Rosie O'Dell (55 page)

“No, I’m certain they don’t. He has always kept his money matters close to his
chest. Brent had no real idea himself until his father was diagnosed and decided
to stay back here for good, and wanted us to come. It was only then that he told
his own son. The boys probably think he’s got a million or two that they’ll get
a piece of—not bad, in their minds, but nothing to jump up and down
about.”

“What’s Gramps doing holed up back here anyway? If he wants a lung transplant,
he should be ensconced close to the action, in a big city, ready to move when
the call comes. With his money, he could be in the middle of the continent with
a private jet on standby, revved up and ready to take off in any direction when
a lung becomes available somewhere.”

“He talked about that with the medicos. But they told him there’s no enthusiasm
in the medical community to give an old man a lung that might save a child. And
after he found out the condition was so progressive and relentless and was going
to kill him in two years, tops, all he wanted to do was stay home here and never
leave again and clew up his affairs. Also, he wanted to spend his time among
friends and family, he said. But I haven’t seen any evidence of friends, and his
family here consists of a brother who doesn’t speak to him. He says he’s
fatalistic about it all. But I think he’s really scared. The father-and-son
reconciliation means a lot to him—just having someone around he can trust and
confide in. Every now and then he will ask us to make sure, when it looks like
his suffering will become unbearable, to have him euthanized. ‘Put down
mercifully like a beloved old dog, ’ he says.”

“Unfortunately, no doctor is going to do that around here. Or
anywhere else, for that matter, outside of the Netherlands or
Switzerland.”

“Oregon has some kind of a Death With Dignity law.”

“With more hoops to jump through than the Barnum and Bailey circus. In any
event, before any of that arises, there’s a couple of things about the will
itself that I need to get straight. First of all, you know, Rosie, a will only
takes effect on the death of the person who made it. Right up to that time, he
can change the beneficiaries to anyone he likes. Everything we’re talking about
now could become irrelevant at any time.”

“We got the lawyers to work on that. They drew up a contract, a trust deed, I
think, in which, in return for our support and contribution, he agreed not to
change his will. The lawyers said that the document even curbs the risk that he
might decide to spend all his money on wild women before his death. Brent has
signing powers on amounts over fifty thousand.”

“Okay, first I’ll look at all that to see if it conforms with our laws here.
Second. How do you know he has the eighteen million he says he has? I can’t help
but remember him from when I first started practising law with a firm downtown,
and he wanted me to act for him on a transaction because of my long friendship
with his son. But what he really wanted was the most naive and callow lawyer in
the firm to help him con the income tax department. He’s a slippery bastard, and
he didn’t care who he screwed, including me, his son’s best friend at the
time.”

“Yes, Brent told me about that. It was one of the reasons he left the business.
So we insisted on an audited statement from his accounting firm. And we are sure
he has the money, the whole eighteen million. Our own accountants said
everything is accurate and copper-fastened. But now, here we are with my dying
husband berating himself for being, he says, such a stupid ass.”

“For leaving you in this pickle?”

“Yeh. But I have to say that he’s more worried about it than I am. I was
looking forward to a life of ease and contemplation, of course—who wouldn’t be?
But honestly, I wouldn’t be up here at all if it wasn’t for Brent. I left my
position at the University of New Mexico at his urging. We remortgaged the house
to get priority treatment on his medical tests. We’ve never had a lot of money,
and we have less now. What we had for a while was his prospects, which are now
gone. So that is the buggered-up situation I’m in, but I’ll survive. I can get a
posting with some university, I’m sure. If it comes to that, I can teach in a
school system.”

Teach what, grade five Sanskrit? “I’m sure you will. Although
we do have to wonder how much luck anyone will have with getting a new job, a
good one, in this recession. How come you got your Ph. D. in every dead language
known to humankind, by the way?”

Rosie laughed. “I really can’t speak much Hittite. After your famous severance
letter and telephone conversation from England, I wanted as many of my days as
possible to be as far removed from the realities of life as possible. What we’re
going through now with this stupid will only confirms the brilliance of my
decision back then.”

“We’ll see about that, Rosie. And maybe I can make up for my stupidity back
then. So, the obvious thing to do is to figure out a way to get the old guy to
pass over, if not all, at least a substantial hunk of money now, before he dies,
or to put you in the will.”

“The possibility of me in the will was raised crabwise months ago, but his
daddy said no. It might be different if I’d given him a grandchild, but as it
is, I’m nothing to him. Before they got back on half-decent terms, the old man
wondered out loud why his son would leave a wife to marry damaged goods—Dr.
Rothesay’s tart, he called me. If Brent wanted a strange piece, all he had to do
was pay a high-class whore. He didn’t have to abandon the mother of his children
to get a piece of tail. Brent practically had a big fist fight with him over it.
In brief, the old bastard didn’t think much of me. Still doesn’t, except as a
useful spousal appendage. Brent can share his inheritance with me, he said, and
put me in his own will. Although, he warned, he’d watch out for going the will
route if he were Brent, if Brent valued his life. He even hinted that if I knew
I was going to get money in his will, the old man’s will, I might have him
killed before his time was up.”

“Cute as a fox, the old bastard. I don’t know if he had
you
pegged right
or not, but I know I would have him killed for his money if I had the
chance.”

“I’m taking the fifth on that, myself. Anyway, Brent and I didn’t pursue it at
the time. We’d get the money jointly in a year or two, we said, so no big deal.
I even used to joke to Brent, ‘Don’t get hit by a bus before the old man
croaks.’ A couple of weeks later, the recurring pain in Brent’s abdomen came,
and then, right after we had clewed up our lives to the point of no return in
New Mexico, the diagnosis of cancer.”

I got up and refilled Rosie’s glass and my own. “That’s the end of it,” I
said. “Not much to a bottle of champagne.”

“Or to anything else, a realist might argue.”

We both tittered and shook our heads. I said, “You’re sure
Gramps and the boys don’t suspect anything at all about Brent?”

“Yes, not yet, anyway. Brent looks fine, I think. You’d never say there’s
anything wrong with him. But that may be just me. I may be too close. You’ll be
able to see for yourself when you drop by.”

“Okay. You do stand to be left out in the cold unless we make some proper
arrangements. So, until we decide what to do, we’ll keep everything
quiet.”

“Right. We figure that if the boys ever find out Brent is dying and that
they’ll get everything if he goes before Gramps, they’ll make sure their dear
father gets enough heroin for his pain even if it does have the unfortunate side
effect of hastening his death.”

“For sure. You guys have your own wills, I trust?”

“We do. Everything to each other.”

“So it all boils down to either Brent outliving his father or his father dying
before Brent. That may sound like the same thing, but there’s a subtle
difference, if you get my drift.”

“I do get your drift, Tom. Either way, it’s going to be a challenge. If you can
do something to help—we intended to tell you this together, so pretend you
didn’t hear it from me when you see him—we want you to have one-third of
whatever you’re able to get from the old man for us, in any way possible, before
I’m left a widow. I’m going to be blunt. We figure we’re lucky that your
financial difficulty gives you a powerful incentive to help. This could be a
win-win situation for you and me.” She leaned over and tapped my knee. “Hey,
that’d be different.”

I gave the blandest of smiles and spoke calmly: “Yes, the timing is rather
propitious.” But inside I was thinking: One-third of, say, thirteen million—holy
shit, I might fend off bankruptcy yet. Plus, from the time she told me of
Brent’s terminal condition, I’d been wickedly plotting a scenario involving her
and me—after a decent period of mourning. I added, “No need of any talk about
money, though, Rosie. If I can help relieve Brent’s mind and yours during his
last days, and get back in your good books again, I’ll be happy. I would love
for you and me to be good friends for the rest of our lives.”

Rosie stood with her glass in her hand and put it forward and clinked mine.
“Count on that, Tommy, whichever way this goes.” I rose, and she put her free
arm around me and hugged hard. “Close and devoted friends for life,” she said.
Then her face combined a frown with her smile. “So I’ll tell him you’re
interested?”

“I’ll go with you now this afternoon, if that’s okay, and tell
him myself.”

“That would be great.”

“I’d better call a taxi after all that champagne. I’m only a lawyer, not a
doctor.”

Rosie’s memory twigged immediately to what the drunk Rothesay had said to her
thirty years ago before his last drive to Red Cliff. Without moving her face she
turned her eyes to mine. “You’re just as bad as ever,” she said with that faint
little grin of satisfaction.

BRENT GREETED US AT
the front door of the big house
in King William Estates before Rosie could put her key in. He was looking fit
and cheerful. After shaking hands, we gave each other a man hug. As powerful as
he was, and despite using both arms, his embrace was not as strong as Rosie’s
one-armer fifteen minutes before. Pulling back from him, I noticed a slight
sallowness of his face which I mightn’t have taken in if I hadn’t been looking
for signs of his illness. He said, “Rosie told you everything?”

“I believe so. If there are any loose ends, we can tie them up now.”

Inside, in the hall, Rosie gave Brent a kiss on the lips and he returned a
squeeze and a look of absolute love. I glanced around. “Is your father or anyone
else here?” I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t risk being overheard by him or
staff or nurses while we talked.

“No, he’s at The Pines. We’re all by ourselves here. Didn’t Rosie tell you?
What could you guys have been talking about so long that you didn’t get to
that?”

Rosie said, “We spent our time at Agnes Pratt home with Tom’s mother and then
talking about our situation.” She turned to me. “After twenty years of faithful
marriage, listen to old Mr. Jealous here. No wonder I still feel so wanted and
desired.”

Brent laughed and added: “And enjoying an early afternoon wine as the, ah,
conversation rolled on, judging by the delightful fragrance I’m getting.” I felt
a little twinge of apprehension before Brent went on. “Don’t mind me, that
is
my jealousy coming out. The doctors said no alcohol with this
liver. And I have to obey them. I don’t want to shorten the time we have to deal
with this.”

“Champagne is what we had,” said Rosie. “And once we have this thing figured
out to your satisfaction, or hit a wall, as the case may be, we’ll get you back
on it. To hell with the doctors then.”

“The Pines?” I said. That was a luxurious retirement home, privately
owned and run. Top dollar in rent. When Dad and I made
inquiries about placing Mom there, we had discovered that a room with board and
lodging and nursing care started at about eight thousand dollars a month. “Has
your father’s condition deteriorated to that extent?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Brent. “He doesn’t really need to be there at all.
There are three or four levels of care provided there. He’s near the lower end
at the moment. Oxygen when he needs it, and medication. He’ll need greater care
as time goes on, but he’s there right now for the socializing. It’s pathetic,
really. He could be here in his own home and get all the nursing care he needs
till the end. But after he sold off and retired, not a goddamned soul would come
to see him or accept his invitations to lunch. Then after the prognosis for the
‘emphysema’”—Brent made quote signs with his fingers— “was made, he heard that a
couple of his old business competitors were at The Pines—his deadly enemies in
the old days, in reality—and he decided to move there so that at least he’d have
people he knew to criticize and taunt as a captive audience. He’s got a suite of
rooms, and the staff and the owner tend on him hand and foot. It helps that he
invested money in the place when it first started. So he’s over there living
like a king.”

“I’ll have to go and take a look.”

“I’ll bring you over whenever you’re free. The sooner the better. We really
need your help, Tom. I will give you one-third of whatever I am able to salvage
from his estate before I die.”

“I’d like it to be one half, Brent, not one-third,” Rosie said calmly. “If
there’s no serious objection. Because, if Tom pulls this off, I think he’d be
entitled to that.”