Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “It probably needs a second coat, but I bet we can get away with it as is for showings.” Ben emerged from the bathroom. On him, his paint smeared tee and shorts looked – marvelous.

  He regarded me for a moment as if we hadn’t been in the house together for over three hours.

  “You look good.”

  I glanced down and bit my lip so that “What? This ratty old thing?” did not pop out unbidden. I already said I hated it when women like Carrie utter similar disclaimers, and I wasn’t going to do it myself.

  “Thank you?”

  “No, I mean you look cute all messed up.”

  He reached out and swept something from my hair.

  “Cobweb.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hillary and I were scheduled to meet at noon. I changed my outfit so I would be ready; Ben had an errand to do and promised to meet me back at the house at 1:00 PM.

  That’s a whole hour with Hillary, but maybe she wouldn’t want to stay that long.

  If I’m lucky.

  “This is just a disaster! How much more can we take?” She marched through the house and dropped a copy of the Chronicle on the dining table. This afternoon she wore a lemon colored ladies-who-lunch suit with matching open toed pumps. And yes, the blouse sported a floppy bow. The very thought of floppy bows was depressing, but she had more problems that dubious fashion comebacks.

  Me? I had gingerly changed into a bright purple silk suit; long skirt and jacket, I couldn’t bear any heavy fabric on my cuts and bruises. Needless to say, no pantyhose, but the Kate Spade high heel slides, in of course, bright purple, were a perfect match. But I don’t think Hillary was impressed.

  Hillary flipped over the paper with a snap of her wrist. The headline read: Marin Candidate involved in Alleged Murder – Pleads Not Guilty. At the bottom of the paper ran an op-ed title, The Youth of Marin, Turning to Crime? The story on Mark began above the fold – great media exposure if he was still running, but apparently the voters in Marin didn’t tolerate accused murderers as their DA. I don’t think the option has ever been presented to voters in Sonoma.

  “He says he’ll fight it.”

  “I see he left the signs up.”

  “Oh crap, we’ll have to do something about that.” She wrapped her arms around herself as if it was cold. It was not. The weather was pleasant and warm – the first weeks in September usually are.

  I nodded. I had no experience in counseling, but from the looks of her, counseling would not be out of line. Losing a father to violence and a brother to scandal? Plus the slap-in-the-face discovery that the inheritance you’ve been counting on for years, was not materializing? I did not even bring up that her father’s “money in the house” comment really meant the equity, not treasure hidden under the rugs. If I were Hillary, I’d need counseling. I probably did need counseling, but we’re not discussing me.

  “Well, “ she said grudgingly, “This does look better.”

  I thought the house looked strangely empty without the blast of color of the art. I even missed the weird guy in the bathroom.

  “Mark cared about the money from the house, but not as much as I thought he would, Karen did, but she didn’t know about Mark’s other sources, which is why he didn’t care.” She circled around her own logic, I left her to her own merry-go-round.

  “Why did he do it?” I asked, giving the merry-go-round another push.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He is your brother.”

  “Yes but you know how it is, you have your own life, he has his, you lose touch. We didn’t see Dad that much, let alone each other. We all have things to do.”

  I eyed her. She knew perfectly well what her brother was thinking. She was helping him run his campaign. But maybe she needed to distance herself now. From the look of it, she and Stephen weren’t all that close so there would not be much discussion and conjecture between them. And the buzz and the scandal would fade. There was enough news in the world, even in our own individual counties, for this event to quickly become a single note on an on line press under “what ever happened to?” Once she was home, she could ignore some of what was going on this side of the bay. It wasn’t a bad thing.

  “You’re pretty smart aren’t you?” She abruptly changed the subject.

  “Yes,” I acknowledged as calmly as I could. It was the same thing Mark accused me of. Perhaps those two were more alike than they cared to admit.

  I pulled out the new price adjustment addendum for her sign. You don’t technically need to attach an addendum, you just need a form for MLS, but with this family, I wanted every decision acknowledged and initialed.

  “Do you like having a career?” Hillary suddenly asked.

  I stopped fussing with the contracts. Believe it or not, this was a loaded question. Some women search for careers and some have careers thrust upon them. But I didn’t want to tell her that. All I have is my career. I didn’t relish admitting that either. Hillary was the one with the win, she had acquired the house, husband and three perfect children and Junior League associates.

  “I like my career, yes.” I assured her. I knew from experience that her question wasn’t about me at all; it was about my “alternative” lifestyle. I think working is natural, but I have sister-in-laws who have the same life as Hillary, that is, they stay home full time and drive children up and down the county. I’m familiar with the question, and the look. There’s a part inside every full time mother and homemaker who is dying to hear that I’m miserable, because then her own choices are justified. But there is also a part of them who needs to hear how successful and happy I am because it bodes well for their own future. They want to know that there are still choices out in the world. They want to hear that they could leave the house and hop back into work at a moment’s notice.

  What I don’t tell them is that fifteen years is a long time in the business world if you haven’t kept up. What I don’t say is, when you DO return to work, you won’t become the VP of PR just right off the bat because a twenty-five-year-old will have the Internet skills and the computer skills and the drive that you, my friend, won’t acquire for quite a while. So you’ll end up the assistant for a person ten years your junior. Nope, I don’t say anything at all. I just smile and if I’m lucky, I have a drink in my hand when the question is asked.

  “I should look into something.” Hillary stared at the floor.

  “Don’t you have volunteer work?”

  “Boards and things.” Hillary dismissed those commitments with a wave of her hand. She signed the papers where I pointed and handed me the pen.

  “Thank you for taking care of the art.” She said simply.

  Her sincere tone startled me so much I didn’t respond immediately.

  “You’re welcome,” I finally blurted.

  She left soon after, giving me a reprieve of about half an hour before Ben showed up. We had an appointment with Mr. Fischer at 2:30 PM.

  Ben arrived exactly on time, hair damp, blue polo shirt decorated with a crest I didn’t recognize, but didn’t spend much time worrying about it because I was more distracted by how the shirt color brought out the deep blue of his eyes.

  I contemplate the futility of my infatuation all the way to San Francisco.

  The museum of Lost Art did need have a brand new building. A building far, far away from the original location, if that was possible. The soon-to-be-former home of the Lost Art Museum bordered the Tenderloin. It was a tired, blackened building leaning against a dilapidated long-term hotel on the left, and lit up by and a fairly new Mc Donald’s on the right.

  Mr. Fischer, I couldn’t remember if he was doctor Fischer or not, buzzed us in, and then sent a burly guard down to the truck to start wrestling the painting into the lower floor of the show rooms. Mr. Fischer’s office was on the top floor. Which meant he had a full view of the three blocks of homeless lining the streets. Lost indeed.

  “I read about that Mark Smith in the paper, just a tragedy.” Mr. Fischer mad
e tsking noises and shook his head. How nice to be perfect. He gestured to the two chairs facing the desk. The leather had aged and was cracked and split. I took the smoother of the two. My legs still hurt. Ben did not sit down.

  “So are you pleased you get the Guerra?” I asked, innocently I hoped.

  “This is a great addition to the museum.” Fischer smiled, but it had the effect of a death mask, or one of Mortimer’s angry paintings.

  I settled a little lower into the chair as if the cushions could protect me.

  “What do you know about the painting?” Ben dropped his hand on the back of my chair.

  “I don’t, my father knew something about it, and encouraged me to acquire it, if possible.” Fischer explained earnestly.

  “Your father was the expert.” Ben confirmed. His voice and tone was quite casual, as if he was discussing grout or tile, something related to his work. He seemed rather comfortable. More comfortable than me, I was having a difficult time keeping still. I wanted to squirm and wiggle until I found a comfortable position for my cuts bruises. I should have remained standing.

  “My father,” Fischer trailed off. Something fell in another room and it startled Fischer. “Excuse me.” He rushed out a side door, not the one that led to the hall.

  “What is that about?” I turned to Ben. There was something about Ben’s expression that made me stop. He wasn’t pleased and he wasn’t all that relaxed. His eyes were dark, and looked like he was carrying on an internal dialogue. I hoped it wasn’t about me. I like to think it’s always about me, but this time, I really did not want to be on the receiving end of that glower.

  “No! I will not!” A howl went up from the next room and suddenly the door blasted open. If it had been a Gilberto door, it would have cracked the plaster wall.

  Mr. Fischer, the elder, panted in the doorway. He was thin and stooped, much like I imagined Mortimer Smith looked (I had to imagine, I never saw Smith upright). Mr. Fischer was cut from the same cloth. He was wiry, thin, and looked very much like he had lived through some of the worst this country endured. Surviving a depression that segued into war after war either gave people strength, or it killed them. I have found that the experience of such history did not, in general, impart a raucous sense of humor. With the possible exception of my grandmother.

  I saw that lack in Mr. Fischer’s face. No humor. No laugh lines. Ben moved just slightly to placed his bulk between the old man and me.

  “I’m sure he’s harmless,” I whispered. I craned my neck to look around Ben.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Ben murmured back.

  “Father!” Fischer, the younger, barreled up behind his father and almost pushed the man further into the room instead of pulling him away, which I’m sure was his intent.

  “The damn Guerra! It was the death of me! I knew it would be the day I set eyes on the cursed thing!” He bellowed. “A million dollars! What the hell was that! Throwing in it our faces! And this one,” he jerked an arthritic finger in the direction of his hovering son. “Took it! The man ruined us and you still took the blood money!”

  “Dad, father.” Fischer hovered behind his parent doing little more than wringing his hands. “The museum needed the money, you know that. How much better to use Smith’s? Now his own children don’t get it. See? See how that works?”

  “You sold yourself to that lying cheating bastard! He was supposed to destroy it, that’s what we did to commie, subversive junk like that. And he pretended to be an expert! He escaped, and I took the blame! Me! And I would have done what was asked of me, like a good American. I would have destroyed the ugly thing, and now you bring it into the house!”

  The old man was almost foaming at the mouth. Spittle sprinkled the air before him, giving physical weight to his words and his anger.

  “Dad, your heart,” Fischer pleaded.

  “I don’t give a damn about my heart. I don’t have a heart, you ripped it out the day you took that money!”

  I drew back, Ben pushed his legs against the side of my chair and ever so gently pushed me and the chair inch by inch, a little further away from the scene.

  “Dad,” Fischer tried to reason with his father, but the old man wasn’t hearing his son at all, he was listening to the rant echoing inside his head. A vein in his temple began to throb blue against his thin pale skin.

  “But Dad, you went to Stanford, you got that degree, you were an expert.”

  “GI bill.” The man shot out. “I earned it.”

  “How you going to keep them down on the farm.” Ben murmured softly.

  “I worked for everything and Smith worked for nothing, deserved nothing! Nothing!” The old man staggered into the room. Fischer ducked around his father, hovering, fluttering, but not touching the man, as if he could herd his father into complacency. I suspect it worked in the past, but it wasn’t working now.

  “Fischer,” Ben started. “Is there anything?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Fischer insisted. “I have some pills from the doctor.”

  “No pills! You and that idiot doctor always trying to make me do things!” He roared. I was paralyzed by the effect of such anger from the man. Not that I couldn’t knock him down. I could, but just the energy emanating from him was enough to make me cringe. All those years of suppressed anger and frustration.

  “But he got shot! ” The old man announced with relish. “Shot by the pistol they gave me to shoot Germans. He deserved it!” The vein throbbed. His face was turning red. I’m not a doctor, but this cannot be good.

  “He deserved it!”

  “Dad,” Fischer was desperate now, he hovered around his father, trying to find the right way to fend him off, or move him away, or anything, something. But the man was immovable. Fischer finally made up his mind and lunged for his father, but Fischer the elder eluded his son. He stepped back, just out of reach, a small win. His eyes suddenly rolled back and he hit the floor with a muffled thud.

  An abrupt silence. “Oh!” was all Fischer could express.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Ambulance?” Ben pulled out his phone.

  “Yes, that’s what they use, or the fire department. Just ask for something.” I said absently. This was where I walked in, dead old guy on the floor.

  Fischer hunkered down and lifted his father’s thin hand.

  “He heard about the million dollars, asked me who donated it.” Fischer addressed his father, not us. “What was the harm in telling an old man? He didn’t know anyone. No one important at any rate.” Fischer amended bitterly. “Then he quizzed me about some of the new art we recently acquired and if Mortimer Smith was giving any art to the museum and I said no, just the million dollars, and he disappeared.”

  “Who disappeared?” Ben finished talking to the dispatcher and closed his phone.

  “My father. I didn’t notice it because I had a board meeting that day and at the time Dad could still drive pretty well. Right afterwards I took his license away.”

  “Drove where?” Ben asked.

  “I think he drove to Smith’s house. He said it was to get the painting back.”

  Ben and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing - and I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you kids.

  “You saw, you heard. He and Smith worked together with Rockefeller. The Guerra was too controversial and the board of directors ordered that it be destroyed. My father refused, and was fired, and subsequently drafted. Smith then offered to destroy it and was rewarded with a position out here in California, probably to get him out of the way. But he hadn’t destroyed it all.”

  Fischer moved his father’s hand to rest on his chest.

  “So when the money came in, he finally had Smith’s location. And, he was convinced, the painting’s location.”

  “But Smith didn’t tell him where it was after all.” I said.

  “When I came home that evening Dad was so agitated that I gave him some of my sleeping pills. It w
asn’t until the papers the next morning, the sudden death, that I thought of Dad.”

  “Where did he get a gun?”

  “He’s always had that gun. Use to take it out and show me. He talked about traitors and Germans even back then.”

  “Not very stable.” Ben commented.

  “My father? No.” Fischer conceded.

  “No, I mean yes, you father probably wasn’t all that stable, but neither are those old guns. You can actually pull the trigger and nothing happens, then five seconds later the gun goes off.”

  “Well, that is a little hard to predict,” I said.

  “Are you going to prosecute?” Fischer the younger stood, his eyes still fixed on his father’s inert form. He started twisting his fingers together again. The sound of a siren wailed in the distance. We all paused, but the sirens didn’t come any closer. False alarm.

  Ben shook his head. “We’ve done so much to get this capital campaign off the ground, a scandal, no matter how old, won’t help.” He paused and regarded the elderly man on the floor. “Won’t help anyone.”

  “Are you on this board?” I asked.

  “He’s a major donor.” Fischer added. Well, since we were all blurting out information, I was happy to hear something about Ben.

  “Really? Tell me more.” But I wasn’t that into it. An accident. I suppose the shooting was really an accident, and the poor man who did it was dead anyway. They were both dead. Hillary already had to deal with a brother in jail and a scandal in the family and three burgeoning teenage girls. She had enough to handle.

  So the dudes would be blamed. I felt badly about that. Even if I still had the bumps and bruises from their most recent administrations.

  “I don’t think that prosecuting would do much for anyone,” Ben finally said. “What do you think?” He turned to me.

  I studied him for a minute. He was working very hard to look guileless. If I went along with him, he’d owe me. That would work for me, this handsome man being somewhat in my debt, or realistically, not even in my debt, this would make me less in his debt.