The Red Strokes - Chapter 4

Chapter 4 from my latest release, 'The Red Strokes', available on Amazon

CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

The modest office smells of books. Old books. And even older cigarette smoke. I want to excuse myself to fresher air while my sisters wait for our father’s attorney to join us, but I’m afraid that if I do I won’t return. I’m certain that Val is thinking the same thing as I catch her mouth the words ‘kill me now’ into the stale air.

My eyes trace a pattern beginning with the imitation wood-grain paneling, across the built-in bookcases, and over the mahogany furniture. The monotony of browns in the over-stuffed office only serves to add to my discomfort and I feel myself slouch a bit in my chair.

“I wanted to make this appointment later, but Harold insisted on 9 A.M.” After an exaggerated glance at her Rolex, Mia adds, “It’s now twenty after. Where is he?”

“What exactly is the point of a rhetorical question anyway?” Val asks.

Mia ignores her and stares straight ahead, her eyes fixed on one of the many yellowed diplomas on the wall behind the cluttered desk.

Without looking at either of them, I ask, “Can you two please just get through this like adults? You can go back to being your bickering selves the minute you walk out of here and head your separate ways.”

“I certainly hope you weren’t including me as part of the ‘your’. I don’t bicker.”

“You may not have invented it, but you’ve spent your life perfecting it.” Val speaks without looking at Mia.

“You are wearing on my last good nerve,” Mia says.

The door behind me swings open barely missing the arm of my chair and cutting off the catty word-sling between my sisters.

“Good morning, ladies.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “First let me say I am sorry we have to meet under such mournful conditions and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Years of smoking are evident in the grit of the attorney’s voice.

“Thank you for your condolences, Harold, but there is no need to apologize. We didn’t even notice that you were late.”

I look past Mia to Val who rolls her eyes at Mia’s blatant lie.

Harold turns his attention to a stack of papers on his desk and rubs a meaty hand over his chin. The sound of his fingers raking across his gray-tinged stubble causes an involuntary shudder to run up my spine.

Without taking his eyes off the disorder on his desk, Harold continues, “Have any of you ever attended a reading?”

I answer, “I have.”

As the flicker of recollection crosses Harold’s face, he nods and says, “Ah, that’s right. I’m sorry.”

I hold my breath and say a silent prayer that he won’t embark on a trip down memory lane and will just get to the reason we’re here. My nerves have been on fire since yesterday and a round-table discussion of my late husband will surely drive me to tears.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding when he begins to speak again. “The reason I ask is that I don’t know what each of you is expecting here today, but your father wasn’t exactly conventional when it came to his will.”

“Dad, unconventional? Who knew?”

I recognize Val’s attempt to lighten the increasing tension, but I also recognize Mia’s growing impatience as she re-crosses her legs and bounces her foot in front of her.

“I have a meeting at one. Can we expedite this, please?” Mia cuts in.

At least she said please.

“Certainly.” Relief passes through Harold Patterson’s eyes.

He picks up the top-most file, opens it, and takes a calming breath. “You will each receive a copy of your father’s will once we’re through so if you don’t mind I am going to skip the formalities and begin addressing his wishes.”

He looks at each of us over the top of his glasses. When he receives no opposition, he continues. “It was your father’s wish that there be no viewing, but in lieu of a viewing he requested a memorial exactly one year from the day of his death. It was also his wish that his funeral be a private affair. Family and just the friends on an attached list, which I have in my possession. He has also asked that no public announcement be made until after the funeral, which he wants done within two days of this reading.”

“Impossible,” Mia snaps. “My father was adored by millions. How do we explain to his fans that they were good enough to buy his books for fifty years, but they aren’t good enough to pay their respects? That simply won’t work.”

“Mia, I sympathize, truly I do, but it isn’t my place to agree or disagree with your father’s wishes, only to see that they are carried out. He had his reasons for wanting things handled this way and his requests were very important to him. He asks that you respect them. For that reason I asked you to hold off making a public announcement until we spoke.” He doesn’t give her time to voice another appeal. “As for his considerable estate…”

His estate. We had talked about everything from food to eulogies to caskets, but not a word about his estate although I’m sure each of us has thought about it. I suppose we’re each afraid to be the first to bring the subject up for fear of sounding greedy, or even uncaring. I feel a surge of guilt just thinking about him in terms of his monetary value. But the possibility of Mia and Val’s rocky relationship reaching new heights over something that shouldn’t matter anyway is much more than I care to think about.

Once again, Harold eyes each of us thoughtfully. I can’t be sure, but I think I see a look of concern pass over him before he speaks. I sense his coming words will be cautious, maybe even rehearsed.

“Your father has appointed an outside source as the executor who will look over his entire estate until the time has come for it to be divided. What that means is that the appointed person will be the one to complete the division of assets�"”

“I know what it means,” Mia says, her eyes narrowed. “But why?”

“Leave it to dad to reinvent the wheel,” Val says, biting back a laugh.

“Harold, it’s not like we’re children who are unable to make financial decisions on our own. In fact, we’re all comfortable to varying degrees. We don’t need his money, but that is beside the point. As his only living relatives it is our inheritance.” Mia takes a deep breath. “Clearly he wasn’t of sound mind. These are not the wishes of a competent man. These are not the wishes of my father.” Mia stands and slings her purse over her shoulder.

While Mia’s aggressive personality is enough to keep most people from opposing her, Harold doesn’t seem the least bit phased by her verbal assault.

“Mia, sit.” In the softest tone his hardened voice will allow, he adds, “Please.” He doesn’t wait for her to comply. “Your father left a video. There is only one copy and he asked that you watch it here, today. Together.”

Mia sits down, but not back. Perched on the edge of her seat she looks as if one wrong word from the man directly across from her will launch her over his desk.

Harold turns his laptop so that the screen faces us. Val and I move in closer to Mia while Harold clicks through a series of screens with a small remote. I’d seen my father only days before he died, but when his face appears on the screen I feel as though I’ve gone back in time. Instantly, I know the video wasn’t recorded recently. He’s sporting the full head of hair that had been deciding for more than twenty years whether it wanted to go gray to match his sideburns or stay brown to match the rest and his face shows no sign of the ravages the cancer had put him through. There is still a glint of hope in the eyes of the man on the screen, something that had disappeared in the last few months.

“He looks good,” I say in little more than a whisper.

The hostility I saw in Mia’s eyes only moments earlier is gone, replaced by a sadness that all the annoyance in the world can’t hide. Val chews on her thumbnail, her eyes glued to the screen.

“Hello my girls.”

My breath catches in my throat. He looks and sounds better than I’d seen him in so long that for the briefest of seconds, I find myself wanting to return his greeting.

“I’ve done my best to give you everything you’ve ever needed and most of what you’ve wanted. The only thing left for me to give to you now is advice. So please listen carefully.”

With his elbows resting on what I recognize as his desk, he clasps his hands and rests two straightened index fingers against his mouth. He seems to be in deep thought. My skin tingles with anticipation while we await his next words. And then, he stares straight into the camera and without the aid of notes, he begins to speak.

“Birth is an empty canvas. Life is the color we apply. Blues and greens, peaceful and unassuming. Pastels for hope. Varied hues of yellow and orange add warmth and contentment while shades of gray mark regrets and change. But it is the red strokes, lies and truths, vibrant and bold, the moments that fill our hearts with joy and bring us to our knees in desperation that place value on our lives. The red strokes shape our character and define our integrity. Only once a canvas is complete can we appreciate it as a true work of art.

“My canvas is now complete and as you will learn in the upcoming weeks, many of the strokes of my life were red. I have done things in my life that were both honorable and unconscionable. I have made decisions that were questionable, but have never lent a second to regret. I have been a bedfellow to shame and pride. I am not going to apologize for the decisions I have made or for the life I have lived. I am not seeking your forgiveness. I am standing on hope. Hope that you will understand. And through understanding my red strokes may you come to recognize and embrace your own.” He pauses only long enough to catch his breath. “I loved you all.”

At the same moment the screen of the laptop goes black, the first tear spills over my lashes. He’s gone. As quickly as he appeared, his image vanished without notice leaving too many unanswered questions.

“What the hell is going on here?” Mia stands and points a finger at Harold, leaning over his desk to stress her anger. “That’s it? That’s all he had to say? You called this meeting to tell us that he left us nothing with the exception of a cryptic message as a parting gift?”

Harold remains the epitome of calm. Unruffled in the presence of a woman who clearly wants nothing more than to pluck his eyes out with one of her manicured fingers. Although I haven’t a clue as to what our father thought he could accomplish in death, my immediate confusion is temporarily overshadowed by the awe I feel while watching the man in front of me stand firm in the face of Mia’s open hostility.

Many thoughts are racing through my head, but one that keeps slowing for a closer look is telling me that Harold knows more than he is at liberty to say. Having been not only my father’s long-time attorney, but also one of his closest friends, he wouldn’t have helped him pull off such a bizarre request without having asked all the right questions first. As part of his job, I’m sure he had determined him to be of sound mind before drawing up his will.

I look at my sisters. Mia presses three fingers into her temple and paces in the narrow space behind our chairs. I can’t decipher the expression on Val’s face. Sadness? Confusion? I’m not sure, but there is something unreadable in her eyes.

I’m startled out of my thoughts when Mia throws the door open and turns to face us. Her lips tighten and her eyes narrow to slits, as she says, “And to think, I canceled a conference call with my publisher for this.”

I flinch as the door slams shut behind her.

After an uncomfortable silence, Harold is the first to speak. “That went far better than your father thought it would.”

I ask, “Can you tell us more?”

Harold shifts in his seat and reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket only to reconsider. “I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry, Harold. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but you had to have known how peculiar his wishes would sound to us.” I hear the pleading in my own voice.

He nods. “For now, all I can suggest is that you go home and plan for his funeral. Keep his wishes in mind.” He reaches across his desk and hands me a sheet of paper. “Here is the list he left with me of those who were to be permitted at his funeral. Each of them were close to your father in some way and were made aware of his wishes for no public announcement in the event of his death, so I don’t foresee a problem. If you have any further questions I’ll be happy to answer them, if I can.”

When Val stands and extends her hand, I do the same. Once outside his office I look to Val hoping to get a feel for what’s going through her mind. “Well, what do you think?” I ask.

Without hesitation, Val answers, “I think we’re screwed. Your sister was our ride.”