A Comedy of Heirs Read online

  “Probably because we didn’t hear you upstairs,” I said.

  “Well, I went on up to say hello to your mother and then remembered that I forgot to shut your door,” he said.

  “Oh,” I answered. I finally walked over and gave him a hug, but I held my breath the whole time. Sometimes he forgot what soap was for. I remember one time when I was a kid I asked him why he never took a bath and he told me that water was for drinking, not sitting in. I didn’t argue with him at the time, because it seemed rather logical to a seven-year-old.

  “Ya miss me?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said. I started back up the steps and he followed close behind. His wife had died about ten years ago, so he usually came to these things alone. His five children were all grown with families of their own, and would attend at their own leisure.

  We reached the kitchen and I flipped off the basement light and shut the door.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” I said to my mother.

  “Yes, I know,” she answered.

  “Well,” Uncle Jed said, and let out a long sigh. He patted himself on the stomach and smacked his gums together, his pipe bobbing up and down as he did so. “Where’s the whiskey?”

  “We don’t have any,” I said. “We’re not big drinkers, Uncle Jed.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about drinkin’,” he said. “I’m a-meanin’ for medicinal purposes. Lordy, missy, every house gotta have medicine.”

  “And just what do you need medicine for?” I asked. “I’ve got Nyquil, that’s about as close to whiskey as you’re gonna get. It’s twenty-five percent alcohol.”

  He scratched his head and looked around the kitchen. He was probably trying to figure out just how much Nyquil he’d have to drink to get drunk. “Well. I got this pain a-goin’ in my foot. And bad eyes. Got real bad eyes—”

  “Whiskey isn’t going to cure bad eyes,” my mother said.

  “Oh, you just go on and stay outta this, Jalena,” Uncle Jedidiah said. “Well, you know, Torie. Hmmm, when’s your dad gonna get here?”

  He knew my dad would come armed with some sort of alcohol. I wasn’t ignorant of the ways my uncle thought in. Uncle Jed was the oldest of the group of seven kids. He’d just turned seventy-eight. And let me just say for the record that having an uncle that is seventy-eight is freaking me out completely. If he’s seventy-eight then I must be in my thirties. It’s like, you say you’re thirty-whatever, but you don’t really think you are in your thirties. Having an uncle this old has to mean I’m actually, no way out of it, in my thirties. Jeez. I hate family reunions. All the pregnant cousins always freak me out, too. There’s always at least five pregnant women at every reunion. That’s been the number for the last ten years.

  “Dad should be here tomorrow,” I said.

  “So, what? I’m early?” he asked.

  “Yup, you are the first one to arrive,” I said.

  “Well, that oughta mean that I get a free bottle of whiskey,” he said and smiled.

  “Give it up, Uncle Jed,” I said. “You want anything stronger than Nyquil you’re going to have to go down to the Corner Bar,” I said.

  “You mean I gotta pay for it?” he asked totally offended.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What’s the name of the corner bar?” he asked all slump-shouldered.

  “The Corner Bar,” I said. “That’s the name of it.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “What’s this?” Mom asked, pointing to the manila envelope that I had thrown on the table when I came in.

  “I’m not sure, I haven’t had a chance to look at it, but I think it’s some information on Rudy’s family tree,” I said.

  “There’s no return address,” my mother said.

  “I know, but the postmark is St. Louis. The only thing in St. Louis that I’ve sent off for is Rudy’s stuff. I’ll look at it later.

  “Well, Uncle Jed,” I went on, “I think I’m going to head in to town and go to Fräulein Krista’s Speisehaus. I can drop you off at the Corner Bar, or you can go to Fräulein’s with me.”

  “I’m not dressed for no fancy place. You better take me to the Corner Bar,” he said.

  My mother gave me her knowing smile. She handed me the manila envelope because she knew that’s what I was going to Fräulein’s to do. She knew I was wanting to grab a minute to myself and read whatever was in this envelope.

  “I should be home before the kids get in from school,” I said.

  “Okay,” she answered. “Make sure you bring Uncle Jed home, too.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. Uncle Jed hiked his pants up even farther, spit on his hands and plastered his hair down in place. He was going out in public after all.

  * * *

  Fräulein Krista’s Speisehaus is about my favorite place to eat in New Kassel. Especially because of its fattening goodies that I’m not supposed to have. I come here so that I can eat all the goodies I want without having to hide them on top of the refrigerator.

  Fräulein Krista’s is a big building that looks like it was magically picked up out of the Bavarian Alps and set down here in New Kassel. The interior is rugged with exposed beams. The waiters and waitresses look like adult Hansels and Gretels in their cute little knicker outfits, and the big stuffed brown bear that sits at the end of the bar only adds to the atmosphere. The bear, whom we affectionately named Sylvia, is a recent addition in the last six months. It’s sort of become the town’s mascot.

  I sat in a booth eating a pastry that I could not pronounce and drinking a cup of hot tea, relaxing before the influx of my father’s side of the family. I knew that I would not get one spare moment to myself once the week’s festivities got underway. And they would start arriving today.

  As my mother had known, I wanted to read the contents of that mysterious manila envelope. The package had no return address on it and the handwritten letter on the inside was not signed.

  The letter was short and to the point. Were you aware of this? was all it said.

  Inside were copies of newspaper articles. Newspaper articles from a hot August day in 1948 in Partut County.

  LOCAL MAN SHOT TO DEATH ON FRONT PORCH

  Nathaniel Ulysses Keith, 72, of Pine Branch, was shot to death on his front porch while his family was trapped inside the house. Authorities have no suspects at this time.

  What the heck? I looked around the restaurant, uncomfortable. Unless there was more than one Nathaniel Ulysses Keith who was seventy-two years old in 1948 and lived in Pine Branch, this article was about my great-grandfather. Pine Branch was a community with a church, later a gas station and about 102 residents. There was only one Nathaniel Ulysses Keith.

  I scanned the next article. If I had any doubt that this article was about my great-grandfather, this article squelched it. There was a photo of my great-grandparents’ front porch, with a bloodstain on it that ran down the steps and into the flower bed. I remembered this porch. My grandfather, John Robert Keith, inherited this house from his father when he died. This was the house that my father grew up in. He was eight when his parents moved in there.

  When I was a kid there was a big throw rug on the porch right where that bloodstain was. I used to sit on it and try to embroider, much to my grandmother’s amusement. I was not a very crafty child.

  The article gave my great-grandmother’s statement. They called her by her full name, Della Ruth. Not just Della or Mrs. Keith, but Della Ruth. Her statement said that they heard gunfire and that a few hours later somebody came by, knocked on her door and told her that her husband was on the front porch dead. She was unaware that the gunfire had been that close and that anybody was on her front porch.

  That totally undid the first article, which said the family was “trapped inside.” Strange, though, that the journalist did not mention that.

  Goosebumps traveled down my arms and back. How could this be? My great-grandpa Keith died in a hunting accident. Everybody knew that.

  I took a sip
of my tea and tried to remember how I knew that. I received Nathaniel Keith’s death certificate back in the eighties. The cause of death said gunshot wound. I remember that clearly because for a moment I was stunned. Who did I call? Who had I called the first time and asked how Great-Grandpa Keith died?

  Who had told me the lie?

  It wasn’t my father, although I do know that I discussed this “hunting accident” with more than one person in the family and with my father on occasion. I think it was Aunt Ruth that I called first and she had said, yes, he died of a gunshot wound during a hunting accident. I never questioned her story. Why would I? She was my aunt. I never expected her to lie to me. It never occurred to me that the man was murdered and that she’d need to lie to me. But why would she need to lie to me? Why the secrecy? Why hadn’t this information been part of our family folklore? Why had all my aunts and uncles, and my father included, gone along with her story?

  I couldn’t help but wonder, sitting there in my favorite restaurant, did Aunt Ruth actually lie to me or was this what she was told too? She would have been twenty-four years old when this happened. Was it possible that she didn’t know the truth?

  I drank the last of my tea and browsed through the other articles. The last one said that six months later the case was closed unsolved.

  This was not possible. Maybe somebody was playing a really ugly prank. I would, first chance, go and look at the original newspapers. There was always the chance that for whatever sick reason I couldn’t even dream of coming up with, somebody made these up to look real. That had to be what it was, even though any logical reason escaped me. I didn’t have enemies. Not like this anyway. Eleanore Murdoch liked to get the best of me whenever she could, but she wouldn’t stoop to something like this. The coincidence of the timing of this “present” did not escape me. My dad’s entire family would be here sometime this week.

  I scrounged around in my change purse for a couple of bucks in change and set it on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers.

  I sat there for a minute unable to move. If these articles were real, this was a betrayal unlike any I had ever known. To suddenly realize that I’d been lied to by the people I loved and trusted was too much to comprehend. Maybe they figured that it was none of my business, and who’s to say they aren’t correct, but to out and out lie to me when I asked how the man died?

  First I would find out if the articles were genuine and then I’d ask my father about it. Maybe I’d ask my mother what to do, since my father could get really riled up about things. I looked at my watch. Three-fifteen. Rachel and Mary would be home in about fifteen minutes. I got up and left Fräulein Krista’s with the manila envelope clutched to my breast.

  Three

  About thirty people wandered in and out of the rooms of my house. It was Monday, the official kick-off day, and the people who were here today would help me decorate our Christmas tree. Just as soon as Uncle Jed, my father and Uncle Melvin got back with the Christmas tree. Poor Rudy couldn’t go with them to chop down a tree because he was outside braving the cold, barbecuing.

  Rachel sat in a green velvet dress on the corner of the piano bench separating the red Christmas bulbs from the blue ones. She felt that this was important. She looked up at me and smiled automatically, changing the features on her serious face. When had she turned eight? I mean, I knew when her birthday was, but jeez, suddenly she was so grown up. Now she was the one pulling her hair back and putting it in the bows she wanted to wear and the style she wanted. It was the first of several things that I used to do for her that would continue to slip away from me.

  The doorbell rang and I set the lights down that I had been trying to untangle for half an hour and went to the door. Sheriff Colin Brooke towered in my doorway. I always had to refrain myself from calling him Bubba. He was a large man, early forties. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “You’re not related to me.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said. He doesn’t like me much. But that’s all right, I don’t like him much either. We tolerate each other for my mother’s sake. The reason for that is because we both love her. Of course in different ways, but it’s the love for her that keeps the sheriff and me from really tearing into each other. We’d called a truce about a year ago. I’d admitted that he wasn’t an ax murderer or anything like that. I guess one can call that a truce.

  “Are you going to ask me in?” he asked.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” I said.

  “Torie, you know I’m here to see your mother,” he said.

  “I know,” I said and let him in the house. “I just like to make you say it.”

  He took his hat off as soon as he entered the house. He was in official uniform today, which is a rarity. Even when he’s on duty sometimes, he’s in jeans and a T-shirt. He looked around the living room, amazed at all the people.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” I said, above Aunt Charlotte’s voice, who was telling the story about the outhouse again. It was a funny story but by the sixth time you’ve heard it, it’s not funny anymore. I led him to the kitchen, basically because I was thirsty and wanted something to drink.

  I walked in. “Mom, the sheriff’s here,” I said and went to the refrigerator. I kept my back to them and got out a can of Dr Pepper, trying not to look their way because they always gawked at each other the first ten minutes that they saw each other. Made me want to barf. Did I mention the sheriff is about ten years younger than my mother?

  I turned around just in time to see the sheriff kiss her lightly on the lips. “Oh yuk, you guys,” I said.

  “What?” my mother asked. “You and Rudy kiss all the time.”

  “I know that,” I said. “That’s different. You’re my mother.” Just when I thought I was okay with this relationship something like this would happen and I’d get irritated all over again. I think it was because I couldn’t get my way. I couldn’t convince her early on that the sheriff was a jerk. He arrested me once and she didn’t seem to give a darn. That irked me no end. God, was I really just stomping my foot and acting like a teenager?

  I thought of something else quickly, before my little voice had a chance to answer that question. “So,” I said. “You coming to the big dinner next Saturday?”

  “I don’t think so,” the sheriff said.

  “We’re renting out the KC hall,” I said.

  “Colin and I have tickets to go see the Nutcracker at the Fox,” Mom said.

  Sheriff Brooke seeing the Nutcracker? The only nutcracker he was familiar with was the one that sat in the bowl on his coffee table. “You mean you’re not going to be there either?” I asked my mother, incredulous.

  “We had the tickets long before we knew what day the big dinner was on,” she explained.

  “But, but you always come to the reunion dinners,” I said.

  Just then my younger daughter, Mary, came walking in with a stream of Christmas lights trailing behind her. She was a full-grown kindergartener now. Her little round face was serious, her eyebrows knit together. “They won’t turn on, Mommy,” she said.

  “Are they plugged in?” I asked.

  She nodded her head yes but answered, “No.”

  I sat down in the kitchen chair and took the strand from her. “Are they plugged in or aren’t they?” I asked, trying to shake off the irritation I had just felt with my mother.

  “They were. And they didn’t work,” she said. “Now they aren’t.”

  “Well, have Rachel plug them back in for you and you have to go down each light bulb and tighten them up. If there’s one loose, the whole strand goes out,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. She looked over to my mom and the sheriff. She waved. “Hi, Sheriff,” she said. He waved back and she left the room.

  I had forgotten where the conversation had been interrupted and took a second to remember. “Mom, you always come to the reunion dinner.”

  “You know,” she began. “It’s not my family. I’ve been divorced from that
family a long time. It won’t hurt me to miss one dinner.”

  “You are not divorced from the family. You are divorced from my father. His family has never considered you anything but family,” I explained. I didn’t have to explain. She knew this. “If anything they would get rid of my father and keep you.”

  “Victory,” she said in that tone. I hate that tone. I had my own tone that I used with my daughters and they probably hated it as much as I hated the one that my mother used with me. It was just the same as saying, Hang it up, you’ve lost the argument.

  “Well, that’s fine,” I said. “You don’t have to go. I just thought that you’d be there. Because you’re always there, but that’s okay that you won’t be.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t remember eating anything unusual today, but suddenly I felt a little queasy. I popped open the tab on my Dr Pepper and took a drink. I didn’t normally drink out of the can, but I wanted out of the kitchen and didn’t want to spend any more time getting a glass and ice. “I’m going to go outside and see if Rudy needs anything. Like a parka,” I said.

  As I went out the door I was nearly run over by my twin cousins. We called them the Doublemint twins because they were seven-year-old girls with perfect white teeth, perfect blond hair and enormous blue eyes. Their names were Kristen and Kimberly Brite. They were just too cute not to be made fun of.

  They ran around me in a flurry, giggling, then I was nearly knocked over by the three boy cousins who had been chasing them. Finally, I stood alone on my doorstep, my husband Rudy within a hundred feet of me. My sanctuary. My hero.

  “Hi,” I said and walked over quickly. “You need anything out here?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s brr cold, though.”

  “Yeah,” I said and looked up at the sky. “If only it would snow.”

  Rudy growled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re like the only grownup that actually wants it to snow,” he said.

  “Nuh uh, Wilma loves it when it snows. She’s a grown-up.”