The Vagabonds (12 page)
The sisters glance at each other. They cannot decide if the lawyer is commending or reproving them, if he means this as insult or praise. But the engine of his eloquence has warmed by now, kicked into gear, and he shows no sign of stopping. “I myself,” he says, “recollect your grandmother a little, but I was of course too young to
know
her as an adult; I might have been introduced once or twice and I surely remember her carriage—by which I don’t describe, although it would have been appropriate, a horse-drawn carriage but the way she walked, the positively
regal
fashion in which she conducted herself. And that she was kind to little children—which is, I always say, a mark of breeding; to be kind to the children and the animals among us is a sure sign of good manners, don’t you think?”
David rubs the armrest of his chair. All this may be leading them somewhere but he has no idea where. Beakes ceases for a moment and consults the file. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I do want to make myself clear. I do apologize. You will be speculating rather more on the contents of this folder than upon my theory as to mannerly behavior with other persons’ pets. Are you”—he puts his finger on the page and returns his reading glasses to the bridge of his broad nose—“familiar with the term
per stirpes
?”
Joanna shakes her head. Claire has, however, heard of it and wants to pass what seems like a test, and nods her head repeatedly. The lawyer ignores them; his question is, again, rhetorical, and he persists. “It means, in effect, ‘equal parts,’ as opposed to, say, ‘per capita.’ Let’s imagine there’s a sum of money to be distributed equally to you and your descendents. Well, unless I’m much mistaken you, Claire, have two children; you, Joanna, have a daughter; and you, David, at present have no child. So the sum could be divisible by three or, alternatively”—he counts this out on his fingers—“six. If we’re talking
per stirpes
it’s equal parts, if we’re talking ‘per capita’ Claire would receive three times as much as David, and Joanna would get twice as much, correct? Well, in this instance the sum is
per stirpes
and that’s quite simply that. No question about it at
all.
”
Beakes leans back in his swivel chair to gauge the effects of his speech. He makes a tent of his fingers and examines the ten cuticles and nails. “Excuse me,” Joanna admits, “I’m not sure I follow . . .”
“No, my dear. Why should you? We were not appointed the trustees of this particular account, and therefore I share what will no doubt be your own astonishment as to its size. The size of the bequest, I mean, the trust of which you three are sole and equal beneficiaries. I feel rather like that fellow Regis Philbin or, let’s say, a fairy godfather”—amused, he titters—“when all I am, of course, is a mere messenger. With very—I might even say astonishingly—good news.”
And then he does explain it. In 1916 their grandmother, a young woman whose birth, Beakes reminds them, was coeval with the century, came into entitlement of some shares of stock—fifteen, to be precise—of the General Electric Company. She was herself to have no access to the sum, since it was held in trust for her own child, and that’s where the rule against perpetuities comes in; the child was yet unborn. But that needn’t concern us, Beakes repeats, it’s milk spilled very long ago and water far under the bridge. The bank has sent him figures, and he’s happy to disclose amounts and will do so in a moment, but he wants to make certain beforehand they understand the situation here. I mean by this that, given the relatively modest circumstances of your mother’s life, the size of the estate to which she in fact had access would have come as a surprise. And even, perhaps, as a shock.
At any given moment, Beakes continues, your mother could have sold the shares, but for whatever reason Alice did not choose to; she left the trust untouched and simply let it grow. And
that
was a wise fiscal move. General Electric, as you no doubt know, has had some problems recently, and there’s been quite a drop-off from the historic high. Still and all you could have done far worse and couldn’t do much better; there are few, if any, companies whose stock has multiplied so often, who have been listed on the New York Stock Exchange for so many years, and the fifteen shares I spoke of—he consults the sheet in front of him—now represent, you’ll be I think amazed to hear, 69,120 shares.
Sixty-nine thousand,
Beakes repeats, from fifteen shares in 1916; it’s what I think they mean by standing pat and sitting pretty, isn’t it, it’s doing very well indeed by leaving things alone . . .
Again, he consults the spreadsheet he holds; he runs his fingers down a column and reads out the stock’s history; there were splits of
four
for one, he tells them, in 1926 and again in 1930, of
three
for one in 1954 and again at the millennium, in the year 2000. In addition there were splits of
two
for one in 1971, 1982, 1987, 1994 and 1997; put them all together they spell
jackpot,
ladies, David; sixty-nine thousand, one hundred twenty shares from an investment of fifteen . . .
Wonderingly, he tents his fingers and remarks about modernity, the exponential way things grow and grow and grow. Your mother must have known, he says, she must have had an inkling—but Alice did not spend a cent, not a red cent, and these last years, as you remember, she lived in straitened circumstances. I overstate the point, says Beakes, in order to establish it; she did not live in “straitened” circumstances—at least not by comparison with most of our neighbors in Saratoga County—but certainly in more modest ones than would have been the case had she elected access to those funds.
“So what does this amount to?” asks Claire.
“Today,” Joanna says.
“Or as soon as we can liquidate,” Beakes cautions them. “A tidy sum, a goodly sum, I can’t be exact to the penny because it changes every day, but if we were to sell right now we’re gaining on two million dollars. Which, after the estate exemption of a million now and even when the tax is paid—as per proviso two of the will—should net you in the neighborhood of half a million each. At yesterday’s share price of General Electric and at current market value”—he picks up a calculator and punches in the numbers—“it’s, to be more precise, one million, seven hundred and sixty-two thousand, five hundred and sixty dollars—not what it was last year, of course, but still a tidy sum!”
In the silence that follows he empties his mug. Then he smiles at them, avuncular, and says, “It’s funny, isn’t it, my secretary Harriet Robison is at her desk and unable to speak, she has a world-class case of laryngitis, whereas
I’m
doing nothing but talking. You must forgive me, children—and forgive me for calling you children, but it seems like only yesterday I watched you on your ponies or in school assembly, and it warms an old man’s heart to see you here again . . .
“Which leads me to my final point and then I’ll let you go. There’s one additional aspect of your mother’s letter”—he holds up the sheet for inspection—“that concerns everyone here; it doesn’t have the force of law, it’s not an obligation, but it was her hope that one of you might choose to remain in the cottage. David.”
“Excuse me?”
“We did discuss this,” Beakes continues. “We talked about it at length. It was your mother’s conviction that her daughters had households already and you—she called you her ‘rolling stone,’ David—would profit from such residence. An address which she hoped you’d make your own again. She was, I think it’s fair to say,
concerned
about impermanence, quite worried that you’d fail to find a resting place, and though she did not give the house to
you
alone, and though by law you can’t of course be forced to make your permanent abode in Saratoga, it was her fondest wish you’d think of the cottage as home.”
“We all do,” Claire declares.
Joanna nods her head.
“I cannot speak” the lawyer says, “to the nature of her decision with reference to which of you might settle most readily back in the house; I can, however, report on her intention in nontestamentary terms. This is clearly not an asset divisible by three until and unless it is sold, and Alice was explicit in the hope the house on Meadow Street might stay in the family. And I think she thought that David—”
“It feels like preferential treatment,” Claire interrupts. “To me.” And then, inquiringly, she turns to Joanna and asks, “To us?”
“To us,” Joanna says.
But the truth is she feels nothing, feels only the size of the change in her life, the shape of the future diverging, divergent already from present and past: how much all this money will mean. “I look forward,” says Joanna, “to looking back on this.”
Beakes laughs. “Just so,” he says. “Just so.”
“It isn’t amusing,” Claire persists. “We were equal parties, all of us, and everything was meant to be divided equally, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Except for the cottage,” says David.
“I hope I’m being clear; I want to be quite clear about this,” Beakes says again. He is, Joanna sees suddenly, old; he is tired and has done his job and wants this interview over. “What your mother has expressed here is a desire, only a
wish;
she could, of course, have deeded the cottage to David alone and made compensatory arrangements for you two”—he nods at the sisters, the daughters—“but did not choose to do so. Let me remind you of the third provision in the will: ‘I give and bequeath to my
three
children, as tenants in common, the land and premises where I have resided . . .’
“It would have been simpler, no doubt, if she had directed the house to be sold. But she did hope that one of you would call it, in the future, home, and
that’s
why I explained the matter of assessment—two local Realtors, fair current market value and so on—because it may well come to pass that
that’s
how you choose to proceed. And I think you’ll also be surprised at what’s happened to real estate hereabouts, the positive
boom
in the market! But this is something for the three of you to work out together, a discussion you don’t need me for. Or
want
me to be part of, I imagine.”
Beakes removes his reading glasses and folds them into a worn leather case, then snaps it shut. With his thumb and middle finger, he presses the sides of his nose. “So if we’re finished, ladies? David?”
He stands. “One final
final
thing,” says Beakes, “and though you’ll find it in the paperwork I myself don’t mind admitting it did bring me up short. Those shares of General Electric, those fifteen prime shares in 1916 your grandmother received? I’ve kept you long enough and won’t take any more of your time, but it will astonish you to learn which men conferred them. Thomas Edison himself, and Harvey Firestone and Henry Ford were the ones who established the trust. They
knew
her, it develops, way back when in this part of the world, and it’s clear they must have thought very highly of her, and I hope and trust you’ll take this”—he smiles—“
trust
as the compliment they would have intended to your lineage, your family. It’s no small pedigree to claim, and your grandmother must have been proud . . .”
They stand. They shake the lawyer’s hand and gather up their copies of the last will and testament of Alice Freedman Saperstone and file out of the office. Mrs. Robison is smiling, pointing at her throat and nodding her head ruefully. Then she holds out her memo pad, with the word
Laryngitis,
and points with her red ballpoint pen to where beneath it she has printed, in red block capital letters: HAVE A PLEASANT DAY.
2003
I
n the cottage once again they gather in the kitchen; they have stopped at Mrs. London’s and acquired coffee cake and a baguette with cheddar cheese and Genoa salami and lettuce and mustard and
pain au chocolat
and a pot of loganberry jam. On china from the breakfront in the dining room they lay out the fresh-baked provender and sit down to eat. There is a sense of ceremony and a shocked constraint between them; they speak about the bakery: how it used to be on a side street but now seems much more visible in its new location, and does anyone remember when Mrs. London’s moved? The Adelphi Hotel has a fresh coat of paint, new balcony trim, and does anyone remember if it’s the same shade of brown? Today is Lincoln’s Birthday, February twelfth; and they talk about St. Valentine’s and how, before they leave again, they should buy something special for Valentine’s Day to take back to their separate homes: a set of marzipan hearts or
milles feuilles
or that chocolate roulade on display . . .
Sun illumines the dirt on the floor. The linoleum has cracked. Joanna says, I need to be in Wellfleet by Friday, I promised Leah I’d be home in time for
West Side Story.
But it will be so excellent to bring back cake from Mrs. London’s; nothing on the Cape is half as good. Or half as expensive, she adds. When are
you
leaving, Claire inquires, and David says I don’t really know, I haven’t yet decided. Remember, says Joanna, you said you might drive out with me, you wanted to see Leah’s performance, and he looks up but does not answer and cuts the baguette in thirds.
“Not for me,” says Claire. “I’ll have a piece of
pain au chocolat
.”
“Do we sell right now?” Joanna asks. “Is that what we’re supposed to do?”
“You mean, GE?”
She nods. Joanna has been saving this to think about, to talk about, and now the time has come. There will be money arriving—enough to pay off the mortgage or shut up shop and cut and run to Mexico: enough to do whatever she pleases, and for Li-li too. It will be five hundred thousand at least, and maybe more, and that’s half a million better than her bank account; it’s a lottery ticket and Publishers Clearing House prize and trifecta all rolled into one. It might not matter to her brother and might not change her sister’s life, but it matters to her very much, and she cannot believe her good luck. This is more money than she has imagined, more than she had ever
dreamed;
good news, great news, and Joanna lights a cigarette and smiles at her siblings and stubs out the match.