She pulled up a chair to wait until her father woke up. A manila envelope peeked out from under the bed covers. Carefully, she lifted it out. The lawyer’s address label was on the front, with the notation: “Pilgrim Baxter—Estate Plan—DRAFT.” About time he got to this, she thought.
Corella had earned her teacher’s certificate just as the new governor was talking about taking pensions away and basing salaries on “merit”—meaning your career lay in the hands of bored kids cut loose by lazy parents. Schoolwork? Not even. Not when there’s curb service for rock and herb on the street, Grand Theft Auto on the Game Boy, streaming porn on the web. The American dream. She was sorry for what had happened to her father but the money was luck and she’d need all she could muster. Otherwise the future just looked too grim.
She checked to be sure he was still dozing, then opened the envelope quietly, removed the papers inside. There was a living trust, a will, some other legal documents captioned “Baxter v. Williams et al.” Not like I don’t have a right to see, she thought. He’ll need me to make the calls, transfer accounts, consult with the accountants and all.
She read every page, even the boiler plate. By the time she was done her whole body was shaking.
* * *
Raymont, wearing his preacher collar under a gray suit, stared out through the beveled glass of the Victorian’s front door at Corella on the porch. Girl’s nothing but a snitch for her father, he thought. He felt like telling her to just go away but Lorene hadn’t come home the night before. He’d rattled around all night alone in their canopy bed, like a moth inside a lampshade, wondering if he shouldn’t call the police. But, given his troubles, that could turn tricky. Besides, he figured she wasn’t missing. She was hiding.
He cracked open the door. “Your mama’s not around.”
Corella had her hands folded before her, prim as a nun. “I didn’t come to see her.”
She might as well have thrown a rock. “Say that again?”
“Turns out you and I have something in common.” She looked him square in the eye. “We need to talk.”
They sat in the kitchen, Raymont sipping Hennessy with a splash of 7-Up, Corella content with tap water as she told him what she’d learned.
“The lawsuit and eviction remain in place—against you. Everything against my mother is dismissed in exchange for her cooperation and truthful testimony.”
Girl sounds like a bad day on Court TV, he thought. “Your mama says I forced her into anything, that’s a damn lie. I may have suggested—”
“She gets the house, too. He’s quit-claiming it to her. But the debt comes with it.”
Raymont shook his glass, the ice rattled. “There’s his pound of flesh. Payments too steep. She can’t keep up, they’ll foreclose.”
Corella shook her head. “She’ll be able to hold them off for a while. And the insurance annuity that pays for my father’s care? It has a cash payout when he dies. Half a million dollars. He’s giving half of that to my mother to pay down the debt. That should make it manageable but still steep enough it’ll feel—if I know my mother and father—like punishment.”
Girl understands her blood, he thought, I’ll grant her that. “And the other half—who gets that?”
Corella shook her head, a little flinch of outrage. “It goes to the nurse.”
Raymont put down his drink. “The bouncer?”
“‘For services rendered charitably, patiently, and generously.’” Corella seemed about to cry, but there was ice in her voice, too. “I get nothing.”
“You got a half-sister floating around somewhere, too, am I right?”
He might as well have slapped her. “She doesn’t deserve anything! Where has she been? What has she done?”
“Easy. Easy. I just—”
“The nurse is bad enough. I’m the one in the family who’s been there. Every day.”
“Fine. Agreed.” Raymont juiced up his drink with a little more Hennessy. The girl was getting on his nerves and he needed to think. His mind boiled. “I’m gonna hire me a lawyer,” he said. “A real junkyard dog. You best find yourself one, too, girl, before this all gets finalized.”
Corella stood up from the table. “You’re missing the point.”
Lorene left the hotel where she was hiding and arrived in Hunter’s Point shortly after dinner to visit with Pilgrim. Robert let her in and said, “Mr. Baxter told me you and him would be wanting some private time.” She opened her purse, figuring they were back on the old payment schedule, but Robert said, “No need for that, ma’am.” He grabbed his hat, glanced at his watch, and added, “I’ll come back in an hour.”
She inferred from his cheerfulness that Pilgrim had informed him of his good fortune. Once Pilgrim executed his documents, the former wrestler and part-time bouncer would stand to inherit a princely sum. Pausing at the window, she watched him flounce out to his beat-up car. He’ll buy himself a new one first thing, she thought, something everyone will stare at. New car, new clothes, flash and trash, waste it all. But who’s the bigger fool for that—him or Pilgrim?
She went into the bedroom and stood beside the bed. Pilgrim gazed up at her. “You look tired,” he said.
She smiled grimly, thinking: You have no idea. Tired of pretending I feel for you. Tired of keeping up that charade just so I can have the one thing I want, my home and the things in it, a safe place as I grow old. Tired of watching you hang on to your miserable life with all its petty jealousy and resentment and hate. Tired of trying to convince myself I can do what you want. You think you can control my life and who I love, now and forever, even from beyond the grave. So yes. I’m tired.
It’s always the devil, she thought, who shows us who we really are. She knew Raymont was evil, but so? Love is not a choice and who would want it if it was? He’d taught her things. Fortune favors the bold. No risk, no reward. She did not intend to waste that lesson. And there were hatreds and resentments of her own to abide.
“Come here,” Pilgrim whispered. “Visit with me.”
She stepped out of her shoes, lowered the bed, climbed on, and straddled him, edging forward on her knees. Maybe you’ll forgive me, she thought. Maybe not.
“Let me move this,” she said, wrestling the pillow from beneath his head.
“Lorene, damn, careful—”
She clamped the pillow across his face and pressed down hard. The plump soft weight muffled his cries. Two minutes, she thought. That’s how long they say it takes for old folks in nursing homes and Pilgrim lacked even that much strength. The killing would leave tiny red dots in his eyes but she would call her own doctor, not his, say he’d just stopped breathing. Her doctor would take her word, sign the death certificate before anyone was the wiser. And though Robert would be suspicious when he got back—he’d be out a quarter of a million dollars—he’d be in no position to make trouble. The police would see right through him. Besides, she made out no better than he did with Pilgrim dead and no documents signed—why would she kill him?
Her heart pounded and she was drenched with sweat by the time it was over. She couldn’t bear to lift the pillow, see his face. She just leaned down, listened for sounds of breathing. Nothing.
From behind: “You just do what I think?”
Lorene spun around on the bed. Raymont stood in the doorway. Stranger still, Corella peeked out from behind him.
“We knew you’d be here,” Raymont said. “We saw the nurse leave. Corella has a key.”
Lorene held out her hand. “Help me down.”
Raymont approached her like he thought she might turn into a bat but helped her as she climbed off Pilgrim’s body. He caught her when she nearly fell. Her knees felt rubbery. She almost fainted.
“I couldn’t go through with it,” she said.
Puzzled, Raymont lifted the pillow. “You already did.”
“No, I mean go through with what he wanted me to do. Turn against you.” A shudder went through her and she began to weep softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, baby, stop.” He stroked her face. “Don’t fret. We got it all figured out.”
“We?” She wiped her face.
“Corella and me. She’s the one stands to inherit, she’s the next of kin.”
“But Cynthia—”
“To hell with Cynthia.” It was Corella, holding herself so tight it looked like she might explode if she let go.
Raymont, more gently, said, “Anybody heard from this Cynthia? Anybody even know where she is?”
“St. Louis. Somewhere near—”
“No, Lorene.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her. “No. Listen to me. Corella and me, we’ve come to an understanding.” He looked at Pilgrim’s body, the face exposed now. Vacant. Still. “Corella’s gonna file the probate. She’ll say she heard some talk about another daughter, tried hard to find her, couldn’t. We ransack this place, destroy any letters or anything else that might give us away, lead somebody to where she is. Hell, why can’t we pretend she doesn’t even exist?”
“What about the lawyer? The one he’s been talking to. What if he’s told her—”
“Why should she care? You pay her whatever she’s owed, she’ll go away, trust me. One thing I know, it’s lawyers.”
The next impulse took Lorene by surprise. She reached for Raymont’s face, clamped her eyes shut, and pressed her mouth so hungrily against his she thought, again, she might faint. A cold pulse ran through her, it felt like laughter. He’s dead, she thought. He’s dead and I’m free and God help me but I have lived for this moment.
* * *
Watching her mother grab the bogus preacher within inches of her father’s corpse, Corella suffered a moment of clarity so searing she nearly got sick. Nothing would change, she realized. She’d be used. These two revolting people would get what they wanted then toss her aside. She was a tool. She was, again, baggage.
Raymont had brought a gun in case Robert had to be dealt with. Corella crept up behind him, reached inside his coat pocket.
Raymont tried to catch her by the arm, missed. “What you playin’ at?”
Corella gripped the weapon with both hands, waving it back and forth, at Raymont, at Lorene, at Raymont. She was crying.
Raymont held out his hand. “Put that down.” Then: “This was your idea, girl.”
Corella fired. Lorene screamed as the bullet hit Raymont in the shoulder. He howled in pain, cursed, reached for the wound, said, “I’ll kill you,” through clenched teeth, but then she fired again, this time aiming for his face. The round went through his eye. Lorene’s screams grew piercing. Raymont tottered, reached for something that wasn’t there, and slowly collapsed to the floor.
“My God, Corella, why, Lord, what—”
Corella raised the barrel till it pointed at her mother. “Quiet,” she said, barely above a whisper, then fired. The bullet ripped through Lorene’s throat. The second went straight through her heart.
Robert came back from the Philly cheese steak shop on Oakdale he liked, chewing gum to counter the smell of the greasy cheese and grilled onions on his breath. He found the door unlocked. Odd, he thought. Careless of me. Smokehounds could just waltz in.
He went straight for the bedroom, make sure all was well, and stopped in his tracks. A man he didn’t recognize sat slumped against the wall, a bloody hole where one eye had been, another in his shoulder. Lorene lay in a heap beside the bed, ugly wounds on her chest and neck. And Mr. Baxter lay in his bed, motionless as a hunk of wood, eyes and mouth gaping.
Corella sat on the floor against the wall, clutching a pillow, staring at nothing. A pistol rested on the floor, not far from her feet.
“They killed him,” she whispered. “I came in…” Her voice trailed away. She glanced up at Robert.
Robert’s eyes bounced back and forth—the gun, Corella. “You?”
“They killed him,” she said again. Practicing.
Robert studied her, then said, “It’s all right. I understand.”
He went to the bedside, checked to make sure Pilgrim was dead, then checked the other two as well. From a box beside the bed he withdrew a vinyl glove, slipped it on his hand.
“You hurt?” he asked Corella, walking over to the gun, picking it up.
She shook her head. Then, looking up into his face, she said, “He never signed those documents, you know. You get nothing.”
Robert crouched down in front of her. “Sometimes it’s not about the money.” With one hand he forced her mouth open, with the other he worked the barrel in. “Sometimes it’s just the right thing to do.”
Two days after the funerals, Marguerite Johnstone sat in her office, meeting with Pilgrim’s surviving daughter, Cynthia. She’d traveled from Hannibal, Missouri, for the services. Her mother had stayed behind.
“Your father had me draft two estate plans,” Marguerite explained, “one he executed the last time I met with him, the other he was saving.”
Cynthia tilted her head quizzically. “Saving?”
She was quite different from Corella, Marguerite thought. She had Midwestern manners, played the cello, wore Chanel. More to the point, she was Korean. Or half Korean, anyway.
“He wanted to see how his ex-wife followed through on certain promises. Obviously, that’s all moot now.”
Cynthia shuddered. “It sounds so terrible.”
The night of the murders, the police received reports of gunfire in the neighborhood but that was like saying it was dark out at the time. No one could pinpoint where the shots came from till Robert called 911. The detectives working the case had their doubts about his story but he’d held up under questioning and passed his gunshot residue test. Besides, the new mayor was lighting bonfires up their buttholes—their phrase—because of their pitiful clear rate on the dozens of drive-bys and gang hits in that neighborhood. Last thing they wanted to do was waste time on a domestic. As it sat, the case had a family angle and a murder-suicide tidiness to it, and that permitted them to close it out with a clear conscience. If justice got served in the bargain, fabulous.
“The documents your father actually executed leave everything to you. The Excelsior house has so little equity and is so heavily leveraged, I’d consider just walking away. Let the lenders fight over it. The Hunter’s Point lot—forget the house—might bring fifty thousand. That’s a guess, we’ll have it appraised. That leaves the cash payout from the annuity.”
Cynthia looked up. “And that would be?”
“In the ballpark of half a million.”
The girl’s eyes ballooned. “I had no idea. I mean, my father and I, we weren’t in touch. My mother, she’s become more and more…traditional. She felt ashamed. She and my father weren’t married and they—” Her cheeks colored. She wrung her handkerchief in her lap. “I wrote from time to time but never visited. Not even after his accident. Corella was the one—”
“It wasn’t Corella’s decision to make. It was your father’s property. That’s the way it works.”
“But—”
“From the way he talked about it, I gathered it was precisely the fact you didn’t hang around, waiting for him to die, that made him feel benevolent toward you.”
Cynthia pondered that, then shrugged. “It still feels a little like stealing, to be honest.”
“You can’t steal a gift, not under the law anyway.” Marguerite glanced at the clock, reminding herself: billable hours. “Are there any questions you’d like to ask?”
Cynthia put her chin in her hand and tapped her cheek with her forefinger. Too cute, Marguerite thought. The innocence was beginning to grate.
“I hope this doesn’t sound crass,” Cynthia said finally, “but when will I get my check?”
Marguerite bit her lip to keep from grinning. Families, death, and money, she thought. Didn’t matter your race or creed—or how far away you lived—the poison always bubbles up from somewhere, often long before the dear departed’s body grows cold.
“That depends on the insurance company admi
nistering the annuity. Why?”
Cynthia shrugged. “Nothing. I was thinking about maybe traveling.” She blushed again. “It’s my boyfriend’s idea, actually.”
Interesting, Marguerite thought. “‘Travel is a privilege of the young.’ I read that somewhere. Why didn’t your boyfriend come with you?”
“He lives here. We just met.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “It’s sudden, I realize, and he’s really not my type, but I’ve felt lonely here and he’s very kind. He introduced himself at the church service. You may know him, actually, he took care of my father.”
DOUBLE ESPRESSO
BY SIN SORACCO
Russian River
There was a festival of tiny Virgin de Guadalupe statues casting nets into the water. They hopped along the edges of the flooded soccer field, whispering about uncles who used to fish there. Huge hairy homeless men huddled in the predawn drizzle: When will the sun come out again, Mothers? The men placed large eggs in front of the statues. Or not.
Gina trudged through the little park, her mouth opened in a big yawn, her heavy eyes unfocussed, her hair flattened in wet curls from the sputtering rain. Soccer field was flooded again—they built the thing on top of one of the Mission district’s old springs. Whole place used to be one big marsh, birds and fish and everything. Maybe someone should put a couple ducks there or something. Remind folks. Except the birds would probably get eaten. Would that be a good thing or not? Gina wasn’t sure. She’d figure it out over coffee.
She was trying to savor the last moments of night before a harsh winter’s sun gave everything edges—
“Hey! Get outta my way!” An agitated man wearing burgundy plaid jogging shorts and blueberry running shoes continued pumping his legs as he glared at her.
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