His last gift

He steps off the bus and back in time. The town square still has one maple tree and a statue that has lost its name and meaning. The lead glass windows on either side of the church’s bell tower still eye him with suspicion and prejudice.

Doc Maddox’s practice is still squeezed between Phillips Drugstore and Krantz’s Funeral Parlor. Barron’s Supermarket has taken over Roving’s Hardware and Lionel’s Feedstore. It now occupies one side of the square. Across the church are Della’s Bakery and Lunchroom and the office of Elton S. Quentin, esq, attorney at law.

There are no ghosts here, he reminds himself.

Wanting to get this over with he heads towards Quentin’s office. When the door opens, one of the two old men looks up from their chess game. He is withered, mummified, as if he died a long time ago, but death forgot to collect him. His voice is scratchy, as if rarely used.

“Lucien Barron?”

“Luke.”

“Yes.” He slowly unfolds from his chair. With a tilt of the head, he precedes Luke into the next room. Mr. Quentin sinks into the chair behind the large desk. He waved a bony hand toward one of the chairs across from him. The dry leather crackles under Luke’s weight.

“I have here a copy of your grandfather’s will. He stipulates that you are his only heir and as such will inherit the estate, providing you live in the house for a year.”

Luke inhales sharply while his heart drops into his stomach. “A … a year?” He stammers through suddenly dry lips. His hands clasp around the armrests of the chair, keeping him from bolting.

“No way!”

Undisturbed by the outburst Mr. Quentin continues. “You will have a modest monthly stipend as long as you live in the house. After one year you may dispose of the estate as you wish.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you fail to live up to his stipulations, everything will go to various charities.”

“The bastard.” he mumbles and shakes his head. “I should have known.”

Mr. Quentin raises his white bushy eyebrows, shrugs, and pushes the stack of papers across his desk. He rises and motions toward the door, ushering Luke out, eager to continue his chess game.

Crushing the papers in his hand, swinging his duffel over his shoulder, Luke leaves the square and follows the familiar road up the hill to the old house. The low gate squeaks. The path with its cracked pavers is weedy and mossy. The blue paint on the front door is flaking.

The seven-year-old boy, clutching a grocery bag that had all his belongings – two changes of clothes, already too tight, a toothbrush and a tattered teddy bear – held his mother’s hand. Together they waited for the blue door to open.

The house smells musty, but underneath the dust is the familiar scent of bacon grease and pipe tobacco. He yanks the curtains aside and open the windows that aren’t painted shut. In the kitchen, on the old, scarred table is an envelope. 

Lucien.

When you read this I will be dead. There are prettier ways to say it, but the end is the same.

I’m sure you are not happy with the terms of my will. But, for good or bad, this is your home. I did the best I knew how, raising you. It’s up to you to make peace.

Laurence Barron.

Why? Why would he put himself through this? Just for the money? Yeah, right. He has exactly twenty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents in his pocket. Not enough for a bus ticket out of town. So, he’s stuck here. In this one-horse town, in this dilapidated old house on the hill. Snug with his ghosts and history.

Lost in memory, he stares at the overgrown yard and the untended orchard behind it. He lets his mind drift over images from long ago. The ones that still haunt. The ones he’s tried to outrun.

The boy was used to sleeping in the closet. When mama brought home a friend he knew to stay out of sight, not make a sound. Sometimes mama was gone all day, sometimes longer. They moved a lot. “Staying ahead of the landlords.” she said. She told the boy that landlords were unreasonable. He didn’t go to school, never strayed from wherever they lived, always waiting for her to come home.

Inside the house with the blue door, mama showed the boy to a room with a bed and closet. Told him to go to sleep. He slept in the closet and woke to raised voices and a door slamming. He waited for as long as he could for his mother to tell him that it was okay to come out. That she would fix something to eat. But the boy heard nothing, the room stayed quiet except for the growling in his stomach. He crept out of the closet.

The old man who had opened the blue door was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting. “Good morning,” he said. “It’ll be just us, now. If you’re hungry come one down, I’ll fix you something to eat.”

Luke wakes up with a gasp to the echo of raised voices and a door slamming. He hears the same memory almost every night. The sounds of his oldest ghost. Slowly he realizes that he fell asleep at the kitchen table. He doesn’t have to look at his watch to know it’s close to three am. He knows he won’t sleep again, not tonight. He rakes through his hair and scrubs his face with the heels of his hands. The chair scrapes against the dirty linoleum when he gets up. Tonight, all he has to chase his ghosts is the stale coffee he finds in the back of a cupboard.

“When will she come back? Does she know where I am?” the boy asked the old man.

“Don’t know.”

“She always comes back.” The boy muttered to himself. The old man didn’t answer but put a plate with eggs and toast in front of the boy. He never stopped looking, waiting for his mother to come up the hill.

Even though the old man, Grandpa, tried to teach him reading writing and numbers, Luke was the oldest in his class by two years. And the target of scorn and ridicule.

Abandoned by his mother, left with a grandfather who didn’t believe in praise, he didn’t have many friends in school. Paulie Phillips was the closest thing to a friend. But Paulie was two years ahead and left to go to college. Luke learned early that when you get attached to someone, they will leave you. Better not to get too close or better yet, leave before they leave you.

He didn’t fit in. If asked, he’ll admit that he made no effort to do so. He trampled through flower beds. Knocked over bike racks. Shoplifted candy and cigarettes from the drug store. Snuck into the movie theatre without paying. Smoked in school. Skipped classes and chores and both took and gave a beating regularly.

People in town frowned and ignored him which was just fine with Luke. He took what change he could scrounge from his grandfather and left as soon as he turned eighteen. At first he went looking for his mother. But she rarely used her real name, moved from cheap apartment to cheaper hotel. She was so good at hiding, she erased herself.

It’s difficult to find a ghost. Except at night.

Eventually he gave up and drifted from one job to another. Staying ahead of the law, mostly. He did a stink in the army and finally learned discipline, became a sharpshooter, focused, relying on himself. When the letter from Mr. Quentin caught up with him, he came to collect what’s coming to him.

He’s no longer the belligerent punk he was as a teen. He’s learned right from wrong and the value of work. Though making connections, sticking around, trusting people, proving he is trustworthy is not his strength.

If he remembers correctly, each Saturday morning half the town sits down to coffee, doughnuts and gossip at Della’s. Wrapping himself in his old veneer of indifference, he opens the door and inhales the comforting scent of fresh bread and coffee.

Gradually conversations stop. Heads turn. Eyes weight and judge. Defiantly staring back, he scoots into the empty booth in the back. The one his grandfather always used.

“Luke, my condolences.” He nods while Della turns over the cup, fills it, and asks, “The works?” He grunts with a nod and picks up the large cup with both hands, closing his eyes against the stares and the steam from the hot brew.

“Luke.”

With a start he opens his eyes and places the coffee on the table. “Paulie.”

“How are you, man?”

“Pissed, confused. Mostly pissed.”

“How so?”

“He left me all of his shit, if I stay here for a whole fucking year.” Luke shakes his head. “Don’t know if I can take a year of those cold stares.” He flicks his eyes toward the room and the ones still looking at him. Still accusing.

“I know.” Paulie nods.

Luke sighs and picks up the cup. “I doubt it. But what about you.”

“Not much to tell. You know I went to college. I’m a pharmacist now. Dad had a stroke a month after I graduated. I had to take over the shop immediately. Dad couldn’t help. But I got it now.” Paulie smiles. “And your mom?” Paulie asks cautiously.

“I looked. She disappeared.” Luke shakes his head. “Still looking around every corner, though. Still looking for ghosts.”

“Putting all that shit, our doubts, anger, memories, ghosts to rest is tough, man.” Paulie makes a vague motion to include the whole town. “It takes courage, I think, and strength to go on despite what we think and feel.”

They sit in silence for a while, sip their coffee.

“I remember being sure I couldn’t step blindly into my father’s shoes. But I had to, you know? And with time … In time I learned to trust myself and my education. And eventually, they learned to trust me.”

Luke nods and drains his cup. “How the hell am I going to find that trust?”

“Seems to me your grandfather has given you time.”