A young attorney named Jefferson Alcott, who had done some work with Sy, had been brought in by the Alt family to handle the practice while they decided what to do for the long term. He was expected to tread water on the major matters but certainly had the capacity to change a will. It was easier for Roy to deal with a stranger like Alcott on this matter than it would have been with Sy, who would have given him an argument.
After exchanging handshakes with Alcott, Roy asked about Celia Phelps, Sy’s longtime assistant and mistress. He knew the family would oppose her continuing in her job, but had not expected to find her gone so soon.
“She’s with us on a contingency basis,” said Alcott, a sinewy man with a shock of sandy hair and a rather darker mustache. His suit, shirt, and tie each displayed a slightly different shade of gray. “I’ve brought in my own people, but we’re going to need Celia to help us navigate through the maze.”
That arrangement would undoubtedly be complicated. Celia, a drab little person, a total contrast to Dorothea but perhaps more devoted to Sy’s professional success and personal well-being, was not to be seen at the funeral, surely in deference to the wishes of the family, who would also no doubt legally fight any clause in Sy’s will that left a penny to the woman he habitually referred to as “good old Ceil.”
“You asked us to dig out your will,” said Alcott, tapping the document in question as it lay before him. “It seems to be in order.” To see a stranger behind Sy’s desk was not that startling, for Roy had seldom found Alt there.
Roy produced a sheaf of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve prepared a list of additions, codicils, or whatever you call them. Sorry about the handwriting, but I can’t type and didn’t want to ask anyone else to do it. At least I think it’s legible.”
Alcott’s mustache quivered in a smile. “Lawyers love handwritten documents! Or at least if one supports their case. They’re hard to challenge.” He accepted the two sheets, unfolded and quickly read through them, emitting murmurs of assent. “Uh, yes, the Holbrooks are minors? Yes…yes…‘Llewellyn’ is four ells?” He made a mark with a silver pen. “Yes…yes.” He raised his head and lowered his pen. “You want the Holbrooks to get their bequests when each reaches his or her majority?”
Roy gave him an account of the incident involving Francine and her husband. Alcott of course knew about the subsequent murder-suicide, a famous event throughout the region. “Both families were talking about suing me. I don’t know how this stood at the time of Sy’s death, but if you can’t find it in the files, that’s something Ceil might help you with. I guess if I weren’t alive, they could still sue the estate?”
“Excuse me for asking, Mr. Courtright. You’re a young and very healthy-looking man. I hope you haven’t an illness.”
Roy tried to be disarming. “I sell vintage high-performance cars, and I like to test them at speed. I’m not a reckless driver, but accidents can happen. I tend to be superstitious, and these recent deaths of people I’ve been associated with have had an effect.” He paused. “I want to make sure the Holbrook children get something in trust that the adults in those families can’t intercept.”
He and the attorney discussed this bequest further and then went again through the list of the others, verifying spellings, addresses, and sums. Alcott promised the amended document would be ready for signing and notarizing as early as Monday afternoon.
“Tomorrow.”
Alcott was incredulous. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. And we’re just moving in, Mr. Courtright.”
“Then you’ll be here,” said Roy. “I’m nervous. I don’t want to wait the whole weekend. I was a damn good client of Sy Alt’s.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that, Mr. Courtright. I hope you’ll stay on with us. I know your business and those beautiful cars: It’s a credit to this community. I’ll put a couple of people on this right away, and it should be ready tomorrow afternoon.”
“Noon, please.”
Roy’s existing will was as simple as one could be: His material worth was to be divided equally between his twin sister and his best friend. Robin would have been infuriated had she known, but she had not, nor had Sam. The latter was kept in the dark because Roy did not want to tempt Sam to commit murder during one of his frequent financial crises. A private joke at the time, this consideration was now obsolete. Today Roy would have provided the cocked gun, had he believed Sam was man enough to fire it.
The new codicils reduced what the two principal beneficiaries would divide by less than a fifth. He would leave the building, which he owned outright, to Margaret Forsythe, to do with as she desired, with the condition that the mechanics Paul and Diego be permitted to occupy the downstairs garage as long as they wished and at a reasonable rent for the district and time, which of course however low would be more than the nothing they had paid to date.
But Roy was bequeathing to the guys his entire inventory of classic cars, to sell or endlessly dismantle and reassemble the engines and transmissions as they wished.
Except for the Holbrook children, the monetary awards were comparatively modest, but it was Roy’s intent to make some acknowledgment of the kindness that some women had shown him in recent days, women he had not touched, on whom he had no designs. To Suzanne Akins he would leave more than enough to pay off the loan she had taken, on a nurse’s income, to buy the BMW 530i she drove that night they slept chastely in the same bed. Michelle Llewellyn had a dinner coming, at an expensive restaurant, and a good dress; Roy’s gift provided for a half-dozen of each, but the escort was up to her. Finally, he decided that the overtip he left for Daisy Velikovsky had still not been sufficient to cow her police-officer husband, so Roy left them together the estimated equivalent of a waitress’ annual income.
In the larger scheme these things of course were of little moral significance, meager gestures to leave a good taste in the mouths of acquaintances.
When it came to intimates, his motive was vengeance. The large inheritance, that which Sam Grandy had always craved, would destroy his best friend.
Next morning Roy took a long and thorough workout, returning to the free weights on which he had begun in early adolescence. It could be scientifically proven that dead iron was not as effective in resisting, and therefore strengthening, the human musculature as was a high-tech machine, but he found curling dumbbells to be more satisfying to the spirit than the equivalent exercise on the Bowflex, as was going through the traditional barbell snatches, cleans-and-jerks, and bench presses, in some of which there was danger in working alone with poundages heavy enough to crush a foot, or windpipe, if dropped—which hazard indeed was why he had purchased the machine.
Gritting his teeth, he took one last look at his body in the door-back mirror. Of course it was no more satisfactory to him than as of two days earlier. No one is at his peak at thirty-five, no matter how assiduously he has cared for himself…. He had never taken this shit absolutely seriously except maybe when starting out at fifteen, and not at all during the past decade. Yet he had continued doing it. It was really the sole effort he had made in life, the only resistance he mounted to any challenge, and as such he could not have dispensed with it and retained any self-respect. His physique at least was his own accomplishment. His father, who had furnished the means for Roy to represent a hobby as a business, played golf and in swimming trunks displayed a body like a bloated tube without the ghost of a muscle.
Nevertheless Roy could see only his own inadequacies, not how far he had come from the skinny adolescent but how far he remained from his ideal…which only now he recognized was his ideal because it was impossible of attainment. That it could never be realized was the point of any ideal in friendship, in love, in life. Had he learned this at an earlier time…he would probably have come to the same end. That he could accept this truth now suggested he had finally grown to a maturity of heart, but it was nothing to gloat about.
He breakfasted on the perishable foods in his home fridge, essentially the leftovers fr
om the picnic with Michelle Llewellyn, then went to take his leave of Incomparable Cars before Margaret Forsythe arrived, parking the Jeep at the curb in front rather than in the lot below where he might be distracted by the master mechanics.
Inside the showroom he made a last survey of the machinery the guys would inherit and, while he was at it, ran the duster over the coachwork of all five automobiles. He had always done well by his cars, spending more in restorations than he made in profit over the decade, but they deserved such care. He had never sold one that could not be driven, that would not perform as it had when new. Though none was human, each had been made by human beings and thereby acquired at least a kind of soul. What observant driver had not noticed that his engine always ran more smoothly after the body was washed?
He had first supposed, in a moral lapse, that he would do what he had to do in one of the classics, perhaps that which had the greatest monetary value, the 1969 Lamborghini Espada. Blasting out of life at 200 mph, or however great a speed he could develop on a straightaway unoccupied by other vehicles for those few moments, would provide the ultimate thrill and also free him from the limitation imposed by fear back in the days when he had dabbled in racing sports cars but soon retired because of the risk entailed by seriously trying to win. Kill yourself to beat some other amateurs in restored Austin-Healeys?
It had made more sense to waste a dozen more years, bringing nothing but disappointment to all concerned…. But the Espada was also the car in his current collection of which he was least fond, finding the elongated rear of the body not quite satisfying to the eye. Lamborghinis always tended toward the exhibitionistic, demanding more from the beholder than they should. German cars, on the other hand, often modestly asked less, with the sublime exception of the gullwing 300SL. The great British marques, in their golden years, the Astons and Jaguars, the Morgans and earliest MGs, were perfection in form.
No classic automobile of whichever marque deserved to be helplessly destroyed in the intentional self-obliteration of a human being. If its driver failed to slow down for the fifty-degree corner on Oak Bluff Road, went through the frail barrier there, and rolled down the precipitous slope, a Jeep Grand Cherokee would never be missed, would in fact get the blame as an unsafe vehicle with too high a center of gravity, thus serving another of Roy’s purposes: He did not wish to give the impression he had committed suicide, thereby furnishing Sam Grandy with further cause to despise him and Kristin still another opportunity for indifference. If you couldn’t be maudlin at such a time, when could you? was a question Roy asked himself with optional irony, the kind that alternates with the literal too rapidly to be distinguished from it.
There remained the matter of the moss-green blanket, still in a neat fold atop the filing cabinet. His assistant would never forgive him for not arranging for its disposition. With his cell phone he called the office answering machine, six feet away.
“Margaret, there’s a Salvation Army drop box in the Grandway parking lot. On your way home tonight, would you mind putting the blanket in it? Thanks for everything.”
* * *
Roy was en route to Alcott’s office but trapped in a lunchtime traffic that was bottlenecked at the edge of the business district by an emergency excavation in the middle of the street, barricaded in black-striped yellow. He had restrained himself from discarding the cell phone because of just some eventuality like this.
He dialed the lawyer’s number, to make sure someone licensed as a notary would stay on hand and not go out to lunch before his arrival…. The call was not going through. He looked at the display and saw system busy—no surprise at this hour but infuriating to him in his urgent need. The big square end of the mover’s truck just ahead of him blocked his view, but the traffic must be frozen for at least a solid block, judging by the distant sounds of the most insistent horns.
He was checking to see whether the redial system was programmed in when the phone rang.
“Roy?”
It was Kristin. He had not moved quickly enough to be spared one more meaningless exchange of all-passion-spent platitudes.
“I can barely hear you,” he said truthfully, and then lied about the reason therefor: “The signal’s very weak here.” He did not of course ask, Why are you bothering me at the eleventh hour? “I’ll have to get back to you.”
“No, no!” she cried, and now was as audible as if she were sitting beside him. “Sam is dying. If you want to see him, get to County General right away.”
He blurted something and dropped the telephone. He could move the Jeep in neither direction, but the far right lane was luckily between parking meters, so he used the vehicle’s off-roading capacity to mount the curb. He drove along the sidewalk as fast as he could while giving pedestrians the opportunity to take evasive action. The outdoor tables of the coffee shop were in the next block, but he bumped down at the corner into the side street. He sped toward the hospital by whichever routes were least crowded. He felt best when he could keep rolling, even if temporarily obliged to travel in the wrong direction. To be locked in traffic again, with the company of only the devastating reflections evoked by fate’s latest caprice, was unthinkable.
At the hospital Roy braked near the emergency entrance and left the Jeep in a forbidden zone, keys in the ignition and doors unlocked, so that it could be easily moved, impounded, or stolen. Inside the building, at a desperate speed and by a route he could not afterward have clearly traced, he eventually found, or happened upon, Kristin.
It was the first time he had ever seen her disheveled except in erotic passion. Though she was still seemingly impeccable in hair, eyes, attire, something basic had been as if subliminally altered. She was slightly out of focus; the change may well have been in him.
“Oh, my God, Roy.” She embraced him frantically, as a savior, not a lover. “Oh, Roy.”
He impatiently squeezed her for an instant, then broke away. “I better go to him. Where is he?”
Kristin seized him again and put her face against his chest. “He’s dead, Roy. He died in the ambulance.”
He wanted to cry out but of course did not do so. “I came as fast as I could.”
They were in some bleak white-walled enclosure furnished with wooden benches. Roy sat down on one that was otherwise empty. Kristin joined him on its hard seat. People came and went; he saw only their shoes.
“We had that nasty fight last time. Well, it wasn’t a fight on my part—”
“He never mentioned it, Roy.” She took his arm in a comforting way. “He got over it. Sam was like that.”
This was not what Roy wanted to hear. “How did it happen? Christ, he just got out of the hospital.”
“Maria says she found him on the floor. I was out shopping for food.”
“God damn it.”
“Nothing any of us could have done,” said Kristin, in her old cool style, but then began to sob.
Roy put his arms around her narrow trembling body, which felt so different when not in the act of love. “I really did love him,” he said, speaking aloud but mostly for his own benefit, or detriment. “I never could have squared myself with him, and he was right to feel that way. He was a man of principle.”
Though it had not been his conscious intention to do such—he had not been thinking of her—this statement distracted Kristin from her grief. She left his embrace to say, anxiously, “He was getting over it, Roy. Please believe me. I knew him in a way you did not, could not.”
“Maybe it’s just me, then,” said Roy, as it was also he who had wanted to die and now been cheated out of the opportunity, one-upped by his best friend.
“I know I took a dim view of his way with money,” Kristin said. “But I guess you couldn’t have had his generosity of heart without a certain foolishness in practical matters.”
For the first time he saw how naïve she was, if she believed that Sam was incapable of resentment; it had in fact been his ruling emotion. But had it not been she who had given Roy the information on
which he based this judgment? He had loved Sam all the same. Until recently he had found it impossible even to disappoint his friend, let alone dishonor him.
Kristin continued. “He was the only person I could count on to take me as I am.”
“Yes.”
“He let me be the one with ambition,” said she. “He just cheered me on. That takes an unusual man.” She clutched Roy again. “I don’t think I could get through this without you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He was at her disposal from now on, but there could be no more sex, ever—not that she would necessarily expect any, but he had to establish the rules for himself.
A pair of black trousers stopped near them and remained. Roy looked up to see a round white collar surmounted by a sorrowful pink face.
The priest asked, “Are you the young couple who lost your child?”
“No, Father.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But you’ve had a loss?”
“A close friend,” said Roy. “Thank you for asking.”
“God bless you both.”
When the clergyman had gone, Kristin said in wonder, “You’re always so nice to everybody. Sam wasn’t, you know. He wouldn’t put up with people he felt were wasting his time.”
“Maybe he had some kind of premonition he wouldn’t live long.”
She thought about that for a moment and then began to weep again.
“Let’s go,” Roy said. “There’s nothing we can do here.”
He took her out to the parking lot. Unexpectedly, the Jeep was where he had left it, unlocked door, keys in the ignition. He had half-hoped it would be irretrievably gone. Now that he had been denied the grand gesture, he would have endured inconveniences and discomforts as forms of atonement. He could never have envisioned that his penance would be paid as counselor to Kristin.
She repeated her earlier sentiment. “I couldn’t handle this without you.” He was driving now and could not look at her. “I mean it,” she said. “I’ve never been through anything like this before. I can’t ask my parents for help. It would be a confession of failure. They’ve never seen me except as winning.”