you can’t even consider that. I really feel bad about Rosie being left stranded. The thought of her being penniless while your boys live in the lap of luxury on those millions—”
“Yeah, for a year or two before they blow it all on pussy and coke. I may have to come clean with the old bastard about my condition and ask him to change the will to look after her somewhat, or else I’ll abandon him right now.”
“Any chance he’ll do that after today? He already said you put me up to it.”
“I know. And he just said he wanted to change the will to cut me out. But I told him he can’t—he signed a deal. He simmered down a bit, but no, there’s no chance he’ll put her in. Unless, now, maybe I can get him to give her a million or so and he can cut me out altogether, and I’ll help him set up a structured trust fund for the boys with most of my share. That’d be better than nothing for her.”
“Think he’d do that?”
“Don’t know. I’m running out of options. I’ve got a mind to go back in there now and let it all hang out with him.”
“Then you may be out of options altogether. Wait awhile. Talk it over with Rosie first. At least give her a status report.”
I didn’t even know why I said that. I felt that I wanted nothing more to do with this absurdity. I’d already screwed it up once and couldn’t bear the thought of further involvement in any way whatsoever. It was hopeless now, and my own looming financial disaster, after being banished for a day or so by a moronic forlorn hope, was already taking over my mind again like an engulfing amoeba.
“Rosie hates all this,” said Brent. “The less she has to do with it or talk about it, the better she likes it. She really wants nothing to do with it.”
I thought to myself: How could he be married to a woman like Rosie for twenty years and still not know how she ticks? “But, Brent, you at least have to tell her what happened and the situation she’s faced with now.”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
I WAS HOME THAT evening nursing my third drink and my anxiety, when Rosie called. “Tommy, Brent told me everything. I want to thank you for hanging yourself out to dry like that. It had to be awful for you. Well, anyway, that’s it. The boys will be here in a day or two. Brent heard from them a couple of hours ago. So it’s all over, unless the excitement of having the grandsons here is too… Will you be able to spend a little time with Brent during the next couple of months? I know you have a lot on your—”
As she was speaking—when she mentioned the boys, specifically—I had one of my brainwaves. I interrupted her: “Rosie, I need to go to your house right now and talk something over with Brent.”
“You mean tonight? Well, he was feeling really fatigued and getting ready for bed, but if you feel…”
“He must be shell-shocked after today. But I have to talk to him in person, not on the phone, if that’s all right. I’ll get a taxi. I’ve had a nip or two.”
“I don’t blame you. All this would drive anyone to drink. We’ll wait up for you.”
She was outside on the veranda waiting when my taxi pulled up. At the door, she kissed my cheek and put her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry for your trauma this afternoon,” she said. “Imagine! Him accusing you in front of all the staff of trying to murder him. I told Brent, if I’d had any idea—”
“It’s okay, Rosie. I’ll get over it. Everyone thinks he’s a raving lunatic, anyway. Speaking of which, I’ve got a crazy idea for Brent. This time, no doubt, the resulting trauma will probably involve losing my balls as well as my head.”
“Jesus, don’t say that. Not your balls.”
“Where’s Brent? I need to find out exactly when his sons are coming.”
“They are arriving on the red-eye tomorrow night. They get here around two in the morning.”
“Excellent.”
She stopped and looked at me. “And all of a sudden them coming here is somehow good?”
“We need to chat over a few things, get some things straight in everyone’s best interest.”
Leading me in to see Brent, Rosie stopped again and turned around and looked at me. Her eyebrows were raised, and her eyes sparkled, and her slight grin had those long-ago familiar signs of teenage satisfaction at our cleverness. It brought me back more than thirty years to the times when one of us had advanced the latest plan for our getting together to make love somewhere undetected. Her look was lovable, and no wonder: she was confirming that she had zeroed in on my plan and appreciated how diabolical it was in its brilliant simplicity.
She came back to me and whispered in my ear. “I love you, Tom. Next to poor Brent, I love you most of all. And you’ll see how much Brent loves me— and you too—when you hear his reaction to what you are going to suggest.”
In the living room, Brent and I sat down. Rosie remained standing and said she’d leave us to it. Brent looked from her to me quizzically. That would be best, I said. As soon as she closed the door, I started. “I need you to give me, as your lawyer, your written permission to divulge information to certain parties, that is to say, to your two sterling sons. They are coming here ostensibly to visit their honoured and beloved grandfather, but really, you believe, to cadge money off him. I understand that they know they stand to inherit some money in his will when he dies a year or so from now, but they have no idea how much. You have told me you think they are currently desperate—broke and in debt to unsavoury sources and need money bad. You have told me that they have drained their poor mother dry. When they get here, it would be a good idea for you to arrange, as trustee for your father’s estate, for them to visit me as your lawyer, so that I can brief them on what they and their mother can expect under the will when he dies. That will enable them to see a little into the future and allow them to plan to put their affairs in order with this financial knowledge. You may instruct me as your lawyer to make certain that they know clearly that their inheritance under the will comes into effect only on their grandfather’s death, whenever that may be, and that a person who has made a will can change it at any time before his death. I will tell them that this uncertainty and the long wait may be agonizing to them, but unfortunately, that is the nature of wills. The upside is they will at least have a clearer picture of what the future holds for them financially. I will not of course divulge how much you or any other beneficiary will inherit when their grandfather dies. Are you okay with all this so far, Brent?”
Brent looked at me silently for a minute. The shocking thought came to me that I hoped the cancer cells were ravaging his brain sufficiently to render him insane enough for this. “Yes, I am okay with this, Tom,” he said. “I will send them to you the morning after they arrive so that you can make certain they are absolutely clear for their planning purposes on how much they and their mother will get under the will, as it presently stands, as soon as their grandfather passes on.”
“I believe I have your instructions accurately,” I said.
“I need a cognac,” said Brent. “I trust that won’t kill me for a few more days.” Poor Brent. What this must be putting him through. His own father the hit, his own sons the perps. He sto
od. “Let’s get Rosie in here.”
“A cognac?” said Rosie, coming in. “I’d love one. Sit, my love. I’ll get them.” She smiled at both of us as she went to the liquor cabinet. She knew we were celebrating our new project. “Something good must be up if you’re having one too.”
TWO MORNINGS LATER, I got the call from Brent. “My sons, Neal and Duke, are here with me now as we speak, and I would very much like you to meet with them as my lawyer on the matter we discussed. I know how busy you are, Tom, but you would be doing me an immense favour if you could see them today before they visit their grandfather this afternoon, so that they will have a clear picture where they stand as his heirs.”
“Tell them I am fully booked this morning and I have court this afternoon, but I will clear my lunch hour to see them at twelve if you feel it’s important that I see them today.”
“I will tell them that, Tom. Can you hold a second?” I heard Brent repeat my words. He came back with, “They’ll be at your office sharp at noon.”
I kept my eleven-thirty client longer than he wanted to stay so as to make the boys wait till five minutes after the hour. Then I went out into my lobby to introduce myself to them. Neal and Duke were two big strapping lads—oafs, really—with cocky self-confidence and faces that were caricatures of Nordic lovers. Inside, sitting down, I said that I was familiar from their grandfather’s will that Neal was short for Cornelius and Duke was short for Marmaduke, but I mixed up their names in addressing them, and one of them corrected me by tapping his chest and saying, “Marmaduke,” and pointing to his brother and saying, “Cornelius.”
Honest to God, I couldn’t resist quoting Queen Gertrude when she corrected King Claudius’s confusion over the names of the two doomed courtier friends of Hamlet: “Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.”
Both of them looked at me in puzzlement and one of them said, “Huh?”
It was a wonder I didn’t point at each of them in turn and say, “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.” It would be just like me to bugger this up for a private laugh.
The other lad, presumably Cornelius, said, “Call me Neal and him Duke.”
“I will do that, thank you. You may know, by the way, that your father is the oldest friend I have in the world.”
“Yeah, so he said. Even shared the same woman, didn’t you? Wasn’t that O’Dell woman your girlfriend?”
“When she and I were teenagers. It was many years after we had parted ways that your dad married her.”
“Married her? Is that what she told you? I’d love to see you trying to defend that in court. Our mother was who he married.”
“In any event, it’s a pleasure to finally meet my old friend’s sons and to help relieve your minds on some matters as your father has instructed me to do.”
“How come Dad picked you as his lawyer? You haven’t seen each other for years and years, have you? Or did she pick you?”
Before I could answer that, the other asked, “What kind of law do you practise, anyway? Your office looks a bit down-at-the-heel.”
“Don’t trust appearances, gentlemen,” I said. “I’ve always followed this rule: do you want to make money or do you want to look like you’re making money?”
Duke and Neal turned to each other and high-fived in delight. “Man, that’s a cool rule. We really dig that. I hope you don’t mind if you hear we’re using it back in Vegas. That’ll freak out the hotshots.”
“Take it, it’s yours. And speaking of appearances, I’d say that you two, by the look of you, are getting more pussy than Frank Sinatra. I’d bet a hundred to one on that in Vegas.”
Neal, or maybe it was Duke, leaped out of his chair. “Dude,” he said, reaching out his hand and seeking to high-five me now, “that’s really cool. No wonder Dad came to you. You’re good.” Duke, or Neal, was laughing, nodding in agreement with his brother.
The other said, “Speaking of Dad, how does he look to you? Does he seem sick to you? He doesn’t look good to us.”
“Your father sick? No. Not that I know of, and I’ve spent a lot of time with him since he arrived. It must be the strain on him of your grandfather’s condition that you’re seeing. Old Mr. Anstey is getting more and more difficult to cope with. A couple of days ago there was another big blow-up when I was visiting him with your dad. I was fluffing up his pillow for him and he accused me of trying to smother him. Christ, what an uproar. What was really bizarre about it was that while he keeps accusing people of trying to murder him, his doctors and nurses, for example, he keeps saying at the same time that he wants to be euthanized—to be put down mercifully like a faithful old dog.”
“Can’t you and Dad find a doctor to do that for him, if he wants it? In the States somewhere, or over in Holland or something?”
“It’s complicated to do it legally anywhere. Plus I doubt if he’s capable of informed consent at this point, with his contradictory statements about everyone trying to murder him one minute and him wanting euthanasia the next. No, I’m very much afraid, boys, that, unfortunately, he has a long road of suffering and agony ahead of him, morphine or no morphine.”
“A long road—how much longer do they figure he’s got?”
“He’s as strong as a bloody ox. The other day when he grabbed hold of my arms, I could not believe the strength he’s still got left. The doctors figure he could pass peacefully away today—that’s always a possibility; no one would be surprised at that—or more likely he could last for many months—a year—or even more yet with that constitution of his.”
The boys looked at each other. “Yeah,” one of them said, “I think that’s what Dad was trying to say too, before he broke down.”
“Well, the suffering seems very sad and futile and unnecessary to a loving son who has to watch it day after day,” I said. “But there’s a silver lining in that cloud, which brings me to your situation. At least this coming twelve months or more that he’s alive will give you guys time to do your financial planning before all that money is dropped on you.”
“Yeah, Dad said he wanted you to give us some idea about what we need to plan for. What are we talking about here—ballpark?”
“We are talking about precisely, not ballpark, one million dollars.”
“One million—between the two of us?”
“No, a million dollars each. Under the present will.”
Duke and Neal stood in unison and walked about my office. “A million each,” said one. He looked up to the heavens and uttered a prayer of joy: “Well, fuck me.”
“And what about Mom?” asked the other. “He always said he wouldn’t see her stuck.”
“Well, strictly speaking, I’m not explicitly authorized to disclose your mother’s expectations, but I know how close you are to her and concerned for her well-being, so that also has to figure into your long-range planning. Under the current will, she will be receiving one million dollars as well.”
“Three million. Jesus Christ, you’ve got to love the old fart. A million each.”
“Yes, under the current will as it stands at the moment.”
“What do you keep saying that for? Current will—as it stands at the moment?”
“Well, a couple of cautionary notes to you are in order. To be completely frank, I advised your father against disclosing this information to you at this stage because it may build up false hopes in you and give you a false sense of security. I say that because a will takes effect only on the will-maker’s death. What I’ve told you is the situation under the will of your grandfather that currently exists. I know for a fact that’s what you and your mother would receive if he were to die today. What I do not know and cannot predict is the future. It is legally possible for him to change his will at any time and leave his money elsewhere—to the church or to an old girlfriend, for example. And I would not necessarily even know about it. He could use another lawyer and keep it completely secret. I’m not saying that’s a likely scenario— you know your grandfather better than I
do—but you never can tell what someone is going to do, especially someone with his state of mind. To take an absurd situation for the sake of argument, he could conclude when you visit him today that you too are trying to murder him and call up a lawyer when you are gone and cut you out of the will. That is all highly unlikely, but you have to be aware that what I have described to you today as beneficiaries under his present will is not a hundred per cent certain. It cannot be taken as a guarantee. It could change. Are we clear on all that?”
“Too cocksucking clear,” said one.
“How much is Dad getting out of it?” asked the other. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t have this copper-fastened for himself. He wouldn’t leave his own take under the will all loosey-goosey like our take.”
“And you would be right. I can’t disclose his entitlement under any arrangements between father and son. That is privileged information. But they are binding on your grandfather’s estate—copper-fastened, as you say—and irrevocable whether the old gentleman dies today, tomorrow, or a year from now.”
“And I bet that brainiac slut of his is all fixed up too, while me and Duke and Mom twist in the wind.” He turned to his brother. “How come you and me are always the ones who get fucked all the time?”
“Because we are too nice and polite and agreeable and pleasant and caring, a.k.a. we’re too fucking stupid.”
“That’s a little harsh,” I said. “I’m sure this’ll all work out over time. And even if it doesn’t, I’m sure that your dad and his beloved wife, Rosie, will have your best interests at heart as your devoted father and stepmother. Rosie has a lot of influence over him, but she knows what he thinks of you as his sons.” When the brothers exchanged a smouldering glare, I continued, “I do hope your dad didn’t make a mistake in asking me to disclose this to you. It seems to have unsettled you. But he did want you to have a chance to plan your futures, even with the uncertainties that apply to all wills, and your grandfather’s in particular.”