Gabriel's Horn

Gabriel's horn (also called Torricelli's trumpet) is a particular geometric figure that has infinite surface area but finite volume. The term ‘Gabriel’s Horn’ refers to the belief that Gabriel will blow a horn as a call to judgment.

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Ruth Rendon looked around the room, amusement apparent on her face. Grandpa Gabriel Rendon’s will had just been read, and the shocked faces around the table bore testament to the odd contents of the will. Gabriel Rendon’s $131 million estate would be liquidated and given to various charities. His three kids were all to leave his house and fend for themselves, but each was to receive a ‘parting gift,’ as he put it. The parting gifts all had a catch, though, and this is where the will became weird.

“We may as well begin with you, Alex. Let’s see…” Harold Winthrop shuffled through some papers, peering at each one intently until he found what he was looking for.

“Ah. Here we go,” Winthrop pushed his glasses further up on his nose and began reading. “My dear Alex. You were always late, even when you were born. You treated time as if it were infinite. You squandered your opportunities and wasted your talents. So, I bequeath you this ormolu clock. Let it be a reminder that time is precious.”

Winthrop left the room and returned a few seconds later with the clock.

“It’s been valued at $300 by three independent appraisers,” Winthrop stated, setting the gilded bronze clock in front of Alex.

Alex looked at it with distaste. It was gaudy and ugly and reeked of neglect. Belinda, his wife, made a moue and frowned at the object. Both sat back in their chairs after a few seconds, disappointed and angry.

“Thanks, dad,” Alex muttered.

“We can contest this, right? I mean…” Belinda left the sentence unfinished.

Winthrop cleared his throat before speaking. He gave each couple a stern look as he spoke.

“You may, but it will do you no good. This will is airtight. I made it myself,” he said. A soupçon of pride echoed through his words.

Winthrop then shuffled through some more papers before beginning again. His eyes focused on the paper in front of him and he read the words carefully before speaking.

“Cynthia, you’re next. Let’s see…My dear Cynthia. You have always read me wrong. In truth, you have read everything and everyone wrong, including that dolt Robert…”

“Hey!” Robert said, jumping up and then sitting back down immediately when Winthrop glared at him.

“…including that dolt Robert. Why you had to get knocked up in your first semester of college is beyond me. However, you gave me a wonderful grandchild, and I thank you for that. Sweet little Ruthie has given me more pleasure than all of my kids combined. So, I bequeath you a box of books. Mixed genres. Perhaps you can read them and take their lessons to heart so that you may someday learn to see things as they are.”

Winthrop left once again and returned with a heavy box. He sat the box down in front of Robert and walked back to his seat, puffing gently from the exertion. He shuffled through some more papers before addressing the couple again.

Cynthia and Robert stared at the box but didn’t open it. They would never open it.

“There’s a Mrs. Mickenham in Germany that will pay $300 for the books. The estate will pay the shipping costs if you care to sell to her. Well, that takes care of that,” Winthrop wiped his glasses and shuffled through more papers until he found what he was looking for.

 “Your turn, Mickey. Yes, I have it right here,” Winthrop said. He took out the piece of paper and looked it over carefully before reading it aloud. A slight smile came to his face.

“My dear Michael. You have an amazing ability to draw the wrong conclusions. You assumed that you could drive home drunk and not get caught, but you did get caught. You assumed you could cheat your way through college, but you couldn’t. You assumed that I would support you for the rest of your life, but I won’t. Because of this, I bequeath you a drawing. You should study it carefully and learn that drawing is a skill that takes time and effort to master.”

Winthrop repeated his recent actions and brought in Michael’s gift. A drawing of a ballerina was ensconced in a thick, heavy oak frame. Michael picked it up and stared at it before tossing it back down on the table. The clatter of the heavy wood on the tabletop was deep and grating.

“Valued at…hmmm…yes, the frame is valued at $325. The drawing, I’m afraid, has not been appraised,” Winthrop said before returning to his seat.

“Fuck me. Hell, the picture isn’t even any good. I bet the old man drew it. What is that, chalk? The fucking frame is so fucking thick…”

“Yes, well. I believe that we should move on. One more bequest,” Winthrop smiled at Ruth before he began reading.

“My dear Ruthie. You are my favorite person in this world, and my most treasured friend. Because of how I feel about you, I leave you nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sure everyone there will wonder why, but I suspect that you know why. Feel free to share the reason. Or not.”

Everyone except Winthrop stared at Ruth. They had expectant looks on their faces, and her uncles and aunts were actually gloating over the contents of the letter. Since none of them liked Ruth, they were happy to see that the old man stiffed her.

Ruth, though, smiled and held out her hand for the letter. She read it three times, nodding and laughing quietly. After a couple of minutes, she carefully folded the letter and stuck it in her purse. She looked up and noted that everyone was still staring at her.

“What?” The smile on her face certainly confused her aunts, uncles, and parents. Winthrop seemed unaffected by it all, busying himself with finding yet another piece of paper to read.

“Why are you so happy about this, dear? I mean…” Cynthia spoke.

“Can I smoke?” Ruth directed her question to Winthrop.

“Er…we have a strict no-smoking policy here. However,” Winthrop pointed behind Ruth, “we have a window and a portable fan.”

Ruth gazed at Winthrop, cocking her head slightly to the right.

“I…er…like a quiet and contemplative cigar on occasion,” Winthrop offered.

Ruth threw open the window and turned on the small fan. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out quickly, sighing in contentment. She would like a drink as well, but she didn’t push it. Winthrop, she was sure, would supply her with a stiff shot of something expensive and smooth, but then everyone would want one.

“Grandpa Gabriel wants me to stand on my own two feet and not to be sucking off of the family tit,” Ruth turned to the group before she spoke.

“Language!” Cynthia said in a strident voice.

“Yes, mother. Language. Forthright English.”

“Humph!” Cynthia said. She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in a sulk. As far as she was concerned, this day was a disaster. She was not alone in this sentiment.

“We er…we have codicils. Options for all of you, if you will. Here, let’s see, the same for all of you…ok,” Winthrop cleared his throat and read the codicil to himself. He put the paper down and stood up to address all assembled.

“The codicil states, in simple terms, that if you hand over your bequest to Ruth then you will receive a check for your parting gift’s appraised value from the estate.”

The clamoring started immediately and the volume increased with each passing comment. Ruth stood by the window and smoked another cigarette, wishing that they would all just shut up, but it would be rude to tell them to shut up.

“Shut up!” Ruth yelled.

The clamoring stopped. Ruth continued to stare out of the window, smoking her cigarette and thinking her own thoughts. Mostly, she was missing her grandfather.

“I have another letter to be read to the people involved. It states…”

“Another fucking letter,” Michael muttered.

“Shush!”

“Let him read it so we can get this over with, for God’s sake.”

Winthrop peered over the top of his glasses until the room quieted.

“You may be wondering about this, so I will explain it, though I feel no obligation to do so. My children have all prided themselves on, as they say, thinking outside of the box. That’s bullshit, don’t you agree? You care about externals. Appearances. You have all built façades but have never delved inside. My dear Ruthie believes in exploring the inside of the box. She wants to understand the contents of the box, so she will treasure the drawing that I know Michael won’t like, she will read the books that Cynthia will never read, and she will tinker with the broken clock that Alex is surely looking at with disdain. You will all appreciate the money much more than you would ever appreciate something that came from my heart.”

Everyone was silent, including Ruth, but it was only Ruth that found tears in her eyes. She sniffled a little and wiped away her tears. Winthrop poured out a small measure of brandy in a crystal glass and handed it to Ruth. She smiled gratefully and swallowed it in one gulp. The others were not offered a drink.

“Yeah, ok. Give me the money. Here,” Michael set the drawing by Ruth, “take this damned thing.”

The others followed suit. Ruth was now the possessor of the parting gifts and the others had a little money. Papers were signed, checks were handed out, and the office emptied out quickly. Ruth remained behind, not wanting to mingle with the others as they left. They would be saying ugly things about Grandpa Gabriel and she didn’t want to hear it.

Ruth and Winthrop sat down and had a drink together, neither speaking for several minutes. Winthrop lit a cigar and blew the smoke towards the window.

“So. Ruth. What do you make of it all? I have to admit that I can’t fathom your grandfather’s motives here. The parting gifts are all…”

“Trash?” Ruth laughed. “No, they all mean something. Grandpa Gabriel had his fun, though. Savaged his kids. I loved it.”

“Yes, he was pretty severe.” Winthrop doused his cigar and disposed of it in the restroom. Ruth got up to leave.

Winthrop had a couple of his clerks help her with the clock and the box of books. With a wave and a promise to keep her updated on the liquidation of the estate, the lawyer and the granddaughter parted.

**************

Harold Winthrop was puzzled, and a little concerned. Ruth Rendon had called him out of the blue, three years after the reading of her grandfather’s will. Needed to discuss something with him, she said. And she needed an address. Winthrop, being Winthrop, thought ominous thoughts.

He arrived at Ruth’s apartment that afternoon, looking around and grimacing slightly. Ruth, the college professor and an author of modest renown, was still living in a place that he considered beneath her, and in a neighborhood better suited to the lower classes. Winthrop knew that he was a snob and he didn’t care; as far as he was concerned, his elitism was nothing more than the acknowledgement of reality.

Ruth’s apartment was small and dingy, cluttered and clean. The only exception to this were the ashtrays festooned with cigarette butts. Ruth offered Winthrop a drink but he declined; if her taste in liquor was anything like her living quarters, it would be cheap and rough.

“I know, I know! But I just bought a house, Harold. My last book is doing well and, well, it’s time,” Ruth sat down and lit a cigarette. She offered one to Winthrop, who declined with a shudder. He did not care for tobacco wrapped in paper.

“I’m gonna miss this old place,” Ruth said. Winthrop wondered why.

“Do you require advice on movers, or…” Winthrop hesitated, not knowing what to say. Ruth was perfectly capable of doing things like this. Unlike her family, she just dove in and got the job done.

Ruth scoffed gently.

“Hell no. I have undergrads for that sort of thing,” she said. It was true. As an English professor of some renown and a reputation for being strict, the sycophants would come crawling out of the woodwork to help her.

“Then…” Winthrop prompted Ruth, for he had no idea where this was going.

“The thing is, I want to sell the books that Grandpa Gabriel left for my mom. To that woman. Mickenham, I think.”

Winthrop lit a cigar and stood by the kitchen window, blowing the heavy blue smoke out. The breeze caught it, whisking it away to parts unknown. Ruth sat down and waited for the lawyer to address her.

“It’s none of my business of course, but I wonder if you would satisfy my curiosity. The books are not worth that much, Ruth. Why not just take them to a bookstore and sell them?”

Ruth smiled a smile that Winthrop, not being a student of the subtleties of human nature, took as a sign that she was a little sad at letting go of her mother’s stuff but she felt she needed to do so if she were to completely divorce herself from her parents’ toxicity. But that wasn’t it. The smile was because Ruth had a secret that delighted her, a secret that, if known by her family, would guarantee a cataclysmic response from them.

“I like the woman, though I know nothing about her. She obviously likes books, so I figure that she’d appreciate these particular books, especially since she lives on a teacher’s salary and is willing to lay out $300 for them.”

Winthrop nodded, not completely convinced that Ruth was telling him the entire truth of the matter. He moved to the sofa and accepted a glass of water. He regretted this almost immediately when he heard the tap running in the kitchen. As a man of some taste and discretion, he considered tap water good for washing dishes, bodies, and clothes but not for drinking.

“I must ask. Will you do anything with the broken clock? Perhaps sell it to some itinerant clockmaker? And will you sell the God-awful drawing to some rich widow who wouldn’t know art if it hit her in the face? I just don’t understand this sudden need to get rid of the items that meant so much to your grandfather.”

Ruth stared out of the window for a few seconds before speaking, wiping away a few tears.

“My grandpa and I spent a finite amount of time together, but he imparted some infinite wisdom to me. To his kids, too, but they didn’t listen. Part of that wisdom were the gifts that he knew I would get, his kids’ actions being predictable that day you read out the will.”

Ruth turned to Winthrop and looked at him intently, almost like she were inspecting a butterfly pinned to a board behind a glass display.

“The gifts were genius, and it took me three years to figure this out.”

It was Winthrop’s turn to stare at Ruth with an intensity that he didn’t know he had.

“Well…er…I don’t think I understand, Ruthie.”

“It’s ok. I was meant to understand. Just me. I just need the woman’s address.”

Winthrop complied and left quickly after the information was given. He felt unsettled and unsure of what had just happened. He would never understand the old man or his granddaughter.

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An English teacher in Stuttgart, Germany just had a stroke of luck. She had bought a box of books from an American English professor, only to discover some signed first-edition novels by Edgar Allen Poe, Flannery O’Conner, and Mark Twain. The signed copies sold at auction for $3 million, making Twilla Mickenham an instant millionaire. She offered to split the proceeds with the American professor, but the American, defying everything we know about Americans, declined the offer. Miss Mickenham stated that she will now take a long vacation and start writing the novel she always wanted to write…

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Mr. Jerome Januk, a jeweler and watchmaker from San Antonio, Texas, discovered a 23-carat diamond inside an old ormolu clock he had bought from a woman for $300. The diamond, valued at $3 million, was sold to the De Beers Corporation and is currently being displayed at their headquarters in Belgium. Mr. Januk didn’t know the woman who sold him the clock, stating only that the woman claimed that the clock had been her grandfather’s clock and that he would want someone who appreciated it to have it. Mr. Januk has since retired and is traveling the world with his wife…

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Ruth hung the drawing in her bedroom, complete with lighting and a proper frame. She read the artist’s name, tracing out the letters in her mind. D-e-g-a-s. The signature had been hidden by the ugly, thick frame it had been encased in.

The ballerina stared back at her, cool and impassive and…something else was there. Iron in her eyes. Yes, iron. A sweet and determined willingness to dance like a goddess for the rest of her life. Ruth giggled and then went to her study to grade some essays. Like a goddess.