Read Online The Inheritance (Volume Two) by Zelda Reed - Free Book Online
Authors: Zelda Reed
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set in a serious line.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable answering that question.”
I sit up a little straighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --”
“What do you remember about your father?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s a very simple question. What do you remember the most about your father? What stands out when you think about him?”
I don’t have to dwell on the question for long. “He was always working. I don’t remember ever really seeing him relax.”
“Because he was consumed by his work. Your father was one of the hardest working men I’ve ever known. But this business,” Martin pauses. “You can’t allow yourself to get too deep into it because soon, you start opening trap doors and stumbling into things you weren’t meant to.”
My mind flashes to the memory of me in my father’s bedroom, clutching his white shirt covered in blood. A trap door he’d set for no one, especially me to find.
“I’m confused,” I say, shifting in my seat. “What did he die from?”
I want a straight answer. He died from cancer of the lungs or he was hit by a bus crossing Lakeview Drive but I can see in Martin’s eyes that he’s a man of riddles.
“You remind me of my son,” he says. “Plagued by curiosity. Unwilling to take a hint,” he says this without malice, voice light and wispy with a smile. “He was never able to properly swallow the truth and I think, excuse me if this sounds forward, I know neither can you.”
A wave of frustration runs beneath my skin. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “What are you talking about?”
Martin smiles. “I’m talking about the truth and how you think you want to know it, but in actuality, you do not.”
“I just want to know how my father died.”
Martin reaches beneath his desk. He pulls up my father’s urn. Bathed in black and gold, its simplicity manages to carry the weight of gaudiness. I can’t imagine how much my father must’ve spent on it.
“Your father would’ve wanted you to have it,” he says, pushing the urn towards me.
I have no use for my father’s ashes. Can you imagine? Me sitting in my living room, staring up at the urn with wide, tear filled eyes, speaking to it as if my father is trapped like a genie. Or how about me passing the urn to my children, their fingertips brushing against mine as I describe my father’s rigid silence, the constant swell of his stomach, his signature scowl. I place it in my lap. I’ll get rid of it later.
Martin stands and I follow his lead, crossing the shimmering brown tile to his office door.
“The condo,” I say as his hand wraps around the knob.
Martin raises his hand. “I’ve already called a realtor. She’ll be by this weekend to take care of everything.”
“I’ll be gone by then.”
“Not a problem. I’ll coordinate a time with Miss Ashleigh.”
A small smile plays across my lips. “Thank you.”
Martin opens the door. “It’s no trouble at all.”
I step into the hall, my heels reverberating against the floor. Two steps away, I turn to Martin who’s closing the door behind him. “I’m never going to find out, am I?”
His head peeks out of the crack. “I’m sorry?”
“How my father died.”
A small sigh moves through him, his shoulders dropping further down, eyes cast towards the floor. “The decision to know or to remain ignorant is entirely in your hands.”
“You can just tell me.”
Martin smiles. “I’m not the only one who knows how your father died,” he says, closing the door.
______
Outside of the office four newspaper kiosks stand near the sidewalk. Yellow for The City Paper; blue for The Chicago Business Journal; black for the real estate ads; and red for The Chicago Times. I snatch the Times and the City Paper, tucking them beneath my arm as I head for Millennium Park.
I can’t stand one more moment of sitting in my father’s condo, sucking down bourbon as I try to gather the courage to invade his bedroom,
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable answering that question.”
I sit up a little straighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --”
“What do you remember about your father?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s a very simple question. What do you remember the most about your father? What stands out when you think about him?”
I don’t have to dwell on the question for long. “He was always working. I don’t remember ever really seeing him relax.”
“Because he was consumed by his work. Your father was one of the hardest working men I’ve ever known. But this business,” Martin pauses. “You can’t allow yourself to get too deep into it because soon, you start opening trap doors and stumbling into things you weren’t meant to.”
My mind flashes to the memory of me in my father’s bedroom, clutching his white shirt covered in blood. A trap door he’d set for no one, especially me to find.
“I’m confused,” I say, shifting in my seat. “What did he die from?”
I want a straight answer. He died from cancer of the lungs or he was hit by a bus crossing Lakeview Drive but I can see in Martin’s eyes that he’s a man of riddles.
“You remind me of my son,” he says. “Plagued by curiosity. Unwilling to take a hint,” he says this without malice, voice light and wispy with a smile. “He was never able to properly swallow the truth and I think, excuse me if this sounds forward, I know neither can you.”
A wave of frustration runs beneath my skin. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “What are you talking about?”
Martin smiles. “I’m talking about the truth and how you think you want to know it, but in actuality, you do not.”
“I just want to know how my father died.”
Martin reaches beneath his desk. He pulls up my father’s urn. Bathed in black and gold, its simplicity manages to carry the weight of gaudiness. I can’t imagine how much my father must’ve spent on it.
“Your father would’ve wanted you to have it,” he says, pushing the urn towards me.
I have no use for my father’s ashes. Can you imagine? Me sitting in my living room, staring up at the urn with wide, tear filled eyes, speaking to it as if my father is trapped like a genie. Or how about me passing the urn to my children, their fingertips brushing against mine as I describe my father’s rigid silence, the constant swell of his stomach, his signature scowl. I place it in my lap. I’ll get rid of it later.
Martin stands and I follow his lead, crossing the shimmering brown tile to his office door.
“The condo,” I say as his hand wraps around the knob.
Martin raises his hand. “I’ve already called a realtor. She’ll be by this weekend to take care of everything.”
“I’ll be gone by then.”
“Not a problem. I’ll coordinate a time with Miss Ashleigh.”
A small smile plays across my lips. “Thank you.”
Martin opens the door. “It’s no trouble at all.”
I step into the hall, my heels reverberating against the floor. Two steps away, I turn to Martin who’s closing the door behind him. “I’m never going to find out, am I?”
His head peeks out of the crack. “I’m sorry?”
“How my father died.”
A small sigh moves through him, his shoulders dropping further down, eyes cast towards the floor. “The decision to know or to remain ignorant is entirely in your hands.”
“You can just tell me.”
Martin smiles. “I’m not the only one who knows how your father died,” he says, closing the door.
______
Outside of the office four newspaper kiosks stand near the sidewalk. Yellow for The City Paper; blue for The Chicago Business Journal; black for the real estate ads; and red for The Chicago Times. I snatch the Times and the City Paper, tucking them beneath my arm as I head for Millennium Park.
I can’t stand one more moment of sitting in my father’s condo, sucking down bourbon as I try to gather the courage to invade his bedroom,
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