Rosie O'Dell (58 page)

It was a wonder I didn’t point at each of them in turn and say, “Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern are dead.” It would be just like me to bugger this up for a
private laugh.

The other lad, presumably Cornelius, said, “Call me Neal and
him Duke.”

“I will do that, thank you. You may know, by the way, that your father is the
oldest friend I have in the world.”

“Yeah, so he said. Even shared the same woman, didn’t you? Wasn’t that O’Dell
woman your girlfriend?”

“When she and I were teenagers. It was many years after we had parted ways that
your dad married her.”

“Married her? Is that what she told you? I’d love to see you trying to defend
that in court. Our mother was who he married.”

“In any event, it’s a pleasure to finally meet my old friend’s sons and to help
relieve your minds on some matters as your father has instructed me to
do.”

“How come Dad picked you as his lawyer? You haven’t seen each other for years
and years, have you? Or did
she
pick you?”

Before I could answer that, the other asked, “What kind of law do you practise,
anyway? Your office looks a bit down-at-the-heel.”

“Don’t trust appearances, gentlemen,” I said. “I’ve always followed this rule:
do you want to
make
money or do you want to
look
like you’re
making money?”

Duke and Neal turned to each other and high-fived in delight. “Man, that’s a
cool rule. We really dig that. I hope you don’t mind if you hear we’re using it
back in Vegas. That’ll freak out the hotshots.”

“Take it, it’s yours. And speaking of appearances, I’d say that you two, by the
look of you, are getting more pussy than Frank Sinatra. I’d bet a hundred to one
on
that
in Vegas.”

Neal, or maybe it was Duke, leaped out of his chair. “Dude,” he said, reaching
out his hand and seeking to high-five me now, “that’s really cool. No wonder Dad
came to you. You’re good.” Duke, or Neal, was laughing, nodding in agreement
with his brother.

The other said, “Speaking of Dad, how does he look to you? Does he seem sick to
you? He doesn’t look good to us.”

“Your father sick? No. Not that I know of, and I’ve spent a lot of time with
him since he arrived. It must be the strain on him of your grandfather’s
condition that you’re seeing. Old Mr. Anstey is getting more and more difficult
to cope with. A couple of days ago there was another big blow-up when I was
visiting him with your dad. I was fluffing up his pillow for him and he accused
me of trying to smother him. Christ, what an
uproar. What was
really bizarre about it was that while he keeps accusing people of trying to
murder him, his doctors and nurses, for example, he keeps saying at the same
time that he wants to be euthanized—to be put down mercifully like a faithful
old dog.”

“Can’t you and Dad find a doctor to do that for him, if he wants it? In the
States somewhere, or over in Holland or something?”

“It’s complicated to do it legally anywhere. Plus I doubt if he’s capable of
informed consent at this point, with his contradictory statements about everyone
trying to murder him one minute and him wanting euthanasia the next. No, I’m
very much afraid, boys, that, unfortunately, he has a long road of suffering and
agony ahead of him, morphine or no morphine.”

“A long road—how much longer do they figure he’s got?”

“He’s as strong as a bloody ox. The other day when he grabbed hold of my arms,
I could not believe the strength he’s still got left. The doctors figure he
could pass peacefully away today—that’s always a possibility; no one would be
surprised at that—or more likely he could last for many months—a year—or even
more yet with that constitution of his.”

The boys looked at each other. “Yeah,” one of them said, “I think that’s what
Dad was trying to say too, before he broke down.”

“Well, the suffering seems very sad and futile and unnecessary to a loving son
who has to watch it day after day,” I said. “But there’s a silver lining in
that cloud, which brings me to your situation. At least this coming twelve
months or more that he’s alive will give you guys time to do your financial
planning before all that money is dropped on you.”

“Yeah, Dad said he wanted you to give us some idea about what we need to plan
for. What are we talking about here—ballpark?”

“We are talking about precisely, not ballpark, one million dollars.”

“One million—between the two of us?”

“No, a million dollars each. Under the present will.”

Duke and Neal stood in unison and walked about my office. “A million each,”
said one. He looked up to the heavens and uttered a prayer of joy: “Well, fuck
me.”

“And what about Mom?” asked the other. “He always said he wouldn’t see her
stuck.”

“Well, strictly speaking, I’m not explicitly authorized to disclose your
mother’s expectations, but I know how close you are to her and concerned for her
well-being, so that also has to figure into your long-range planning. Under the
current will, she will be receiving one million dollars as well.”

“Three million. Jesus Christ, you’ve got to love the old fart.
A million each.”

“Yes, under the current will as it stands at the moment.”

“What do you keep saying that for? Current will—as it stands at the
moment?”

“Well, a couple of cautionary notes to you are in order. To be completely
frank, I advised your father against disclosing this information to you at this
stage because it may build up false hopes in you and give you a false sense of
security. I say that because a will takes effect only on the will-maker’s death.
What I’ve told you is the situation under the will of your grandfather that
currently exists. I know for a fact that’s what you and your mother would
receive if he were to die today. What I do not know and cannot predict is the
future. It is legally possible for him to change his will at any time and leave
his money elsewhere—to the church or to an old girlfriend, for example. And I
would not necessarily even know about it. He could use another lawyer and keep
it completely secret. I’m not saying that’s a likely scenario— you know your
grandfather better than I do—but you never can tell what someone is going to do,
especially someone with his state of mind. To take an absurd situation for the
sake of argument, he could conclude when you visit him today that you too are
trying to murder him and call up a lawyer when you are gone and cut you out of
the will. That is all highly unlikely, but you have to be aware that what I have
described to you today as beneficiaries under his present will is not a hundred
per cent certain. It cannot be taken as a guarantee. It could change. Are we
clear on all that?”

“Too cocksucking clear,” said one.

“How much is Dad getting out of it?” asked the other. “I can’t believe he
wouldn’t have this copper-fastened for himself. He wouldn’t leave his own take
under the will all loosey-goosey like our take.”

“And you would be right. I can’t disclose his entitlement under any
arrangements between father and son. That is privileged information. But they
are binding on your grandfather’s estate—copper-fastened, as you say—and
irrevocable whether the old gentleman dies today, tomorrow, or a year from
now.”

“And I bet that brainiac slut of his is all fixed up too, while me and Duke and
Mom twist in the wind.” He turned to his brother. “How come you and me are
always the ones who get fucked all the time?”

“Because we are too nice and polite and agreeable and pleasant and caring,
a.k.a. we’re too fucking stupid.”

“That’s a little harsh,” I said. “I’m sure this’ll all work out over time. And
even if it doesn’t, I’m sure that your dad and his beloved
wife, Rosie, will have your best interests at heart as your devoted father and
stepmother. Rosie has a lot of influence over him, but she knows what he thinks
of you as his sons.” When the brothers exchanged a smouldering glare, I
continued, “I do hope your dad didn’t make a mistake in asking me to disclose
this to you. It seems to have unsettled you. But he did want you to have a
chance to plan your futures, even with the uncertainties that apply to all
wills, and your grandfather’s in particular.”

“No, he didn’t make a mistake. We are thankful for the info.”

“I even told your father of the old saying that applies to such cases: ‘He who
waits and waits to inherit money earns every damn cent of it,
if
in fact
he receives anything at all.’ What that means is—”

“Yeah, we get it. Listen, thank you very much for everything. We have to meet
Dad and go visit Gramps this afternoon.”

“Well, as the doctors said, he could go any time,” I said. “You’ll get a good
sense of how powerful he still is, though, when you shake hands or hug him or if
he decides to grapple with you as he did with me. Don’t be surprised by his
strength. I wish you all the best with it.”

Going out the door, both the boys gave me a thumbs-up.

“Hold on.” I called them back and got up from my desk to whisper
conspiratorially, “By the way, it might be a good idea not to ask the old man
for any financial help just yet. I don’t get the idea he’s in the giving vein
these days. Seems to think everyone is trying to take advantage of him and
exploit him. You wouldn’t want to anger him and give him any incentive to make
the changes we talked about.”

I phoned Brent and gave him a report. “They have all the information they need
to plan their future actions. I hope they don’t do something stupid and blow
it.”

“If they shag anything up, I’ll take full responsibility. But I don’t think
they will. I get the idea they have lots of experience in doing some basic
things right. My bigger concern is what they may try to do to Rosie if they ever
conclude they were conned.”

“Rosie has always been pretty good at taking care of herself.”

“Tommy, I’m counting on that and I’m hoping I can count on you to help her,
too.”

Rest easy on that one, old buddy.

WHEN HE AND HIS
boys went into his
father’s suite during the afternoon with the nurse, Brent told me that night,
the old man was elated to see his grandsons. The nurse and Brent hoped as they
walked out of the room and back to the desk that this wasn’t too much excitement
for his father. Brent stayed at the desk writing out cheques for pharmaceuticals
and other knick-knacks and chatting with staff members until the boys came out
again. At the door, one called in, “See you tomorrow, Granddad.” Coming down the
corridor, the other said to Brent, “He’s feeling fatigued by all the action and
wanted to have a nap.” Brent went up to the room to say goodbye, looked in, came
back to the desk, and told them that his father was already asleep. They’d be
back tomorrow. Brent dropped the boys off at their hotel and drove home. He was
met by Rosie with a message from the nursing home that he was to call them
immediately.

The head nurse told him his father’s heart had given out. The house doctor who
pronounced him dead said the heart failure had been brought on by the stress and
strain of his laboured breathing plus the stimulation of the grandsons’ visit.
However, the doctor didn’t want the boys to hear that and feel guilty about
their grandfather’s death. It was simply a case of natural causes. It could have
happened any time, and Mr. Anstey was fortunate that it didn’t happen before the
grandsons’ visit. But the doctor was wondering if Brent wanted an autopsy
conducted to confirm the exact cause. Only, said Brent, if the doctor thought it
advisable. No, said the nurse, the doctor didn’t consider it necessary. Brent
could proceed with immediate funeral arrangements.

When Brent conveyed the sad tidings to the boys at the hotel that night, they
were torn by two conflicting emotions—distress at the possibility that their
presence may have aggravated Granddad’s condition, and gratification that they
had arrived here before it was too late. Brent told the boys that there was no
need for them to stay on beyond the funeral. When the probate of the will was
completed, he would send them copies of all the documentation and the proceeds
of their inheritance. He didn’t want them around, Brent told me, to see his
declining health.

The funeral itself was a dismal affair. Hardly anyone beyond the immediate
family came to the funeral home or the church or the cemetery. Duke said to
Brent, walking back from the grave to the car, “I thought Granddad was king shit
in these parts. He always said he was.”