“You hurting?” Louisa asked.
Flick turned his hands over, staring at them front and back, gloomily. “It is what it is,” he said.
At the moment there was no wedding band on Flick’s left hand. He was in one of his unmarried phases—that’s how Louisa thought of it, like a passing phase of the moon. An unattached Flick was rare. Flick usually had some woman or other hanging around his neck, claiming him. He declared he could take a hint, that two spectacularly failed marriages had proven he wasn’t cut out to be anybody’s husband. “I’m done with love,” he vowed. His first wife, Trixie, was the one who turned out to be hooked on heavy drugs and his second wife, the Georgia Peach, whom none of the gang had ever met, had taken him for every nickel when she threw him out. No children either time.
It was a shame because Flick would have been a natural at the whole family thing. He would have been the kind of dad who played catch till after dark, taking his kids on camping trips, swimming with them, teaching them how to build and fix things. Louisa and Art, they’d never wanted kids. They had agreed on that way back when. Too much worry, not to mention the expense—look what her sister Michelle and Joe went through, agonizing over Sierra and her health problems. But Louisa was willing to bet Flick had always wanted a family of his own. Chances were wife number three would be some fertile blonde young enough to deliver. But even Flick was running out of time. He’d better get married again, soon. Or resign himself to living alone. He didn’t seem to mind that. Louisa suspected that was one of the main things she and Flick had in common. Seemed like neither one of them was really cut out for full-time living with another human being.
As if he’d read her mind, Flick asked, “What did Art say about your mom’s will?”
Louisa shook her head. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“Oh man.” Flick rubbed the scarred side of his face hard and then winced. He could never remember that he’d been in that fire. Whereas it seemed like she, Louisa, could never forget it. “Your boy Artie just loves surprises.”
“Yeah he does,” said Louisa. They both snickered.
Then she shook her head again, sobering. Art took these things hard. He had no resilience these days. He had always adored his mother-in-law. He’d called her Mom; he thought she was flawless. His own mother had died when he was still a senior in high school. Art would feel betrayed by this latest revelation. Betrayed and maybe even scandalized. He wouldn’t find anything funny about any of this. Not one single thing. “Jesus H.,” she said, thinking about it.
“Look on the bright side,” said Flick. “Now at least you have a brother.”
“Oh please,” Louisa said, rolling her eyes.
“Hey,” he said. “Brothers can come in handy. I have two . . . I speak from experience.”
“One sibling is plenty for me,” said Louisa. “And this guy’s not family. He’s just getting something for nothing. We’re not all going to start spending Thanksgiving and Christmas together.”
“How do you know that?” said Flick.
Louisa cut him a sharp look, but Flick could stand up to it.
“Lou, you can’t know for sure. Don’t assume the worst. You haven’t even met the man yet, have you?”
“No,” said Louisa. “He lives in England. Someplace I’ve never even heard of. He’ll probably fly over, pick up my mother’s stuff, sell it, and then head straight home. We’ll never see him again.”
“But you don’t know that,” said Flick. “Maybe he’ll turn out to be a great guy. Someone you’re glad to know.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making an educated guess,” snarled Louisa. “He didn’t bother to fly in for the funeral, did he?” Now that she thought about it, she felt aggrieved. He could at least have shown up at his own mother’s funeral.
“Hmm.” She watched Flick take this in. He stayed quiet a few minutes, his now greenish-blue eyes bright, mulling things over. “You said he only inherited what’s inside of the house, right? Probably nothing much of value there.”
“Probably not,” Louisa agreed. The thought made her feel a little better. “It’s full of old junk.”
“Old stuff your mom inherited from your aunt Gritta, right?”
“Right.” Her aunt Gritta was ten years older than Louisa’s mother. She was the kind of woman who looked like she must have been born old. Old and angry. When her husband had died of a stroke, Gritta seemed to withdraw from the world completely. She lived on for another two decades but she never had another dinner party, never went on another vacation. In fact she seldom left her house. People might have said she’d died of a broken heart, but Louisa wasn’t sure her aunt Gritta even had a heart. She was one tough old bird. She wasn’t affectionate with any of them—not with her younger sister Alma, not with either of Alma’s girls. She was always making them wash their hands before they touched any of her expensive, creepy things. She’d been a collector of weird antique items—dead-eyed dolls, lead glass candlesticks, Japanese inkwells, commemorative plates, Civil War bullets—basically she was a high-class hoarder.
“I’ll bet most of Gritta’s stuff is gone by now,” said Louisa. “I don’t know what all my mother kept. There were a few Hummel figurines down in the china cabinet.”
“Those Hummels can be worth something.”
“Michelle and I get first pick, at least,” Louisa said, cheering up. “The will says we can keep any three items we want.”
“There you go,” said Flick. “Take the stove, the fridge, and—there wasn’t a Porsche parked inside your mom’s house, was there?”
“I wish.” Louisa added defiantly, “But I’ll tell you what. I will choose the three most expensive things.”
She knew her sister Michelle would never talk or even think like that. Michelle would select something for purely sentimental reasons, like some old worn-out thimble her mother had used. But Michelle was married to a successful Jewish lawyer. She lived in a fancy house on the ritzy end of the West Side. Michelle worked part-time and puttered around the enormous house, with all her little hobbies and her yoga and her art. She could afford to be eccentric. Louisa blinked away angry tears. “It’s not even that,” she said. “This is not just about the money.”
“I bet you wish you’d had more time,” said Flick. He picked up Louisa’s hand and held it between his two palms. There was something brotherly and natural in the gesture. The backs of both his hands were scarred and puckered so badly it looked like he was wearing gloves. “I’m so sorry, Lou,” he said in his raspy voice. “Sorry it happened like this. It’s a shit show.” He bent over her hand like he was going to kiss it. But he didn’t.
Then he added, “Look at me, just spreading the sunshine.”
Grief welled up in Louisa like a tidal wave. Grief, and the strangeness of being comforted. It felt like she was drowning. She could hardly bear this much emotion stirred up together. Her beautiful mother gone forever, out of reach, with all her secrets still intact—and Louisa could not call her back now and ask any questions.
All this time her mom had been lying to all of them. Her gentle, wonderful mom with the childlike bright-blue eyes. Her honest face. Louisa remembered that moment in the kitchen when her mother had started to say—what would it have been, anyway? There was no door to the other side you could fling open and call through. Why hadn’t she let her mother speak?
Hey, Ma! What did you want to tell us? A tear dropped onto the back of one Flick’s rough hands. Still he didn’t draw away from her. He wouldn’t.
Louisa would have to be the one to let go, and so she did, pulling her hand away and standing up. “I don’t even know who we just buried,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Art Wandowski was far more angry than upset at the revelation in his mother-in-law’s will, as it turned out. He clamped his lips together so his chin seemed to disappear completely into his neck, like a turtle’s, and then he locked himself inside his narrow paneled den for the night. He didn’t take disappointment well. He w
as shocked by the news, yes, but even more than that, he felt cheated. Art and Louisa had been counting on a certain amount for their inheritance. There wasn’t anything greedy about those calculations; they were both practical people. Now, with the annuity and everything inside the old house going to someone else, that sum had been reduced. And it was going to an absolute stranger, which made things that much worse.
But the next morning Art emerged from his little den triumphant. His potbelly preceded him. Louisa watched him walk toward her, his feet splayed, holding a sheet of paper. He didn’t used to be so out of shape. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked out, or even attempted to do anything remotely athletic. But he’d been busy all that night, anyway, working out a plan of action. Art wasn’t lazy. He’d printed up a list of all the possible legal moves they could make to protect themselves. They could contest the will outright, or hire a legal mediator. They could raise the question of whether Mrs. Johansson had been under mental duress or even in the early stages of dementia when she crafted the terms of that will. Art always came through big time for things like this. If he hadn’t stayed on, year after dull, grinding year at Sloane’s Manufacturing, he would have been every bit as successful as Michelle’s husband Joe; maybe he would even have gone into law.
But Art had an exaggerated sense of loyalty; he’d never abandon that job at Sloane’s. “They’ll have to carry me out feet first,” he used to joke—Sloane’s was the first place that had hired Art; down in the steamy boiler room when he first started out, then into Building 7 where the big press machines were kept; a hard-working teenager with little or no prospects, and careless parents who didn’t believe in higher education.
Louisa drove Art’s carefully crafted printed list over to Michelle’s house to discuss their options. The white sheet of paper rode next to her on the seat like another passenger. Michelle lived in the poshest part of the West Side, on Lenox Street, smack in the middle of the large houses and sloping front lawns. Joe and Michelle had recently updated their enormous kitchen and two downstairs bathrooms, and added on an extra wing to serve as a rec room for Sierra—as if the sulky teenager didn’t already have two or three of everything.
Michelle’s house on Lenox was big, white, and sprawling, like something out of a movie set, with green shutters on the windows and green porch swings placed strategically along the cavernous front porch. The neighborhood wasn’t as single toned as it had once been, but it was still full of Jews, the way the North Side, where they’d all grown up, remained full of Worcester Swedes.
Louisa presented Art’s handiwork to her sister with a certain natural degree of pride. She wished Joe had been there, too, to study and admire Art’s list of ideas, but it was Saturday morning and Joe was off at his temple somewhere. His whole family was religious.
Art had outlined all the legal arguments in detail, going through each bullet point systematically. He’d have made an excellent lawyer, Louisa thought. But Michelle just stared at the piece of paper blankly. It hung down from her hand, almost touching the tabletop.
“Art thinks we can definitely fight this,” Louisa explained. “We can contest the terms of the will. Maybe Joe’s law firm could represent us.” Louisa didn’t say that Joe should do the legal work pro bono, but she hoped it was understood. Joe always handled family legal problems for free. Even for distant cousins and nieces and nephews. And why shouldn’t he? He made plenty. “I think we have a good case,” added Louisa.
“But why would we fight this?” asked Michelle.
“So a stranger doesn’t take what’s ours.” Louisa pointed at the piece of paper, as if the logic of it was embedded right into the object itself. Plain as the nose on your face, her father used to say. Michelle could picture Louisa adding that phrase next.
“But it isn’t rightfully ours,” protested Michelle. “Mom set things up this way on purpose. She reviewed the will with Mr. Enright three separate times. Remember how they told us that?”
“But how many times didn’t she review the will?” Louisa asked triumphantly.
“Huh?” said Michelle.
“Maybe she meant to change it, but she just never got around to it. You know how forgetful Mom was. Look,” said Louisa. “Why should some random guy walk off with our things? Someone we’ve never even met?”
“He’s not some random guy, Louisa,” said Michelle. “He’s our half brother. He was Mom’s firstborn child.”
“He was an accident,” said Louisa. “Obviously.”
“Okay, maybe. Even so,” argued Michelle. “Mom wanted things handled a certain way and she left clear instructions. We should respect her wishes. She’s been more than generous to us, Lou. That’s what I think,” added Michelle in a quieter voice. She had been deferring to her big sister all her life. It felt strange to be arguing against her. “Besides, the household stuff on Ararat can’t amount to much. What did Mom have, really? Beat-up furniture—she’d never let me buy her anything new. A collection of old movies, some out-of-date clothes and a few figurines.”
“Flick says the Hummels could be worth some money,” insisted Louisa. “That’s not even the point. Doesn’t any of this bother you? The fact that Mom had a whole secret life she kept from us? That we suddenly have to deal with this—this intruder, none of us even knew anything about?”
Michelle kept staring at her blankly, as if Louisa were the real stranger, not this brother who had fallen on them out of the blue.
Louisa glared back. “Doesn’t it even bother you that you both have the same first name? Did you notice his name is Michael? Michael, Michelle. Get it?”
Michelle and Michael, yes she got it. That had definitely captured Michelle’s attention right off the bat. It made her feel like she had a secret twin, a shadow-self she’d never known. But it seemed more interesting than troubling. Besides. “He actually goes by the name Tom,” said Michelle.
“How would you know that?” demanded Louisa.
Michelle didn’t answer right away. With Louisa, she always felt like she was walking on eggshells. She sat in her kitchen chair and smoothed Art’s list in front of her with the palm of her hand, trying to buy some time.
Art had numbered all of his arguments, and had added letters for subarguments—1a) 1b) and so on. It occurred to Michelle that she had never particularly liked her brother-in-law, though she’d known Art practically all her life. It made her feel mean spirited. Somehow she never felt like she really got to know him any better over the years, either, nothing beyond a bland exterior. They’d never had a single real conversation about anything important . . . She traced figure eights around and around her kitchen table. The double loop figure was the sign for infinity. Michelle glanced at the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, willing it to ring. Her husband Joe would know what to say. Joe always knew what to say to people.
“Michelle?” insisted Louisa, her voice ominous. “How do you know about his name?”
Michelle had always been intimidated by her big sister. She didn’t know why. She felt so much less vivid than her sister. Louisa had never been cruel to her, never bullied her—never shoved her downstairs like some siblings she knew about, never hit her or pushed her around at all, at least not physically.
“I called him,” confessed Michelle. She’d needed an operator’s help putting the overseas call through. There were so many extra numbers to dial! How long had it been since she’d actually spoken to a real live operator? Everything about this new brother was strange and new and a little bit thrilling.
Her sister scowled. “How did you even find him?” demanded Louisa. “Why didn’t you tell me before? What the hell did he say?”
“Eddie Enright gave me the number. We didn’t talk long.”
“Did he sound like a crook?” said Louisa.
“I don’t know what a crook sounds like,” said Michelle. “He just sounded—you know, English.”
“Oh he did, huh? What’s that supposed to mean? It’s easy to fake a British accent, you
know. ’Ey there, mate. ’Ow’s it going?” Louisa demonstrated.
“Why would he fake a British accent when he lives right there in England?” asked Michelle. “He sounded—I don’t know. Normal. Distant.”
“Distant, like he lives in a cave somewhere? Or distant, like an asshole who doesn’t care that our mother just died.”
“He sounded—fine, Louisa. A little formal. He sent those,” Michelle said, waving a hand toward an immense vase of flowers. Louisa had somehow overlooked them, though now that Michelle pointed them out, they seemed like the single brightest and most remarkable thing in the room, towering over every other object. They looked expensive, Louisa noticed. And they also looked British, or what Louisa had always imagined might grow in a British cottage garden, with tall pink and white lupines and red roses and peonies. But in fact she, Louisa, was the real flower lover, just as her mother had been. It wasn’t fair. She was the one who slaved away in the gardens all summer till dusk fell and it grew too dark to see.
“You can have them,” Michelle added, as if reading Louisa’s mind. “He said the flowers were for the whole family.”
“You called him. So you guys are pals now. You two are buddies.”
“I spoke to him once, Louisa. Briefly.”
“Oh, this is bad,” said Louisa, shaking her head, speaking mostly to herself. “This is seriously bad. This is really, really bad.”
Sometimes Louisa reminded Michelle of their cranky old aunt Gritta, the collector. Holed up in that house alone with all her things. When Aunt Gritta didn’t like something—which was all the time—she’d say it was bad. When she really didn’t like something—which was still most of the time—it was bad, bad, bad. Sometimes an offense even got four bads in a row. Like now.
“I can’t believe you talked to that man behind my back. This is so, so bad.”
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