The Inheritance (8 page)

“Do you want me to turn on the air, dear?” asks his wife, sticking her head in the room.

He waves her away. “No, no, it’s fine.” In front of him sits a thick manila envelope. He pries it open slowly, all of us watching, our shoulders hunched towards him in interest. He sets a piece of paper on top before he folds his hands and addresses us. “What you should know is this ‘reading of the will business’ isn’t very customary at all.”

The man I don’t know, large and Italian, says, “That’s not true. You see it all the time in uh, movies.”

“
Movies
. Make believe. My point exactly.” Donald takes a drink. “But Julian, as all of you know, had a flair for the dramatic so here we are. The formal reading of his will. Before we start,” he looks around the table, “would everyone mind introducing themselves?”

We go around the table, spitting out our names. The man I don’t know is Fabian Moretti.

Donald glances at the paper in front of him. “You’re all mostly accounted for, so let’s get started.”

Fabian receives a sizeable chunk of change for his “charity”, money that Martin will wire him by Wednesday. After Martin nods in acknowledgment, Fabian stands and leaves. Martin receives my father’s car, a vintage Aston Martin that remains in perfect condition, in a garage in Evanston. Darlene and Gina and my mother (I try not to look shocked) receive a sizeable chunk of money, not enough to live off of, but enough to send Gina into a small fit of tears, her fingers wiping at her cheeks before she makes prayer-like hands and says, “Thank you, god.” Ashleigh receives a three-year scholarship to DePaul, on the condition that she remains a Biology major and doesn’t transfer to “something useless”.

“And you, Miss Wheeler,” Donald says, running his finger down the list. “Will receive the remaining funds in your father’s combined accounts. A total of two-point-seven million dollars.” The women in the room turn to glare at me.
Her
? The girl who couldn’t love him less? “You will also receive Mr. Wheeler’s Gold Club membership card, giving you access to the most exclusive society in Chicago, and ownership of Mr. Wheeler’s condominium and half his stock portfolio, with mentorship by Mr. Simmons.”

Martin nods. “You can pick up the keys at the office on Monday.”

My hands, lazily resting in my lap, begin to tremble under the sharp gaze of the women around me. Darlene’s burning a hole in the side of my face as Gina and Ashleigh, across from me, bite their bottom lips to keep from lashing out. I don’t have to read their minds to know what they’re thinking.
He left all of that to that ungrateful little bitch?
The girl who ran around for years, telling anyone who would listen that I hated him; the girl who had to be dragged to his funeral; the girl who left his repass early to fuck a complete stranger who didn’t even stay to say goodbye.

“Do you…do you have a bathroom?” I ask Donald.

He nods. “Upstairs and to your right.”

It takes all of me to remain composed, exiting the dining room. Through the floorboards of the second floor I can hear Donald’s wife in the kitchen, singingly softly along with the radio, pots and pans clamoring in the sink. I close the bathroom door behind me, sliding the lock into place before I lower the lid on the toilet and take a seat.

It all comes rushing out of me: an uncontrollable sob that starts out like a pitter-patter of rain but monsoons into a full blown attack. The palms of my hands press into my eyes, trying to keep the tears from ruining my make-up but it’s no use. Black eyeliner stains my hands as it runs down my cheeks, my mouth twisting open as my shoulders shake.

My sanity, my rock-hard understanding of my father is shattered. In a handful of seconds he’s transformed from the heartless, cold man I always knew him to be, to complex and misunderstood. A man who knew nothing about having a daughter, but loved me enough to leave me almost his whole life.

I don’t know how long I’m in there but a knock on the door drags me out. It’s Donald’s wife, “Just seeing if you’re alright.”

I can’t fix my make-up, so I clean it all off. Bare-faced, I head back to the dining room where the sound of a new voice pushes my shoulders back and tightens my jaw.

He wouldn’t
.

Rounding the corner, I spot him.
Neal
. Lounging in the dining room chair on the other side of Martin. The two converse quietly, the women sitting restlessly around the table, Ashleigh’s cheeks stained with new tears, Darlene on her phone, Gina’s eyes darting between Donald and Neal.

I carefully step into the room. Neal meets my eyes. The corner of his mouth quirks into a grin. Instinctively, my eyes narrow.

“Ah,” Donald says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Now that Miss Wheeler is back we can continue.”

Neal’s eyes remain on my profile as I take my seat, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“One last thing,” Donald says. He takes another drink. “Mr. Wheeler leaves control of his business, J.M. Wheeler, to Mr. Neal Dietrich,” Donald looks at Neal, “an arrangement, I understand to be months in the making?”

Neal nods. “Four months to be exact.”

My head snaps in his direction. Neal raises an eyebrow as if to say,
what’s the big deal?

A wave of sickness brews in my stomach as my mother’s words loop in my head:
never trust men like your father.

Ashleigh’s the first to leave.

The six of us gather in an awkward cluster in Donald’s foyer, Darlene periodically checking her phone, desperately seeking the right time to politely filter out. Gina nervously chews on her thumbnail as her eyes dart between Martin, Neal, and Donald, the three men conversing about my father’s wealth and legacy and how
it’s all in good hands
.

The severity of it hasn’t hit me yet. The fact that hours ago I was a struggling – but content – teacher making thirty-five thousand a year. Despite my father bestowing upon me more money than I ever dreamed, I can’t shake that pesky envious feeling, biting at my ear lobe.
He never paid for my tuition, what makes Ashleigh so fucking special?

Darlene spits out a forced laugh, loud enough to disrupt their conversation. “I think I’m gonna head out,” she says. Then to Donald, “I’ll have my lawyers get in contact to finalize everything.”

Gina drops her thumb from her mouth. “I’ll walk you out.”

Without the two of them, I can’t stand to be in the same room as Neal, his eyes glossing over me after every few sentences, begging me to look at him, but I won’t. Liars are rarely worth a second glance. You can’t trust a word that comes out of their mouth and it’s exhausting, keeping up with the stories they spin.

What stings more than him fucking me and leaving, is he lied about knowing my father, a man who attempts to redeem himself in death, but alive was someone I couldn’t stand. I can’t imagine the type of man Neal must really be for my father to trust him with his business.

Silently, I follow Gina and Darlene out the front door. On the porch, Darlene turns to us, her smile tight and small.

“Well, what do you know,” she says, throwing up her hands.

“Yeah,” Gina says, thumb back in her mouth. “Makes you think, huh?”

They were talking about my father, in their roundabout way, the resentment between them too thick for an actual conversation.

Darlene nods. “It does.” Then to me, “I know I said it yesterday but again, I’m so sorry.”

A part of me wants to scoff. Darlene was there when my father went weeks without speaking to me. She was the one shoving me out the house when he tired of my presence. She knows there’s nothing to be sorry about. With the money my father left me, he’s more useful to me dead.

“Me too,” I say.

“Well then,” Darlene says, turning around.

Gina and I watch her walk to the end of the block, then turn left as she heads towards Broadway. In a few seconds she’ll hail down a cab, fingers tapping against her phone as she directs him to her hotel. She’ll spend a night out with her husband and son, paying for dinner as they bask in the knowledge that a large lump sum of money is coming and all she had to do was deal with my father for a few years.

“I guess that’s my cue,” Gina mumbles the second Darlene disappears. She takes a step off the porch.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Gina places her hands on her hips. “Yeah, you should be. What did I say about your father, huh?” She waits for an answer. I shrug. “
Jesus
. That he loves – he loved - you. I know he never really showed it but,” she waves her hand, “that’s how most men are. They’re all cold and angry but deep down they have a good heart.”

The combative fourteen year old step-child in me flares up for a moment.
He was an asshole
, I want to shout,
this doesn’t make up for shit
, but I bite my tongue and nod. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Where’d you go yesterday, anyway?”

“Back to the hotel. I just needed to get out of there.”

I expect her to say something along the lines of,
yeah, I know what you mean
, but Gina just nods and turns away. She slowly makes her way towards the sidewalk, as if she’s digging up something else to say, anything else, but nothing but silence stretches between us. She takes the same route as Darlene, up the street and to the right, towards the train station, to her little apartment in Logan Square.

I should leave. I don’t know what I’m waiting for until Neal steps out on the porch, hands in his pockets as he moves beside me.

“You have to understand --”

“It’s fine,” I say, voice full of malice.

“Caitlin.”

“No, really, all of this,” I shrug. “I don’t expect anything less from the CEO of J.M. Wheeler. Never have and I never will.”

I make a move to step forward, one step closer to the porch steps, but Neal blocks my path. “When are you going back to Baltimore?”

I step to the side and he follows. “Please move.”

He steps closer. “Not until you answer me.”

My jaw tightens as I look up at him. “It doesn’t matter when I’m going back because I never want to see you again.”

Neal’s eyes narrow. Not in malice but in intrigue. A challenge. “You don’t mean that.”

“You don’t nearly know me well enough to make that assumption. Now please,
move
.”

Neal steps out the way. I rush down the steps, the summer wind whipping through my hair. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t yell after me, but his eyes remain on my back, watching me as I go down the street and to the right, disappearing around the corner.

I move my return flight from Sunday to Wednesday giving me two days to clean out my father’s condo. Forty-eight hours to find a realtor, a good one, who can sell it within a week, without much interference from me.

There are no good memories floating around my father’s condo, even with the newness of it all. It would be torture, keeping it around and in the family, like a haunted mansion tucked on the outskirts of town where terrible things happened but no one likes to talk about it.

I crawl beneath my covers and Neal pops up in my mind. I can no longer smell him, housekeeping has replaced every sheet and pillow on my bed (per my request) but I can still feel him surrounding me. His thighs heavy beneath me, his hands kneading my breasts, his teeth against my neck, his mouth against mine. I force my eyes close but there he is again, in full color, grinning at me, his blue eyes sparkling.

He’s an asshole
, I repeat, over and over until I tire myself out.

______

Around eight pm, I pull myself out of bed, get dressed and head towards LaSalle, where a string of restaurants and bars surround the financial district. From the ground I can see my father’s office, all the way on the fortieth floor, the windows lit up with yellow as if he’s still there, working himself ragged, even after death.

His favorite place to take me, when he was forced to accompany me to lunch, was a small pizza place down the street from his job. It’s cliché in the worst ways – the red and white tile floor, the fake vines running along the brick wall, the framed photos digitally aged and deliberately crooked for “authenticity” – but the pizza’s delicious and the beer is cheap.

“Cheese and sausage flatbread, please,” I say to the bartender who hands me a tall glass of beer and takes my menu.

Paulie’s isn’t the sort of place you come to pick people up. The restaurant’s thick with families and college students on late-night outings, cheese dripping from their mouths, laughter bellowing from their stomachs. A few of them pass me sympathetic looks –
poor girl, here all alone
– but I don’t feel lonely. Chicago’s always been the city where I did everything solo. If anything, being by myself feels like home.

The bathroom door swings open and Ashleigh walks out. She doesn’t see me, her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, eyes red and wet with tears. She keeps her gaze on the floor, one foot on red, one foot on white, as she climbs on the barstool at the end of the bar and stares blankly at her menu.

It figures she would know about this place. I try to imagine my father, with his arm slung around her waist, leading her to a booth near the front window, wowing her with his memory of their one-hundred pizza toppings: jalapeno, sausage, pepperoni, brie, gouda, milk chocolate, white chocolate, dark chocolate, bell peppers (green or red or yellow), bacon, salsa, chicken, chips, anything your heart desires.

I can’t help but stare. She’s wearing the same clothes as this morning: a modest pink skirt, white blouse, and white heels. She looks eighteen at the most. My stomach tightens at the thought of my father courting her around town.

Like all of my father’s girlfriends-turned-wives, she’s undeniably pretty. The eye-catching kind that may or may not last as she ages, but it’s enough to keep your attention now. Several college-aged boys are unable to take their eyes off her. One of them plans to make a move. He stands and rubs his hands together and there’s something about it that gets me on my feet.