My Inheritance

MY INHERITANCE

A Short Story by Debra Birdwell Winkler

I was fourteen when my grandfather died. As a child while the other kids would run and play outside, I would sit and listen to my grandpa’s stories of his escapades in Europe during the last months of World War II.

One story was how, in France, his team had orders to join a squad and were given a map to show where to go. The map was in French, and no one could read it, but through deduction, they headed out. Later, they heard gunfire to their right. He led his men through the forest, and they thwarted the German attack on the squad they were supposed to join. My grandfather never accepted his team’s inability to read the French map as the reason they were on the wrong road. He claimed they had been in the wrong place because his little black book had saved him so he and his team could stop the German ambush.

One day, my grandfather pulled out this little black book from his shirt pocket. It was well worn with age. “This isn’t a typical black book, Becky,” he said. “It’s the inheritance you’ll receive when I die.”

“I don’t want you to die, Grandpa.”

“I know but you’ll need this when you grow up and it’ll give you anything you will ever desire. I promise.” He tapped the book, replacing it in his pocket. “The love of your life comes with this book as well.”

“Like magic,” I said with the innocence of a seven-year-old. “I like magic.”

“So do I,” he said.

I gave him a kiss, “I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you too, Little One.”

My grandfather and I had many discussions about his little black book. I didn’t understand all his stories and how his book had saved him. It was all magic as far as I was concerned. I loved him very much and was glad he paid attention to me.

There was only one thing I did not love about my grandfather. His name. Beckworth. His full name was Beckworth Woodbury Starr, a very proper New England name. I had been named for him. Only the Beckworth part and I was called Becky. Who would name their daughter Beckworth?

It was a name that had been passed down to the eldest child through generations of our family, except for my father. My grandfather was overseas on business when my father was born. Since my grandmother didn’t like the name Beckworth (she always called my grandfather, BW), she named my father after her father, and my grandfather never forgave her for this. When my mother was pregnant, my parents promised him to follow tradition when their first child was born and call him Beckworth. In the Starr family, the first child was always a son without exception.

However, I had the audacity to be a girl but, true to their promise to my grandfather, my parents named me Beckworth Augustine Starr. Beckworth, for my grandfather; Augustine, for my mother’s father.

What a name. I hated it! But I refused to be called Beckworth or Augustine. I settled for Becky Starr, which wasn’t too bad.

I soon grew up and didn’t believe in my grandfather’s magic book. As an adult, I thought fondly of my grandfather but knew there was no such thing as real magic, just the illusion of magicians.

Years later, I was on the way home after graduate school, when my car broke down in the small western town of Legacy.

“Well, little missy,” said the elderly man who owned the garage and had the name, JimBob, stitched above his overalls’ pocket, “I don’t have a part for this foreign jalopy of yours. We don’t see many Triumphs around here.”

“Really?”

“They don’t have the part we need in Salt Lake City, so I called St. Louis. But they sent me to the distributor in Chicago. So, I ordered it from them.”

“Chicago?” I was taken aback. “How long will it take for the part to get here?”

JimBob pulled off his ball cap and scratched his head. “It’ll take about five to seven days by train from Chicago to Salt Lake. Then…”

“What?” I was devastated. “Can’t you send it by air? Or perhaps get the part from L.A. or San Francisco? Aren’t they closer?”

“I’m really sorry, little missy. We don’t send parts by air. Too expensive.” He shook his head.

“But isn’t this the modern age of technology up the wazoo?” I couldn’t believe I had said my thoughts out loud.

“Chicago has the part, the others don’t. I’m just glad we didn’t have to go to Jersey.”

I felt so helpless, rubbing my hand against my forehead.

JimBob placed his hat back on his head and patted my hand on the counter. “I won’t charge you for the trip to Salt Lake to pick up the part.” He smiled. “My sister lives over there and I’ll just stay with her until the part arrives.”

“What am I going to do until you return?”

He chuckled. “Let me walk you over to the Legacy Inn. I’m sure Hazel Bush will take care of you until I return.”

“All this is going to cost me a fortune, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you worry about anything, now,” JimBob said as we walked up to the front porch of the Inn and an elderly gray-haired lady with sparkling eyes met us at the door.

“So, this is the young lady who you’re fixing the car for, JimBob?” she asked.

JimBob nodded his head. “Hazel, this is Becky Starr. She’s from Boston.”

“Gonna be a while before you get her fixed up?”

“Yep, a week, maybe two.”

“Well,” Hazel said to me, “Don’t you worry ‘bout nothing. JimBob’s a great mechanic. The best for over a hundred miles around.”

JimBob laughed. “Hazel, you know I’m the only mechanic around these parts.”

“Very true.” Hazel grinned and waved JimBob off. “Come on in, Miss Starr.”

“My name’s Becky, Mrs. Bush.”

“And mine is Hazel,”

I explained how my funds were low, but I was refusing to ask my parents for help.

“Old Boston family?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you just stay here until JimBob has that car of yours up to snuff,” she said. “We’ll figure out something.”

And that’s how I ended up in Legacy. I helped Miss Hazel at the Inn, and she introduced me to everyone in town. She had the down low on every citizen. Who was who and what was what. She introduced me to the owner of the bank and, when he found out I had a master’s in finance, he offered me a temporary job as a teller.

At first, I was just working at the bank until I had enough money to pay for my car repairs but then I got to know people and decided to stay. The town was sweet. The people were lovely. I was happy. And no one cared about my real name. Becky Starr was simple for them. After five years, I made my way up to the position of Assistant Bank Manager. I rented a small two-bedroom house three blocks away from the bank and most days I didn’t even drive my car to work.

My parents? They were surprised when I didn’t return home after college. Settling down in what they considered a small insignificant town on the other side of the country was ludicrous. To talk me out of my decision, my sister flew out to Salt Lake City, rented a car, and drove the two hours to Legacy. She was horrified that I was quite content where I was.

When my father had a heart attack and was in the hospital, I spent a week by his side. When my mother died, I made it to the funeral with three hours to spare. But I refused to move back to Boston.

Today’s my thirtieth birthday. Things were going well, and I was happy. Miss Hazel was one of our first customers that morning and came right over to my desk.

“If you don’t want to be an old maid, Becky,” she said, “you’d better get cracking and find a mate. You don’t even have a suitor!” Then, she leaned over to whisper, “I do admit that the town has slim pickings for a girl like you. I’ve been telling you to spend a week or so in Salt Lake or Denver where you’ll find someone.”

In the afternoon, a well-dressed older gentleman came into the bank carrying a very fancy briefcase and asked for ‘Beckworth Augustine Starr.’ Before he could repeat my name, I made a beeline to him and guided him to my desk.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Are you Beckworth Augustine Starr?” The man spoke with an authentic Boston accent, dropping the ‘r’s’ at the end of my last name.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Do you have any identification to prove who you are?” He spoke with authority, his voice quick and sharp.

I pulled my wallet from my purse which was in my bottom left desk drawer. “Here’s my driver’s license,” I said and handed it to him.

He examined my license very carefully and handed it back. He opened his briefcase, taking out a file folder and laying it on my desk. He then closed the case and returned it to the floor beside him.

“Miss Starr,” he began, handing me his business card, “my name is Desmond Doolittle, and I’m with the law firm of Brazenwood, O’Hanagan & Meyer out of Boston.”

The card was of white linen with gold embossed lettering indicating the name of the firm in the middle over the scales of justice, listing an address and general telephone number beneath. His name and number were listed in the left corner. On the bottom right was the name, Matthew Meyer with a different number under it.

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Doolittle.” I laid the expensive card on my desk. “Why are you here?”

“Your grandfather was a client of our firm, and our instructions were to contact you on your thirtieth birthday.”

“So, you’re here because today is my birthday?

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” I stated in disbelief. “My grandfather died many years ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How did you find me all the way out here?”

“As instructed, we have kept tabs on you since your grandfather died,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“Oh, yes ma’am.”

I was stunned.

“Not the rest of my family?” I asked.

“No, only you.” He seemed surprised I didn’t understand.

“My father was his son.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“But you’ve been watching me?”

“Those were our instructions.”

I was in shock.

“Miss Starr, I am here to give you something from your grandfather.”

I watched Mr. Doolittle open the file in front of him and take out a manila envelope. It was old and the edges were tattered.

“This is for you, Miss Starr.”

He placed the shabby relic in my hands. I read my full name on its front. The handwriting looked familiar.

“Please sign here, Miss Starr. This paper confirms you are in receipt of this envelope addressed to you in your grandfather’s handwriting.”

As I held this old envelope, memories of my grandfather flooded my mind and tears began to fall down my cheeks. Mr. Doolittle seemed oblivious of my tears. He placed the paper I had signed in the file folder and returned it to his briefcase.

“Good day, Miss Starr,” he said, nodding his head and standing.

“Your grandfather was a client of ours just like his father and grandfather before him. He opened an account for you when you were born, so please contact us anytime, Mr. Meyer or me.” He pointed to the card.

I glanced down. “Who is Matthew Meyer?”

“He’s one of the managing partners.”

“Oh, I see.” I figured Meyer was just like Doolittle, elderly and crusty, Bostonian through and through. “Any time?”

“Oh, yes ma’am. As our client, we are at your disposal at any time. No matter where you are, just call either one of us. Day or night.” Mr. Doolittle pointed to the envelope. “I was told to remind you that anything you will ever desire is right there.” Mr. Doolittle turned and walked away. He was out the door before I could stop him.

A voice behind me reminded me that I was working.

“Well, Becky, who was that?” Mr. Wright, my boss, inquired.

“A lawyer from Boston bringing me an envelope from my grandfather.”

Mr. Wright sat in the chair Mr. Doolittle had just vacated. He reached over and touched the envelope. “Looks pretty worn to me.”

“My grandfather died when I was fourteen and, per instructions, the law firm delivered it to me on my thirtieth birthday.”

“Like a hand reaching out through time, right?”

“Kinda.” I murmured.

Mr. Wright stood up and said, “You seem a bit shaken, so why not leave a bit early today. Don’t worry, I’ll close.” He walked towards his office.

I picked up my grandfather’s envelope and carefully used my letter opener to slit it open. The aroma of musk and wood permeated my senses. My grandfather’s smell. I crushed the envelope to my chest and was lost in memories for a few minutes.

I finally took a breath and shook the envelope. A small worn notebook fell out onto my desk with a plop. My grandfather’s little black book. What had he said? I tried to remember his words, but I was only seven when he told me it would be mine one day. Something like what Mr. Doolittle said that anything I would ever desire was in that book.

I carefully opened the small, worn book of what looked like parchment paper, yellowed with age. On the first page, written in ancient calligraphy script was the name, BECKWORTH. I gently turned the page and discovered the name, Beckworth Starr. Then, on the next page was Beckworth Cedric Starr, and on the next one, Beckworth Godfrey Starr. All the pages held the name of Beckworth Starr with various middle names. I stopped at my grandfather’s name and realized these were the names of all my grandfathers, stretching back in time, each with the first name of Beckworth. There were seventeen of them.

I carefully turned to the eighteen page which should have held my father’s name, but his name wasn’t listed. His name was Randolph not Beckworth. On that page instead was my name in my grandfather’s script.

“How strange,” I said under my breath.

I carefully flipped back to examine each page of the small antiquated tome, from the beginning to my name. Each sheet I turned seemed more fragile than the one before.

“So, this book is supposed to give me anything I would ever desire,” I whispered.

I closed my eyes, and it was as though I could hear my grandfather speaking. “Well, Grandpa, it would be great to have a bunch of money to make things easier, a few friends to share my birthday tonight, and someone handsome and loving to share the rest of my life with.”

That was when the head teller, Anita, came running over. “You didn’t tell us it was your birthday.”

I opened my eyes. “I just didn’t want anyone to make a big thing of it, Anita.”

“Well, we’re celebrating tonight, the four of us.” Anita pointed to the other two tellers. “We’ll go over to the Golden Glory, have dinner and drinks, then a little bit of karaoke to celebrate! Our treat!”

“No, no,” I objected. “I think I’ll…”

But Anita’s voice was already echoing across the room, and everyone was on board.

On a whim, I checked my bank account balance to see if I had been enough to splurge on a new frock for tonight at the dress shop across the street. To my surprise, there had just been a transfer of $20,000 from a Boston bank. I now had $20,221.14 in my account. I looked down at the little black book which was still open to the page with my name on it.

Grandpa, what’s going on? Magic? I appreciate what you’re doing, but where did that come from? You know I don’t believe in magic.

I was so involved in my thoughts I didn’t notice the smartly dressed man standing in front of me.

“Are you, Beckworth Starr?”

I jumped. “It’s Becky.”

“Good,” he said in a low, deep voice.

I gave this handsome stranger with dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes a smile.

“I’m so glad I followed instructions,” he said. “My name is Matthew Meyer. I received an envelope with a note telling me I’d find my soulmate here.”

My grandfather’s words came back to me. “The love of your life comes with this book as well.”

I smiled.

“Look, you and I have the same envelope.” From his pocket, he pulled out a worn envelope similar to mine.

“Then, I suppose we’re meant to be, according to my grandfather.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “I’m really glad.”

“Me too.”

I grabbed my purse from my desk drawer and my grandfather’s envelope, dropping the little black book into my purse.

There seemed to be some kind of magic the book possessed which had been passed down generations to me.

Thank you, Grandpa! I’ll take real good care of this book and pass it down to my oldest child.

I looked up at Matthew who said, “What was that book you dropped in your purse?”

“Something which will help us find everything we’ll ever need in life,” I said and took his arm as we left the bank.

THE END