The Inheritance

by Zelda Reed

  I expect her to say something along the lines of, yeah, I know what you mean, but Gina just nods and turns away. She slowly makes her way towards the sidewalk, as if she’s digging up something else to say, anything else, but nothing but silence stretches between us. She takes the same route as Darlene, up the street and to the right, towards the train station, to her little apartment in Logan Square.

  I should leave. I don’t know what I’m waiting for until Neal steps out on the porch, hands in his pockets as he moves beside me.

  “You have to understand --”

  “It’s fine,” I say, voice full of malice.

  “Caitlin.”

  “No, really, all of this,” I shrug. “I don’t expect anything less from the CEO of J.M. Wheeler. Never have and I never will.”

  I make a move to step forward, one step closer to the porch steps, but Neal blocks my path. “When are you going back to Baltimore?”

  I step to the side and he follows. “Please move.”

  He steps closer. “Not until you answer me.”

  My jaw tightens as I look up at him. “It doesn’t matter when I’m going back because I never want to see you again.”

  Neal’s eyes narrow. Not in malice but in intrigue. A challenge. “You don’t mean that.”

  “You don’t nearly know me well enough to make that assumption. Now please, move.”

  Neal steps out the way. I rush down the steps, the summer wind whipping through my hair. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t yell after me, but his eyes remain on my back, watching me as I go down the street and to the right, disappearing around the corner.

  Eleven

  I move my return flight from Sunday to Wednesday giving me two days to clean out my father’s condo. Forty-eight hours to find a realtor, a good one, who can sell it within a week, without much interference from me.

  There are no good memories floating around my father’s condo, even with the newness of it all. It would be torture, keeping it around and in the family, like a haunted mansion tucked on the outskirts of town where terrible things happened but no one likes to talk about it.

  I crawl beneath my covers and Neal pops up in my mind. I can no longer smell him, housekeeping has replaced every sheet and pillow on my bed (per my request) but I can still feel him surrounding me. His thighs heavy beneath me, his hands kneading my breasts, his teeth against my neck, his mouth against mine. I force my eyes close but there he is again, in full color, grinning at me, his blue eyes sparkling.

  He’s an asshole, I repeat, over and over until I tire myself out.

  ______

  Around eight pm, I pull myself out of bed, get dressed and head towards LaSalle, where a string of restaurants and bars surround the financial district. From the ground I can see my father’s office, all the way on the fortieth floor, the windows lit up with yellow as if he’s still there, working himself ragged, even after death.

  His favorite place to take me, when he was forced to accompany me to lunch, was a small pizza place down the street from his job. It’s cliché in the worst ways – the red and white tile floor, the fake vines running along the brick wall, the framed photos digitally aged and deliberately crooked for “authenticity” – but the pizza’s delicious and the beer is cheap.

  “Cheese and sausage flatbread, please,” I say to the bartender who hands me a tall glass of beer and takes my menu.

  Paulie’s isn’t the sort of place you come to pick people up. The restaurant’s thick with families and college students on late-night outings, cheese dripping from their mouths, laughter bellowing from their stomachs. A few of them pass me sympathetic looks – poor girl, here all alone – but I don’t feel lonely. Chicago’s always been the city where I did everything solo. If anything, being by myself feels like home.

  The bathroom door swings open and Ashleigh walks out. She doesn’t see me, her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, eyes red and wet with tears. She keeps her gaze on the floor, one foot on red, one foot on white, as she climbs on the barstool at the end of the bar and stares blankly at her menu.

  It figures she would know about this place. I try to imagine my father, with his arm slung around her waist, leading her to a booth near the front window, wowing her with his memory of their one-hundred pizza toppings: jalapeno, sausage, pepperoni, brie, gouda, milk chocolate, white chocolate, dark chocolate, bell peppers (green or red or yellow), bacon, salsa, chicken, chips, anything your heart desires.

  I can’t help but stare. She’s wearing the same clothes as this morning: a modest pink skirt, white blouse, and white heels. She looks eighteen at the most. My stomach tightens at the thought of my father courting her around town.

  Like all of my father’s girlfriends-turned-wives, she’s undeniably pretty. The eye-catching kind that may or may not last as she ages, but it’s enough to keep your attention now. Several college-aged boys are unable to take their eyes off her. One of them plans to make a move. He stands and rubs his hands together and there’s something about it that gets me on my feet.

  Beer in hand, I travel over to Ashleigh, effortlessly cock-blocking as I slide onto the barstool next to her. “Mind if I sit here?”

  Her gaze snaps up to me. She looks me up and down. We’ve never been this close and I can see the green flecks in her brown eyes, a smattering of light freckles dust across her nose. “You can do whatever you want,” she says, turning her attention back to the menu.

  The boy who had his sights set on her throws his hands up in exasperation. He turns to his friends in defeat.

  “I don’t think we were ever really introduced,” I say. “I’m Caitlin.”

  She looks at me. “I know who you are.” Then, “You don’t look anything like him.”

  “He would probably think that’s a good thing,” I say. Ashleigh narrows her eyes. “Or bad? I don’t know. I look like my mother and I know that always upset him.”

  Ashleigh turns her attention back to the menu. “If you’re here to talk shit about Julian, you can find somewhere else to sit.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I guess, I just wanna talk. I don’t really know anything about you and you were the last one to be with my dad.”

  Her hands slowly fold atop the menu, her lips disappearing into her mouth. She looks at me, faint tears tickling the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry it’s just,” she wipes them away. “This is going to sound so stupid.”

  I shrug. Say whatever you want.

  Ashleigh smiles. “You’re the first person to ask about me, since this whole thing started.”

  She flashes her fake ID, I buy her a beer and we talk. We talk about Gina, who inserted herself in the process the minute she found out my father was dead, dismissing Ashleigh as some too-young-gold-digger. We talk about the women at the funeral who stared at her coldly, as if she had no right to be there. We talk about how no one, aside from her small circle of friends and the blue-haired women, would speak to her at the repass, all of them throwing her cautious and disgusted looks.

  “Like I couldn’t be emotional, right? Like I wasn’t the one who found him dead on our bedroom floor.”

  Our bedroom. “How long had you guys been together?”

  “Six months,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I know that’s not a long time but I really loved him and I think he loved me too.”

  My pizza comes out and I ask for another plate, putting mine in front of Ashleigh.

  “Can I ask you something, at the risk of sounding like an asshole?”

  She nods.

  “Just…why my father? You’re a really pretty girl and I’m sure there’s tons of guys your age who would love to date you --”

  “It wasn’t about the money.”

  “I’m not saying it was --”

  “But I can tell you’re thinking it.” She’s right. “I’m not offended, not anymore, because I know I wasn’t with him for the money or what he could do for me. Believe it or not he was one of the most int
eresting men I’ve ever met. Guys my age don’t have regrets, you know? They’re all YOLO and shit. But Julian knew how to reflect on his life. He was wise and sweet.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “He knew what was best for me, even if I didn’t. Which is why, I think, he paid for my college.”

  There it is again, that pesky sliver of envy. “It’s very convenient,” I say.

  She takes a slice of pizza. “Of course it’s nothing compared to what you got. All that money and the condo and the Gold’s membership.”

  The waiter places a plate in front of me. “What is that anyway?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know for sure. But I know they have all their meetings in Evanston, in the basement of some guy’s house. One time I went to pick Julian up and he came out drunk and undone. I think it’s a bit of a boy’s club for Chicago’s elite.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “And now I’m a member.”

  Ashleigh nods.

  The pair of us stuff our faces with pizza, drinking until we can’t contain our buzz.

  When the waiter grabs the check, Ashleigh turns to me and says, “You know, I have your father’s card with me.”

  From her purse she pulls out a thick leather wallet, J.M.W. monogrammed on the front. She pulls out a shimmering gold card, the flecks reflecting off the low light of the restaurant. On the front, in bold black letters, reads: Gold’s Gentleman’s Club. This card is the property of J. M. W. If found, please destroy and discard.

  I look at my phone. It’s nine-thirty on a Sunday.

  “I was just gonna spend my evening sleeping. You want to do something fun?”

  Ashleigh grins and looks down at the card. “Of course.”

  Twelve

  Pleasantly tipsy, Ashleigh and I take a cab to Evanston, a small, wealthy suburb on the outskirts of the city. A beautiful nest of impressive homes, upscale strip malls, and their very own Trader Joe’s, at ten on a Sunday night, Evanston is eerily calm and quiet. The kids have been put to bed and mom and dad are in the living room watching late night television. Evanston’s all very cozy and picturesque, they would be shocked to find out about the club.

  We walk up the steps of the large traditional home on the corner, the living room lights on, the smell of cigarettes littering the front porch. Ashleigh bounces on her toes as the front door opens. A woman stands on the other side, cradling a glass of milk in her hand.

  “Hi Mrs. Keener, is Francis home? We would sure like to play.” It’s a cheeky code, meant to remind men of when they were boys, dirt-faced with their hands in their pockets, begging their neighbor’s mom for Francis to come out and play. The woman looks skeptical until I flash my father’s card. She glances at it and lets us inside.

  The front door closes and we’re led to the kitchen, white cabinets upon white walls upon white floors. She opens the door to the basement and a flood of music and laughter pours out. Soundproof walls and doors.

  Ashleigh and I exchange nervous glances before we head downstairs, smoke and booze filling our nostrils. The basement isn’t too large but it’s impressive with its deep color scheme of browns and greens and blues, almost masculine to a fault. Leather couches line the walls, a pool table sits in the center of the room, a wooden bar’s in the corner, shelves and shelves of alcohol behind it. There are three doors to the left and one of them swings open, the sound of a toilet flushing crawling out.

  As soon as our feet land on the dark brown carpet, all eyes turn towards us. Lively jazz music spins on the record player, but all conversation and laughter has been sucked out, the men stiff and frozen. Intruder alert!

  The man behind the bar wipes his hand with a dirty rag before he moves over to us. “I don’t mean to be rude but uh, what the fuck are you doing here?” I flash the card and the man snatches it from me. He laughs. “You’re showing me a dead man’s card?”

  “It was my father’s,” I say.

  The man shrugs. “Don’t really give a shit who he was to you. You can’t be here.”

  “Yes she can,” Ashleigh says. “Her dad left her his membership in his will.”

  The man looks Ashleigh up and down before he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Yo, Robbie?”

  Standing near the pool table, Robbie says, “Yeah?”

  “You know something about Julian passing his membership down to his,” he looks at me, “what’s your name, sweetheart?”

  My jaw tightens. Sweetheart. “Caitlin. Caitlin Wheeler.”

  “His daughter, Caitlin Wheeler?”

  Robbie shuffles towards the lone file cabinet in the corner. He sifts through the drawer. “Yeah, I got it right here. Says, in the event of his death, his membership goes right to a, Caitlin Wheeler.”

  The man raises an eyebrow. “You got ID?”

  He takes my ID and the room comes alive again. Conversations flowing, jokes flying. Just like that, with a snap of a finger.

  The man leads us over to the bar and says, “Name’s Nicky,” then to Ashleigh, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ashleigh,” she says. “Julian’s last girlfriend.”

  A slow smirk forms across Nicky’s lips. “Oh yeah, the blonde. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He mixes us two anonymous cocktails – one orange, one pink – and pushes them towards us. He hands back my ID and my father’s membership card. “Next time you come, my wife’ll have your card. With your name on it and everything.”

  A part of me wants to say, that won’t be necessary, I’m leaving Chicago in a few days, but I smile. “Thanks.”

  As Ashleigh and I sip our drinks Nicky explains the rules of the club. Members are allowed one guest a night and they must call forty-eight hours in advanced with their name. He glances at Ashleigh, “I’ll let you off the hook this time.” What happens in the club, stays in the club. If I hear something it doesn’t leave this room. “If you feel the urge to call the cops or the FBI, whomever, you talk to me about it. We’ll sort something out.” There aren’t many women who are members. “We’ve got like two other ones but they never show up unless it’s Christmas.” On Christmas the party spreads to the whole house, guests privileges are bumped up to three and, “It’s a real good time. There’s raffles and giveaways and shit. Last year somebody won a car.”

  Ashleigh excitedly listens, gulping down her pink drink like a glass of water. I wonder if I can pass my membership off to her.

  Nicky points out the restroom and the two private rooms next to it.

  “Private rooms for what?” Ashleigh asks.

  Nicky grins. “Whatever you want them to be for.”

  The basement door opens. Nicky glances towards the steps as two pairs of feet shuffle down. My throat tightens and my heart speeds up as Neal lands in the basement, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

  Nicky says, “You’re fucking late.”

  Neal laughs and throws him a thick manila envelope. He barely glances at me. “That’s because this idiot,” he thumbs over his shoulder to a handsome blond, dressed just as well as him. “Was in county lock up all afternoon.”

  Nicky peeks inside the envelope before he stuffs it behind the bar. “Shit kid, what did you do?”

  The blond narrows in on Ashleigh and I. His shoulder bumps into Neal’s as he steps closer and leans against the bar, inches away from Ashleigh’s face. “Does it matter?” he says, smoothly, raising his eyebrow in Nicky’s direction.

  Nicky rolls his eyes and pours two beers. He hands one to the blond, one to Neal. “You know it does.”

  The blond glances at him. “I’ll tell you later but now,” the blond spins, landing between us. His gaze bounces back and forth. “You’ve gotta introduce me to my new best friends.”

  “Caitlin Wheeler,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Caitlin,” he says. “You wouldn’t happen to be --”

  “She is,” Neal says, traveling next to me. He leans against the bar on the opposite side of my stool.

  “You are,” the blond sa
ys. “Lucky girl. Flush with cash.” He turns his attention to Ashleigh. “Do you have some sort of connection with Julian?”

  My mind tunes them out as I focus on the drink in front of me. Neal’s standing close enough that I can smell his cologne. He’s wearing the same suit from this morning but he’s removed his tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a patch of dark chest hair that begs for my attention.

  “You know,” Neal says, leaning close, his lips hovering around my ear. “If I had your phone number I would’ve been calling you all day.”

  I smack on a sour smile. “Thank god, you don’t.”

  Neal grins. My fingers wrap around my glass but he snatches the drink from me, pouring the rest into his mouth. “Are you still upset with me?”

  I wave down Nicky. “Can I get a glass of water?”

  Neal laughs. “I guess there’s my answer.”

  He pushes my hair behind my ear and his mere touch makes me shudder. Not out of disgust (which I wish it was) but out of pure, unadulterated want. I smack his hand away and say, “Don’t.”

  Neal crosses his arms on the bar. “What more do you want from me?” he asks. “I’ve already apologized for what happened at the hotel.”

  “I don’t care about the hotel,” I lie.

  Nicky drops a bottle of water in front of me.

  “Then what’s all this about?”

  I turn to him. “You really have no clue, do you?”

  The corners of his eyes twist downward in sincerity. “I really don’t. Which is why I’m asking.”

  For a second I consider being the rational woman, the one who doesn’t get into fights with men, stringing them along with vague clues in hopes that they get it. But this has always been my way.

  I grab my water and stand from the bar. “Stay the fuck away from me,” I hiss, before storming across the room.

  ______

  For thirty minutes I lean awkwardly against the file cabinet, watching a small group of men play pool. Occasionally, someone sinks a ball and they turn towards me to gauge my reaction. I smile, grin wide across my mouth as I pretend I haven’t been standing in the corner, brooding.