The keepers, p.4
The Keepers, page 4
“You should call that attorney so they can get the letter to the right person, Stan.”
Stan slammed his palm down on the tan Formica and the fork in Jessie’s hand jerked, flipping a bit of browned hamburger onto the stove.
“Boy, if that isn’t like you, Jess. How do you know it couldn’t be us? Give me a break, will you?”
“I really am sorry, Stan. I’ll call the attorney from work tomorrow if you want me to.”
“No, I don’t want you to. I can do a few things for myself. I’m out of work, not bedridden!”
“I thought it might... help,” Jessie finished lamely. She had accidentally, again stepped on Stan’s tender pride.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said. “If somebody made a mistake it’s their own damn fault. Probably nothing but a sack full of rocks or old campaign buttons anyway.”
Jessie froze, the envelope of Hamburger Helper seasoning poised above the skillet. “Stan, what are you thinking of doing?”
“Exactly what you think I am.”
“It won’t work, they’ll find out. What if someone comes along several years from now and wants it back? Knowing us, we will have spent it. Stan, we’re in no position to take chances.”
The argument went on from there. Jessie tried everything to convince Stan that he was asking for trouble. Her reasoning only produced a red-faced rage in Stan.
Dinner was eaten in thunderous silence. Denise wasn’t home yet adding more friction to the overcharged atmosphere, but Stan didn’t seem to notice. He was too obsessed with the idea of a fortune, his for the taking. Jessie despised the role she was playing, the spoiler, the one pointing out the safe, sensible course. Stan made it sound stupid to do the right thing, and worse, that she was an anchor dragging him back. This was more maddening than the fighting over what to do about the letter.
Andy hadn’t said a single word since coming in to wash for dinner. Stan thought he was fooling Andy by not arguing at the table, but he was wrong. The wires that held Andy together picked up the slightest vibration, and as he ate, he was quivering like a plucked bowstring. Jessie smiled at him trying to ease the strain.
“You want some more milk?”
Andy shook his head.
The evening was a mushy quagmire of mismatched feelings and discord hung in the air like blue smoke. When Denise finally came home, Jessie’s halfhearted effort at scolding her put the finishing touch on a lousy night. Denise tried acting repentant, but her Lynx-eyed look said she knew something else was going on. Jessie didn’t offer to satisfy Denise’s curiosity. Let Stan tell her. It was his party; his name was on the letter not hers. Jessie left her family watching Television and went to the bathroom to take a shower.
If she had gotten the letter, she would have called the attorney and the whole thing would be over by now. She wasn’t being noble or righteous, and it was rotten of Stan to call her ‘Miss Goody Two-shoes’. No, it wasn’t that at all! It was fear, plain old boot-shaking fear that made Jessie stick to the straight and narrow. Only trouble came from shady dealings. Now Stan was going to follow up on the letter. The set of his jaw and the hard shine of his eyes proved it. Now, according to the Jessie Nolan clear-cut pattern for life, trouble would come as fast as cats had kittens.
Jessie was extremely cautious and her view of the world was a little off-center. It was a type of double vision. She saw danger where others saw nothing except bright daylight. Jessie tried to keep this to herself. No one wanted to hear about the dark, evil shadows hanging at the edge of life. Who could blame them? Jessie shuddered. What she saw hovering at the rim of her vision made her look away, too. Yet, no matter how she tried to avoid it, Jessie sometimes saw things in certain people’s eyes.
Most people seemed blissfully ignorant. Not bad people, they were only unaware, like rabbits munching clover while the fox circled the meadow. Occasionally Jessie saw true innocence. Those people seemed to be under some special protection; as if the light they lived in was too pure to take the stain of the world. However, the others—they were the ones to watch.
The first time Jessie had looked into such eyes had been at a high school assembly. The speaker was a state representative. After he finished speaking a group of boys and girls crowded the side door of the gym to shake his hand or get an autograph. Jessie was among them. When it came her turn she held out a ballpoint pen and a page from her notebook and looked up to smile at the man. The instant their eyes met a bolt of fear shot straight through her. Her mouth went dry and she couldn’t speak. The others began to crowd in and she let them move her aside. Later, she couldn’t even remember what the man spoke about; what lingered was his dark brown eyes and their amused look as he acknowledged being recognized. Jessie had shivered like a rabbit that had seen the fox and could never again know complete safety.
Life had dark threatening corners that were best to leave unexplored. In part, Jessie blamed her Aunt Mae for the dreadful oppression that kept her on guard and ever watchful. One of Aunt Mae’s favorite stories had been of the three days after the accident that killed Jessie’s parents. Aunt Mae loved to tell of those days in which Jessie lay pale and unconscious. “Never thought you’d pull through that. Why, no telling what it did to your brain. Getting bruised and slammed around that way! No wonder you’re such a jumpy little thing.” Aunt Mae was probably right, perhaps Jessie’s mind suffered damage, but constantly reminding her of it didn't help. If by some strange twist a dormant trait became active, it was surely best to ignore it. In the years before Andy was born, Jessie had almost convinced herself that there was nothing wrong, that she was perfectly normal.
Then, on the way home from the hospital as she held Andy, wrapped in his blue flannel receiving blanket, an icy chill pressed in around her and the new baby. She hugged Andy closer and smiled with numb lips as if nothing were happening. Stan was cheerful and Denise bounced and chattered away in the back seat, neither of them noticed a thing. Andy stiffened and pinched his face into a red crumple as if he was going to cry, but he didn’t. Then his gray-blue infant eyes flew wide open, in total surprise, registering far more expression than should be in any baby’s eyes. In a second, the episode had passed and Andy was again soft and cuddly in her arms.
It was as if the two of them had passed through an invisible force field, the current electrifying, and shocking. The sensation was familiar to Jessie, but had the baby really felt it, too? Maybe Andy had only suffered a sudden stomach cramp. Jessie prayed that was it and tried to put the moment behind her.
In the months that followed, at times when she and Andy were alone, the baby looked at her with such understanding that the communication was more distinct than words. It became clear that Andy was different, too. At first, this discovery brought Jessie worry-filled days and restless nights. By that time, Jessie knew Stan well enough to keep her fears to herself. Stan never believed in anything that he couldn’t see or touch.
Then as Andy grew older a surprising thing happened; Jessie found comfort in him. Having someone, even a small boy, share her strange anxiety made it easier to bear. Andy seemed to accept it with calm confidence; but he was careful, too. They were like asthma suffers living with a threat and always prepared to ward off an attack.
When Jessie came out of the bathroom the sound of the Television drifted through the trailer bringing the voices of villains plotting evil plans. Jessie shrugged and put on a short pink robe. Sure wicked deeds made good stories, but try living with it in real life! Then as that thought slipped through her mind Jessie gasp. For all her caution, had her commitment to Stan left the gate wide open? A rueful smile played across her lips and she nodded at herself in the bedroom mirror. Of course it had. She loved Stan and her vow to remain at his side made it impossible to control the direction of her own life. When Stan took off on some dangerous path she could either go along kicking and screaming and make life miserable, or go with love and cheerfulness and try to protect him if trouble came.
The choice wasn’t hard to make.
Jessie left the bedroom and squeezed in on the couch between Stan and Andy. She snuggled close to Stan.
“Are the guys in the white hats winning?”
Stan looked surprised, but pleased. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Sure are, partner.” He gave her a dazzling smile.
At the table, Denise looked up from her homework.
“I wish, for once, they wouldn’t. It might make things a little more interesting!”
Chapter Five
Mr. Withers’s delicate fingers fondled the edges of the dark maroon folder on the bare desktop.
“Are you sure you won’t have some coffee, Mr. Nolan? Or perhaps something stronger, you seem a bit uneasy.”
The light from the window, which so radiantly illuminated Mr. Withers, glared unmercifully into Stan’s eyes. He kept them lowered as much as possible, and tried to keep from squinting.
“No, I’m fine.” Stan struggled to make it sound true.
“Well, then. I suppose we should get right down to business. I can understand if you are slightly uncomfortable, settling the affairs of our deceased loved ones is never pleasant.” Mr. Withers spoke with the consoling tone of a funeral director.
Instantly Stan’s tension ratcheted up a notch. ‘Settle the affairs of the deceased?’ Maybe they expected him to pay the freight on shipping dear old Farley to the great beyond. Stan hadn’t considered this possibility and Jessie’s dire predictions nibbled at his ears. Still, he’d come this far, only a coward would turn back now, besides the inheritance might be enough to cover expenses and still have some left. If not, there was a way out; he'd say there was a mistake. Pritchard was no kin of his. Stan leaned sideways in the chair trying to escape the brightness.
“When did Farley, ah, pass on? To tell the truth this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Nolan. You see, we had a difficult time locating you, it took several months.”
“Did you know him?”
“Oh, dear me no,” A deep chuckle came from the shadowed mouth. “All I know is here in this folder. Mr. Pritchard’s attorney in Missouri drew up the will. When he found you were in Florida, he engaged our services as a matter of expedience. As you probably know, you are the last of Mr. Pritchard’s family. Sad isn’t it? The poor man went to a lot of trouble to exclude other possible heirs and then they were gone before him. Were you close to your uncle, Mr. Nolan?”
“Not really, you could say I hardly knew him.”
“Not surprising, not surprising at all. From what I gather, the family wasn’t close. If you’ll forgive me, the old man seemed a bit eccentric. Yet when it comes to the end a man always wants to pass his possessions on to someone, don’t you agree?”
“Out of curiosity, Mr. Withers, how did you know I was the right one? I’m sure there must be other Stanley Andrew Nolans around.”
“It was a very extensive search, Mr. Nolan. We handle matters such as these with the utmost care. I dare say the investigators know more about you than, well say, your own wife.”
Stanley’s open-necked shirt suddenly grew tight as if he was wearing a tie and the knot was pressing into the base of his throat. If they had done such a bang-up job of investigating, how did they come to settle on him? Maybe Farley Pritchard didn’t have any living relatives, but Stan certainly did. The bits of information clicked like the card on a wheel of fortune, flicking past each number giving no indication of his chance of coming up a winner. He would have to watch every word, say nothing incriminating and yet find out what there was to gain. Dampness seeped from his every pore, turning Stan’s shirt to a wet, clinging body poultice.
Mr. Withers opened the folder revealing legal sized pages with thin blue borders. If only the miniature Clarence Darrow would shove them across the desk for a minute, so Stan could read them. Then he'd know whether to stay and bluff it out, or get up and run. This, at that instant, seemed like a good idea. Mr. Withers looked down through his crystal glasses and read for a moment. Then he briskly took a gold pen from the inside pocket of his tan three pieced suit and, selecting one of the pages from the folder placed it, along with the pen, before Stan.
“Now, Mr. Nolan, if you will sign, there at the bottom above your name, we’ll proceed.”
Stan was not familiar with legal proceedings, but sure as shit he didn’t go around signing things he hadn’t read. Moreover, he’d had enough of sitting there half-blinded by the glare from the window, and filling his socks with nervous sweat. Stan stood, jerked the heavy chair a few inches off the deep green carpet, and moved it to the side of the desk. A feather-light smile touched Mr. Withers’s lips and then flitted away. Stan sat down and reached for the page.
“The light was in my eyes, I’ll need to read this first.”
Mr. Withers nodded slightly.
Stan took a deep breath and began. Then he looked up in disbelief. “Surely you don’t expect me to sign this. It doesn’t say anything!”
“Oh, but you are wrong, Mr. Nolan.” The small man made a steeple with his index fingers. “It says you are willing to receive the estate left by Mr. Pritchard and not sell, trade, or exchange it for a full year. Also that you will abide by the other terms to be disclosed later.”
“That’s what I mean. I’m not signing for anything until I know what it is.”
Mr. Withers sighed as if he had sprung a slow leak and his face crumpled. “Well, if you don’t feel you can comply with this request then, I’m afraid, our transaction is concluded.”
“Now hold on, Mr. Withers. This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous or not those are the terms. I’m simply carrying out instructions. Now if you’d like a minute to think it over...”
Stan licked his dry lips. The edges of the page grew limp and soggy between his fingers. The solemn grandfather clock in the corner tick-away, marking the minutes. Stan reread the few lines trying to wring hidden meaning out of every word. Was it wise to accept whatever the old duffer left? It could be a mountain of unpaid bills, but no—when settling estates they paid debts first, didn't they? That should include attorney fees, taxes, the works, and if he had to keep it for a year, it must be something of value. Wasn’t there an old Television show like this? Sure, it was about a millionaire going around giving away money. Reality faded stranding Stan in a void where intelligent decisions were impossible to make; the only things left were instinct and emotion. This left Stan hanging on the cross of fear and greed.
“Well, Mr. Nolan?”
“Yeah, wait a second.”
Stan lowered his head and touched his icy fingers to his damp forehead, in that minute he didn’t feel smart. If this chance got away, it could be the dumbest move of his life. In a sudden decision, Stan thrust out his chin and reached for the slender gold pen. Then, with the pen poised half an inch above the line, Stan hesitated. He looked up at Mr. Withers; the small man’s sparkling eyeglasses reflected Stan’s own face.
“I might be a fraud, you know. What if I don’t live up to this agreement? What then?”
Mr. Withers leaned back, a little sun-capped pyramid framed by the window. In the distance behind him, the sea and eternal sky remained calm and brilliant blue.
“Believe me, Mr. Nolan, things would not have progressed this far were you not the right man. You will want to keep the terms of your uncle’s will, I assure you. I know it seems unconventional, but after you sign I’ll be at liberty to explain.”
While he spoke, Stan scrawled his signature across the line and slid the page back toward him. Mr. Withers’s assurance was unnecessary.
“Okay, what now?”
Mr. Withers barely glanced at the page. He gathered it up and tucked it into the back of the folder.
“As I said, your uncle must have been a rather strange man. I don’t know why he wanted your signature first, perhaps it was some sort of test for courage or daring that he insisted his heir possess; however, you must keep your agreement or the estate goes to charity.
“At his request Mr. Pritchard was cremated and his ashes scattered in the Black Moss River which, I believe, flows past the resort camp he has left to you. It seems he was fond of the area. A real Ozark mountain man, you might say.”
“A resort camp... you mean like a lodge, hunting, fishing, that kind of place?”
“Something on that order. I have an inventory of buildings, equipment, and so forth. You can take it with you and check it out when you get there. Another condition to your keeping the property is that you and your family must live there and operate the camp for one year. I suppose he wanted you to give the place a fair chance before deciding to sell it. You never know, Mr. Nolan, you may have also inherited your Uncle’s love of the wilderness.
“I understand he operated the place for forty years. I must say he left a very tidy package. The resort itself is in good order; ready for the coming season, and there is operating capital of twenty thousand. The account is in your name at the Camdenton Bank. By the time you get there, we will have recorded the deed giving you full ownership. The only thing you must do is take possession by the first of April.”
Is that a condition of the will?”
“It is.”
“Are there any others stuck away in that folder?”
“No, that seems to be all. Now, I’ll trouble you for one more signature.” Mr. Withers pulled open a side drawer and took out a large brown envelope. “In here is the inventory I mentioned, names of some trades people you’ll need to do business with, and a large assortment of keys. The keys have labels’. I know you’ll appreciate that!”
Mr. Withers chuckled and shook the envelope. The keys rattled with a jumble of sharp and dull metallic clicks.
“Please sign right here to show you have received them.”
Stan leaned over the desk and again scribbled his name. It almost seemed that he was Farley Pritchard’s nephew. Sounded as if Farley had hated his relatives, maybe he pulled a name out of a hat and said it was his nephew. And if a nephew named S. A. Nolan did exist, he didn’t care a hoot in hell for the old man or he would have known Farley was dead.
