RICHARD'S ESTATE

Richard came back some time last night, long after I had fallen asleep. In the morning I fell over his duffel bag in the entrance hall. It was about three months since the evening he had told Stephanie and me that he was going away. 

“I’ve left money in the kitchen,” he said.

He hoisted the khaki holdall onto his shoulder and walked out of the door.

“Where he's headed?” asked Stephanie. “Does he have a girl?”

“He never offered any information and I never asked. You know how it is. Where were we?”

“You were trying to undo my top button,” she said, snuggling into me.

Richard and I had been sharing the apartment for almost two years at the time he went off. We had met in the newspaper office when we were both advertising for flat-mates. We looked at each other and agreed on the spot. It was a strictly business arrangement between 2 strangers. We came and went in our own time, brought back take-out food or sleep-in company as we pleased. We stayed out of each other's hair and occasionally ate a light dinner together if we both happened to be home at the same time.

The char that we paid for had her own key and drifted in and out, the only sign of her existence being the cleanliness of the apartment and the disappearance of her weekly money. 

We were both in our early thirties. He was studying in the city, he told me, insurance or something. I was a lecturer in mathematics at the college of engineering.

His family came to visit him once, soon after he had moved in. His father was tall, bald and unsmiling, his mother nervous with fluttering, pudgy hands. She kept asking if he was getting enough to eat. He had a sister. She was slim and attractive, in her mid-twenties. I kept looking at her. After they had left I asked Richard about her. He had been evasive. “She's not really your type,” he said emphatically. “No, not for you.”

Six weeks passed and Richard hadn’t come home. I was worried. I called his parents. A man answered and I tried desperately to remember what Richard's father had sounded like. “It's Mark Dawson speaking, Richard's flatmate.”

“What can I do for you?” The voice was cold and businesslike.

“I wanted to know if you've heard from Richard. Is everything all right?”

“Thank you, everything is fine.”        

“How is your daughter? I'm sorry, I've forgotten her name.”

“Yes. Well, she's fine too. Is there anything else?”

“When is Richard coming back?”

“I'll find out and let you know. Good-bye.”

I never heard from him. The money Richard had left ran out and I decided to give him two more weeks before I began looking for a new flatmate. I couldn’t handle the rent on my own. That same evening I looked down into the street as I was closing the curtains. Richard's sister was standing on the pavement looking up at our second-floor apartment. She must have seen me. By the time I reached the street, she had disappeared.

The weeks passed and suddenly he was back. He walked into the kitchen wearing a pair of shorts and carrying a towel while I was drinking coffee and skimming through the paper. He looked very fit and well with a deep tan.

“Hello, Mark,” he said, “how've you been?”

“I'm fine Richard. Yourself?”

“Had a few ups and downs. But I'm fine now.”

“Where were you?”

“Mark, please don't ask me. I got you a bottle of Glenlivet.”

“Thank you. Let's have a drink this evening to celebrate your return.”

“Good idea, Mark. I'll get some nuts and olives.”

“Ask your sister to join us this evening for a drink.”

“Maybe. I'm off to the bathroom. Have a good day, Mark.”

She was there when I came in after work. “Mark, you've met Glynis, my sister, haven't you?”

My heart leaped for an instant. I poured the drinks and we sat down.

“Here's luck! Enjoy!” said Richard, raising his glass.

Before Glynis left I asked her for her phone number and after some hesitation she gave it to me.

“I'll call you,” I promised, “we'll go to the theater or dinner perhaps.”

“I look forward to it,” she said.

Two weeks later Richard and I were at home eating together, when he said. “I'm going away again tomorrow.”

“How long this time?”

“A week or two perhaps.”

“These are working trips?”

“Yes. You could say that, I suppose.”

“You've finished the studying, then?”

“Yes.”

“Insurance, huh?”

“Yes.”

He returned about 10 days later, went straight to bed and slept for 2 days.            

Strangely, I had missed him. I spent too much time watching the television coverage of the assassination in El Salvador and some bad movies. I took Glynis to a concert at the music center one evening and thought about inviting her back to the apartment, but I was nervous about Richard walking in on us. I wanted to ask if she had ever had a serious relationship, if she'd ever been to bed with a man, but I found it difficult to put the question.  

Stephanie dropped in one evening and we had an intense and noisy reunion in my bedroom. It was a month since she and I had a small disagreement that had ended with her storming out. Our reunion left us breathless and relieved to be back together. We were recovering on the settee when Richard walked in and announced again that he was off to unstated destinations and expected to be away for about a month. As usual, he left the rent and cleaning money on the kitchen counter together with a fifty, which had a little note, pinned to it. “Please get something to show Stephanie how pleased we are to have her back in the household.” I bought three bottles of gin with the money. She liked it with lime and lemonade.

A week later we were eating pizzas at La Fontana where they have the giant TV screen behind the counter. “Mark, look at that!” exclaimed Stephanie, gaping over my shoulder.

CNN had live coverage of the president of Nicaragua opening an agricultural fair. While he speaking he was shot. The cameras were close up on him at the critical moment. His mouth opened in surprise, blood welled into it as though being pumped from below and he toppled gracefully off the platform. CNN went to town on it. They showed the picture over and over. It was sickening. We never finished our pizzas.

Richard was back a week later carrying a liter bottle of Macallan 18-year-old for me.

“Enjoy!” he said when I thanked him.

Another bottle of expensive scotch! I wondered where the money was coming from.

A month later he announced that he was off again. This time I happened to walk into his room while he was in the middle of packing. “It must be cold where you're going,” I said, eyeing the thick winter clothes. Here it was August and the middle of a sweltering summer.

“Yes, it is,” he said shortly, turning his back to me, killing any further questions.

Stephanie and I decided to get married and I was in a hurry to tell Richard and give him as much time as possible to find a new flatmate. Also, Stephanie was pregnant and we were under pressure. I couldn't very well expect her to trot down the aisle behind an eight-month stomach.  

The first month of his absence passed fairly quickly what with our decision and the ensuing family excitement. The second month was one of anticipation. We expected Richard back any moment. Only once before had he stayed away so long. When we were in the third month and Stephanie nearing her fifth and showing, I became frantic.

I decided to call Glynis. “I'll be moving out of the apartment at the end of this month,” I said. “What should I do with Richard's things?”

That evening, Stephanie and I sat on the couch watching the TV news as usual. Rather, she was watching the TV and I was doing the crossword. At that precise moment I was trying to unscramble a long anagram.

“Another killing,” she said loudly. I looked up quickly in time to see a man's

head disappear in a violent red spray.

“Someone used a dum-dum on him. Nice job too. Who was he?” I asked.

“Minister of Something in the Land of Somewhere,” she said. 

Again CNN elevated the late Minister to star performer in its newscasts.

Richard walked in two weeks later looking thin and very tired. He ate and disappeared into his room. I heard him lock the door from the inside. I called Glynis to tell her that her brother was home.  

Two days later he appeared at breakfast and I told him my news.

“I always thought you two were right for each other. Make lots of children, okay?”

“Thanks, Richard. What about you? I haven't seen many girls around here lately, not since you started traveling, anyway.

“You're right,” he said. “I'll do something about it one of these days. Now, about the apartment. Move out whenever it suits you. I'll look after it until I find someone else.”

“On your own? It's a lot of money each month.”

“I can manage it.”

“That's good news. You got a raise, huh?”

“Yeah. And all the traveling expenses. You know how it adds up.”

I moved out that weekend. Luckily Stephanie's apartment was large and spacious with many unused nooks and corners. I filled them with my books. I carefully placed my beloved computer in a recess on the far side of the kitchen. The stereo set fitted neatly on top of her sideboard and I stole a drawer underneath for my tapes.

That evening we went to bed as though we were already married. In the morning I made toast while Stephanie made coffee. We left the apartment together and I dropped her off at the library where she worked. “Pick you up at five sharp!” I said as she closed the door. I drove on to the college. We were as good as married.

Finally, we married. My parents were delighted and I felt relieved and satisfied. The evenings were fun. We made dinner together or shopped around for a reasonably priced meal. We never spoke about Richard and we never heard from Glynis. I thought about Richard from time to time. How was he suddenly making money? In insurance? 

After our son was born we stayed home every evening and I turned into a couch-potato of the worst kind. Mostly I watched the movie channel, lifting myself onto my feet only to check on Stephanie and the baby or to make a cup of coffee. I watched movie after movie. When I needed a change of pace, I switched to CNN.

I found it to be addictive, able to hold my attention hour after hour without doing anything except update me on the problems of the world. At least the movie channel stirred my imagination and stimulated me, but the news channel was cold and emotionless. One evening I watched more starving children dying in Africa and saw yet another Central American government minister, this time from Costa Rica, gunned down while the cameras were trained on him. I began to wonder about the possibilities of signing a contract between the news channel and the assassin. “That would pay good money!” I chortled aloud. If someone could tip off the newsmen as to when and where the next assassination was going to take place, one could ask for just about anything, I thought.

I went to bed thinking about it, but it was in the magnitude of a bank robbery, so far-fetched did it sound. In the morning, the thought was gone. Richard rang and asked if he could call around with a gift for the baby. He brought one of those jumper suits with complicated zips and buttons. He also brought two rattles, a teething ring and a handful of cloth books. “These are great! You can use them in the bath,” said Stephanie excitedly.

“Yes,” said Richard. “I'm off again tomorrow, Mark,” he said.

“Going far this time?” I asked, feeling brave, what with the new baby and all.

“Oh, same old place again,” he said. As though I knew. It was maddening, this lack of information. I wanted to heap a hundred questions on his head and hold him down until every one had been satisfactorily answered. I pushed on, relentless as a tortoise in search of food.

“So where's that then, Richard?” How can he avoid that one?

“Oh, you know.....” he said, gesturing vaguely.

“Insurance, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“Which company?”

“Prudential.” Largest in the world. Impossible to check, even if I wanted to. I gave up. “Well, good luck, Richard. Have a successful trip.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your baby, you two. Make more. They're cute.”

Four months later the bell rang. I found Glynis standing on the doormat, crying.

“Come in, Glynis. What's the matter?”

“Richard isn't coming back. He's dead.”

I gaped at her.

“How do you know? How did it happen? Where was he?”

“I don't know,” she sobbed. “He always told me that if he didn't return from one of his trips or make contact with me by the end of four months, I should assume that he was dead.”

I took my handkerchief out and she grabbed it from me.

“Where was he?” I asked.

“I don't know! I don't know anything! He's dead! Dead, you hear!”

I stood looking at her, trying to absorb what she was saying.

“Goodbye, Mark,” she said with finality. She turned and walked out of the door, leaving me standing stupidly.

A year and another baby later, a letter bearing a city postmark arrived in the mail. It was addressed to Mr. Mark Dawson and was on the letterhead of a four-barreled legal firm.

I unfolded the pages and found a short handwritten note clipped to the top.

“Dear Mark, 

Despite our arm's-length relationship, I consider you a good friend.

The accompanying letter from my lawyers will explain everything.

Enjoy!           

Richard.”

I carefully unclipped the note.

“Dear Mr. Dawson,

Your late friend ....., professional marksman ....., worked for many years in the Central American countries ....., amassed a fortune ......, instructed us that after his parents and sister each received .....”

Richard must have been extraordinarily successful. He left me enough to buy an estate out in the country, where we now live. The sign that hangs over the post-box tells everyone that this is “Richard's Estate”.