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“The Literary Inheritance” (FridayFlash)

“The Literary Inheritance” by P.J. Kaiser

The call from Alice, my mother-in-law, came at 9am on a Saturday.  Steven, my father-in-law, had died.  We left home in a flurry of clothes, suitcases and phone calls.  More emotional than I have ever seen him, my husband talked to his mom on his cell phone for most of the three hour drive while I fought back tears from the driver’s seat.  Our son – eight year old Ben – sat in the back seat and stared out the window.  I had told him that grandpa had died and that we were on our way to visit grandma.  I explained she would need us to stay there for at least a few days.  My flexible writer’s schedule allowed for such deviations from routine, but I knew that my husband’s employer wouldn’t be so easy.

We had just seen my in-laws two weeks prior when they had come to visit us for Easter.  He seemed to be in perfect health, he walked every day with Ben to the park.  Then came this news that he dropped dead from a heart attack.

For the last part of our trip, we rode the ferry from Seattle to Vashon Island.  The three of us momentarily forget the day’s tragedy and enjoy the spectacular views of Puget Sound.  We arrived at Steven and Alice’s house – a red brick home dwarfed by an oversized pine tree in the yard.  The house sat atop a hill and overlooked the water.  Upon arrival, I went about fixing a meal for everybody.  I knew poor Alice hadn’t eaten a bite and it was already mid-afternoon.  As the four of us gathered around the dinner table, Steven’s absence was palpable.  Everybody had assigned seats and his empty chair – in between Alice and John – dominated the table.   I bit my lip and forced myself to eat.  We tried to focus on the mundane.  The appointment to plan the funeral was Sunday morning.  John’s sister, living in San Diego, had been called and her flight would arrive at 8:30pm.

At one moment in a lull in the conversation, Alice looked at me and said, “You haven’t told anybody, have you?”

Taken aback by the question, I said, “No.  I told Ben’s school there had been a death in the family.”

“Johnny, can you call Les and have him come over this afternoon?”

John said, “Sure, Mom.”

I looked expectantly at Alice and my husband thinking that they might explain who Les was, but no explanation was forthcoming, and so I kept on eating my lunch.  After lunch, I took Ben out for a bike ride so that John and his mother could have some privacy.

While roaming the neighborhood streets that wound among the hills in the neighborhood, Ben and I continued our discussion about death and I tried to prepare him the best I could for the events to come.  When we got back to the house, there was a dark Lincoln Town Car in the driveway.  As we went inside, I heard voices coming from the living room.  A man’s voice was saying, “- and we’ll plan for a public reading of the will, of course.  If the funeral is on Tuesday, we can have the reading on Wednesday.”  Was he talking about Steven?  Why would a retired insurance salesman need to have a public reading of his will?  And who was this Les guy?

Holding Ben’s hand, I poked my head into the living room and said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry.  We’re back – just wanted you to know I’ll be upstairs with Ben.”

As I turned my back to leave, Alice said, “No, it’s best you stayed.”  As I turned my head, I saw Les give Alice a glaring look.  “No, it’s high time she knew.  She’s going to find out anyway.  Ben, sweetheart, would you mind going to watch a DVD for awhile?”

I got Ben set up with the upstairs TV with one of his favorite DVD’s and I slowly went into the living room and took a seat next to John.  I reached over and held his hand and he gave my hand a squeeze.

Alice said, “My dear, Les is my husband’s publicist.” I glanced at Les and he partly rose from his seat and reached over to shake my hand.  I gave him a weak, confused smile.  “You see, Steven was a writer.  He was always very secretive about his writing and he used a pen name.  He never wanted anybody to know about his writing, he really didn’t even share it with me.  I got to read his books along with the public after they were published.  We always felt bad keeping it from you, dear, but that’s just the way Steve was.  He wanted it that way.  He didn’t even talk about it with John and his sister.”

I looked at John who had a squeamish, apologetic look on his face and at Les and Alice who wore earnest smiles.  “I see.  Well, that’s wonderful – I mean – I’m glad that he found something that he loved doing.”  I felt uncomfortable that the focus had been put on me.

Alice said, “Steven’s pen name was Christopher Musgrave.”

I gasped and my hand flew up to my mouth. “Oh, my God!” To be a secretive writer was one thing, but to be a New York Times best-selling author, and winner of the National Book Award was quite another.  I could not even attempt to reconcile my mild-mannered father-in-law with Christopher Musgrave, one of my favorite authors.  I could see by their faces, though, this was no joke.

Alice continued, looking straight at me, “I know we should wait until the reading of the will to discuss this, but I know that Steven had always said that if he were to pass away in the middle of a novel, he would want you, dear, to finish it.  He had been working on the notes for his next novel for three months before he died.”

My eyes grew wide, “And he wanted me to finish it?” My face grew red and I glanced at John who was beaming at me.

Alice said, “Yes, dear.  It’s about a writer who gets her big break when she inherits an unfinished manuscript from her father-in-law.”

January 7th, 2010 | Category: #FridayFlash, Short stories

31 comments to “The Literary Inheritance” (FridayFlash)

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