Читать книгу Blind Shady Bend - Adina Sara - Страница 7

I CAN’T SAY HOW LONG I’d been sitting there, plopped in the middle of my front room floor and wedged between too many damned throw pillows, when I heard the knock. My tea had become cold, I know that much. My morning ritual, sipping a steaming cup of Lapsang Souchong, black smoky leaves brewed to death, gives me the kick I need to start my day. I like to take it over to the armchair where I get a decent view of the goings on around the neighborhood, meager as they are.

But I was tripped up that particular morning on my way to opening the front curtains. I think it must have happened when I leaned over to pick up a pillow, that maroon and gold one, made in India with glassy beads that were quite lovely until Amos discovered he could paw them loose and swat them around like shiny dead bees. What used to be iridescent flaps of shine were now a mangled bunch of loose hanging threads.

Mother always had this ridiculous penchant for throw pillows and I hated them back then, hated having to push them aside every time I sat down and then prop them back up in fluffed up groups of three, she insisted on three. How I came to replicate that frivolous decorating twitch I will never know.

I think what I did was set the mug down to pick the pillow up, and next thing I knew I was on the floor, legs splayed wide like a school kid, noticing all kinds of things you usually can’t see when upright. Dust balls beneath the sofa, that dark green hooked rug (another one of Mother’s specials), looking more like chartreuse with the field of yellow cat hairs covering it. I could see water stains beneath the flowerpots proving I did tend to them every once in a while. How did I ever end up with so many Goddamned African Violets?

At first I didn’t think it was a knock. Sounded more like the wind hitting the fuchsia limb against the side of the house. But no, there it was again, louder this time and I supposed I’d better hoist myself up.

“Coming,” I called, but I really had no desire to move. My age has been gaining on me lately, occasionally edging out in front. Next year this time I’ll be hitting 70. Now how the hell did that happen? It’s just a number, people say, at least the old ones do, but I just as soon not think about it. Anyhow, I kind of liked it down there on the floor. From that vantage point, I was able to notice a thin slip of morning light cross the room, landing first on a spider web suspended between the curtain rod and door frame, then moving down to spark the silver buttons of my slipper toes, finally catching the satiny blue edge of my tablecloth. I was having a fine time really, nowhere particular to go today and no great reason to raise myself up to standing.

Just then I became aware of Amos’s litter box, stationed at a particularly unfortunate angle, kitty-corner as it were, from my mid-floor position. Some brief movement of air must have carried its putrid aroma directly my way.

“Coming” I yelled again, grabbing the leg of the sofa for leverage, pulling myself to where I could gather the strength to stand. My sweater had slipped off somewhere during the mid-morning slump and a thin string of spittle had slid down the side of my mouth, moistening the inside of my ear. I don’t want to think about what I looked like.

It was the Fed Ex man, holding out a registered letter like it carried something contagious. With finger pointed, he instructed me to sign at the X. I pulled my sweater back over my housecoat but his eyes never left the envelope. I could have been wearing nothing for all he cared. I signed where indicated and before I could so much as say thank you, he was already back in his truck, gears grinding and off he went.

I moved slowly to the kitchen table. Who sends me registered letters? I didn’t even get much in the way of regular mail. Bills, catalogues, more bills, the church bulletin. I’ve asked them to take me off their list but it does no good. People don’t come by here much, other than the meter reader, Wilbur every other week to trim the hedges, and Haley across the street whenever she’s locked herself out. I keep her extra key, that’s all. And once in a while I pour her a cup of tea because when she locks herself out it usually means she’s been fighting with her husband and needs to talk. I don’t mind Haley’s chatter because she doesn’t go on too long, just needs to air a few sharp words about him, reminding me again that I was better off without one.

I kept fingering the envelope, felt its thickness, not wanting to open it. I decided that a letter of this nature called for Pa’s ivory handled letter opener, the one with foreign lettering on the side, Arabic or Chinese maybe. I didn’t keep many of his things but for some reason I couldn’t throw this one out. I vaguely remember that it was connected with one of his war stories. That and his ivory carved pipe, shaped like a skull with the lip broken off, were about all I had left of him, which was more than enough.

The envelope opened in one slick slice. A flurry of business cards spilled out first—a realty office, Department of County Records, an attorney. I had to pull on the thick document to get it free.

“In re the Estate of Raymond Edmond Blackwell. . . .” I read the title once, then again, and on the third time, my hands began to shake so hard I had to set the paper down to steady myself.

It was a simple, straightforward legal document. “Raymond Edmond Blackwell hereby bequeaths his entire estate to his only sister, Hannah Mavis Blackwell. Said estate consists of five acres of real property, Parcel 671386, located in an unincorporated area of Nevada County, State of California.”

I reread the pages, about five in all, lots of legal jargon I couldn’t make out, mainly because wet splotches from my eyes smudged all the words into nonsense. I read from top to bottom, the law firm title, the court, case number 02673B, I read Ray’s name and then read it again aloud because I hadn’t heard it spoken for so long, because for so long I had avoided the mere sound of it.

I turned back to page one again, read “In re the Estate of . . .” out loud, slower this time, thinking it might help slow down my heart a bit, breathing hard, I closed my eyes to try and picture him, with his crazy hair flopped over his eyes, my baby brother gone, this time for good.

The doors to Hanover Combs and Greer were heavy, and I wasn’t too eager to enter, so I waited outside the front door until someone on the inside pushed through, allowing me to scoot inside. I kept my hands clasped tightly on my handbag, but that didn’t stop the whiff of mothballs and spearmint from breaking loose. It was a stupid little accessory, designed to hold a lipstick and hankie and not much else. Picked it up for cheap at the church bazaar because someone told me they came in handy. Never needed it until now. I just toss my things into a zippered knapsack and go on my way. But the embossed stationery seemed to call for the navy blue suit and gold clasped handbag and I rose to the occasion. Why on earth I kept the navy blue suit I’ll never know. I bought it for Ned’s funeral and it still fits, believe it or not. That blue suit and a strand of pearls (not real pearls but pearls enough) and this silly handbag made me feel like someone who belonged in a fancy waiting room like Hanover Combs and Greer LLP. I even used the occasion to swipe on a streak of Radiant Rose, what was left in the tube, careful not to draw it over my lip like I see on so many old women who are too nearsighted to aim right.

Ernest Combs was close to my age, which calmed me somewhat, but not quite up to my height or girth. To think that silver embossed stationery and those snazzy waiting room chairs announced this sprite of a man. I tried not to chuckle, but it came out anyway, disguised as a weak rearrangement of throat phlegm. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Have a seat,” he offered, and so I did, on the far side of a greatly oversized desk that made the man appear even smaller.

“I trust you understand the terms of this document,” Mr. Combs began, wasting no time.

“Ray died.” It was a foolish obvious thing to say but it was all I could think of. “Do you know how it happened?”

“I was informed that he had been in a motorcycle accident on Highway 49. According to the report, he ran into a truck. The police traced him to our firm. I never met your brother but his file was in our office, along with your name as beneficiary. I am sorry to be the one to tell you. I assumed you were aware of the cause of your brother’s death.”

“Kleenex?” offered Mr. Combs, pushing a box of tissues toward me.

“I didn’t know” was all I could say, “I just didn’t know.”

Mr. Combs handed me his business card along with a thicket of papers decorated with yellow flags flapping “sign here, sign here.” He handed me a packet of business cards—realtors, appraisers, bank managers—all of whom I would need to contact “ASAP,” he instructed, like I was in some kind of trouble.

Maybe it was because I was still crying, or maybe the business part was over, but Mr. Combs’ voice had changed. He walked over to my chair and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“These affairs take some time to sort through,” he said, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him.

I reached around the chair for my coat but was incapable of finding the sleeve of my jacket, poking my arm wildly into the open air and missing the garment altogether. I took one last noisy blow into the tissue and was glad to let him help me out of the chair and escort me to the door.

Somehow I made it back to my car, clutching the proof of my brother’s death against my chest. I barely recall the drive home. As soon as I walked into my house, I started pulling out desk drawers, rifling through book shelves, looking for something, I couldn’t say what. I found papers I didn’t know I had, piles of old documents tucked deep inside the old metal file cabinet in the garage, stuff Pa told me to hold on to. Faded bank statements and wadded up wet Kleenexes slid off the table and Amos shredded them like we were having a party. I felt a burning in my chest, brewed myself some chamomile but it didn’t help a bit. Shock, I think is what people call it.

Maybe I ought to just go see the place. Take a look around this unincorporated area of Nevada County, wherever that is, a ways past Lake Wildwood, where we used to go on vacations, not so far. All these years, I figured Ray for India or some south sea island or dead, long past dead, not living just up the highway. Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he just call?

Those questions fell heavy and thick and required another long loud sip of chamomile. Don’t think about him, I kept saying to myself. You just came into a piece of land. Think about that.

A few of the business cards the lawyer gave me had landed among the papers on the floor. A bright yellow one with thick black lettering lay just scant inches from Amos’s paw. I wiped away a clump of wet kibble that covered the name. Lucky Lundale Realty — I can make your dreams come true. Fat chance of that. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a decent dream.