Inheritance

A sudden turn in my grandmother’s health had signaled the imminence of an inheritance, and I was quick to seize on the opportunity to be the favoured grandchild. I would see to her personal care, and the care of her property, which would’ve come at a cost her miserly attitude would’ve loathed. The task, though unattractive, was to my mind certain to result in becoming her primary beneficiary. Her vile temperament had managed to alienate the majority of our clan. Those whose greed may have tempted them to maintain some illusion of loyalty were disowned for arbitrary transgressions. A cousin failed to say ‘bless you’ when another relative sneezed in her presence, and was promptly banished for the crime.

Though she never had a kind word to say to or about me, for some reason, I seemed to evade the random exiles that were bestowed to others in the family. In my younger days I had even taken liberties with disagreeing with her on matters of political theory or art criticism. Despite her furious insistence that my various inadequacies prevented me from having any right to opinion, I never found myself subject to the decisive dismissal that my other relatives would face.

It was the relative warmth of this familiarity that gave me the opportunity to serve as my grandmother’s caretaker. For seven grueling years I performed household chores, ran errands and maintained her abode dutifully. Not that she ever demonstrated appreciation. If anything, her abuse worsened with more regular interaction. Through the perpetual barrage of insults, slurs and passive-aggressive remarks, I was determined to get my hands on that fortune. Therefore, I suppressed the mounting urge to strangle the rotten hag and played the meek little mouse.

My best efforts to keep up the house couldn’t mask the creeping signs of age waring on the place. The colours of the wallpaper and upholstery bleached through the hazy window panes, making every surface appear desaturated. Antiquated decorations made the building seem much older than it really was. It was furnished like an Edwardian manor, with stuffed animal heads, chintz patterns and books for display over function.

There was one vibrant exception that managed to explode out of the gloomy atmosphere – a parrot. The bird had brilliant malachite feathers, with deep blue tips and ruby patches beneath its wings. It had a large, tangerine beak and dark, unwinking eyes. As is common to many species of parrots, this one was a capable mimic and knew the chorus to many popular songs as well as the entirety of “Shine On, Harvest Moon.”

The bird and I were very fond of each other, as is the ironic introduction to many disastrous relationships. My loneliness compelled my attachment to the sole form of amical company available, and the parrot was compelled by my generosity with treats. I would whistle a tune and have the melody resolved by the parrot, in rhythm no less. The musical animal was a wonderful companion between my grandmother’s rages, and she made no attempt to separate us, which was a kindness deeply at odds with her character.

At long last my grandmother was finally bedridden and became truly beastly. Her ragged breathing, pathetic weakness and long rests stoked a faint grin of anticipation in my cheeks. Though deeply inappropriate, my wicked feelings did at least renew the enthusiasm with which I did my chores. The most wonderful day occurred when she finally lost her voice. I was too shrewd to make any show of overt celebration, but toasted a glass of cognac by the fire, my feathered companion perched in his cage beside me.

It did take several months for the crone to finally slip away to sleep for the last time, and oh what a joyous day it was. The funeral was populated entirely by beaming faces, save for those who dwelled on how they would never see a cent of the old battle-axe’s money. I was given the nigh impossible task of complimenting my grandmother in her eulogy, but capitalized on the opportunity for thinly veiled snide remarks. An uncle took me aside afterwards to compliment my wit, the first kind thing said to me by anyone since I had become my grandmother’s caregiver.

Once she was finally entombed there was no time taken for the reading of her will. Despite my certainty, I held my breath. The lawyer read aloud,

“The entirety of my estate is to be given to my nephew-”

I released my breath. Unfortunately, my elation would not survive my naming as successor.

“- under the provision that my pet parrot is cared for, for the duration of its life, up to a minimum of living thirty years. Should the parrot die before that time or is assessed to die of anything other than natural causes before that time, including neglect, medical issue or injury, said estate shall be surrendered to the state. Seeing my nephew’s affection for the animal assures me that he will be able to undertake the task with little difficulty, despite his lax efforts in caring for my home.”

I choked on my anger. After every labour I undertook, every scathing criticism I withstood, the endless patience I had demonstrated she still kept the money just beyond my reach. Moreover, she had given the added burden of caring for the beast without her financial support, and I would be forced to gamble on the lifespan of the damned creature regardless of whether I took every measure to ensure its longevity.

The parrot was twenty years old, and healthy, but parrots are known to succumb to sporadic ailments even with careful keeping. I couldn’t simply kill it, otherwise the money would be gone forever. Contesting the will was possible, but without my grandmother’s money I had no real resources. It was my miserable determination that I had no choice but to follow the witch’s wishes.

I was allowed to stay in my grandmother’s house until such time as I would be entitled to her money, but I would have to support myself with my own meager finances. It seems as though she was loath to the thought of letting her things fall into disrepair, but hated even more the thought of parting with a thin dime of her own.

The only room that I could afford to properly heat was the living room. I moved my small bed in there so that I could be close to the fire, and maintained the whole property without a staff. I was forced to keep the bird in the living room with me, else it may freeze somewhere else in the house.

Time poisoned my feelings towards the parrot. The bird would bite, crow in the middle of the night, and always demand attention. I was obligated to care for it, but with passing years I grew increasingly neglectful. Its feathers dulled in colour and it became increasingly restless, rattling its cage and screeching. We had gone from being fellows to being inmate and jailer, and our mutual hatred ripened through our isolated entrapment.

I was in bed, thumbing through another of my grandmother books that read like a lecture on the colour beige. I stared at the clock on the mantelpiece. It read eleven thirty. Nearly ten years had passed since the devil bird had become my obligation. But in just three days I would be free of it. Finally, my patience would be rewarded. I would get everything owed to me, and I could dispose of the bird altogether.

“REEEEEEEEEGH!”

My head shrank into my shoulders, and my body became a statue. Startled again by the damned bird’s screaming. The shrieks were expertly timed to galvanize the unwary. It shook its head, extending its ragged, dull plumage. Shocks of yellow speckled its feathers from its constant, anxious plucking. The parrot’s beak had nicked and worn the wire bars of its cell in every direction. I would’ve abandoned the mess that the bird made in its cage were it not for the smell.

The curtains were drawn on that frigid, moonless night. Then, a sound more horrible than the cry that had startled me began. A tune croaked out of the parrot’s gullet.

“The night was mighty dark so you could hardly see, for the moon refused to shine.”

Countless nights were scored by recitals of that hateful song. Endless, sleepless, torturous nights. I would not suffer one more. I leapt out of bed and bashed my fist against the cage. The parrot squawked in alarm and then continued.

“Little maid was kinda ‘fraid of darkness so she said, ‘I guess I’ll go.’”

I took the cage off of its stand and shook it violently. The bird flapped its wings, and some of its plumes fell out. The squawking became shrieks of protest and its became bit down on my hand, drawing blood. I screamed in agony and through the cage across the room, where it tumbled into the fireplace.

Horror and panic overtook me. I burned my hands trying to save the wretched creature, screeching and thrashing as it cooked in the flames. The fire engulfed its feathers and they quickly turned black as pitch. My efforts were all in vain, and the charcoal remains of all of my aspirations lay in the cage. All of my suffering had been for nothing.

There was no hiding my failure. The bird was required, alive and well, at the lawyers office to have the inheritance released. Third-party appointees reviewed the remains, and it was determined that I had violated the terms of my grandmother’s will.

I was forced off of the property and left to find my own way. Destitute, I’ve lived off of the pittance that I managed to scrap together from my ruined finances and the hard labour I’ve had to perform to keep myself from starving. I found a tiny apartment held by a landlord unperturbed by my credit. Tragically, the room was situated above a jazz club. No matter how tired or deep in slumber I was, I would always be awake to hear the band's favourite closing number.

"Oh, shine on, shine on, harvest moon up in the sky; I ain't had no lovin' since April, January, June or July."