by John Enright
“There’s the house, of course,” he said. “How much debt was she in?”
“Oh, the house was paid off a long time ago. She had even put some cash away. A settlement from your dad’s estate?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Nemo said. “That was all quite clandestine.”
“And Barnett seems to think the only money she owes is to him. He’s coming by next week with more papers.”
“I thought you fired him.”
“I did. I told him to bring his bill.”
“But won’t we need a lawyer for probate and the filings and all?” Nemo pulled the file to him and opened it up. “I don’t do courthouses.”
“I have a friend who can handle all that, pro bono,” Amanda said. The kettle was beginning to steam, and she got up to make her tea. “We should be able to avoid probate.”
“How so?”
“Because the house isn’t part of her estate.” Amanda took her time coming back to the table. Nemo was giving her a questioning look over the tops of his glasses.
He took a puff on his cigar. “It’s not?”
“No. A year ago she signed it over to us as cotenants. It’s already ours.”
“So we can put it on the market right away?”
“Right. Barnett thinks we could get a million and a half for it easy. There’s not a vacant house inside this compound.”
“The fear of savages,” Nemo said, looking back at the papers.
“The fear of what?”
“Of savages, sauvage in Middle English, denoting those who lived outside the gates.”
Amanda pulled her pack of Pall Malls out of her vest pocket and lit one up. Nemo was right, it was their house now. They could smoke here if they wanted to, in the kitchen anyway, where there weren’t any drapes or upholstery to hold the smell and she could air it out before they showed the house.
“A million and a half plus these money market and CD accounts?” Nemo was a quick study.
“Yeah, around two million altogether. It’s all pretty clear and compact, all spelled out. Barnett said she knew exactly how she wanted it.”
Nemo took another dose of cigar smoke then let it out slowly. “Yes, I can see that. Fifty-fifty, you and me. No one else mentioned. No other gifts, no charities.”
“Marjorie was her own only charity.”
“Herself, now us. Fifty-fifty. Isn’t that strange—giving neither of us a controlling say?”
“Yes, well, I wanted to talk with you about that.” Amanda decided her tea was insipid. The bottle of Maker’s Mark was still on the sideboard. She got up and clunked some ice cubes into her glass from the night before and covered them with bourbon. She switched outside herself: You go, girl. He’s a cold fish, but feel him out. Remember what Morgan said—just assume your solution is a foregone conclusion. Men have trouble arguing when confronted by a woman’s certainty.
Chapter 3
An interesting aspect of the Civil War was how shifting and porous the boundaries were. There were, after all, families with men fighting on both sides. Dominick knew, for instance, that this part of Virginia had voted against secession until after Lincoln began to assemble an army. Alexandria had once been included in the District of Columbia, the capital of the enemy. It was easier in retrospect to see things as black and white, or blue and gray in this case. An historian’s task was to make sense out of chaos by ignoring unimportant things. Bergson’s theory of consciousness—the brain as a limiting muscle. Survival relies on our editing out what we don’t need to know.
But wasn’t it Flaubert who said “God is in the details”? And he didn’t mean a Where’s Waldo search for a face in the crowd. The details inside the mass, the way a crowd moves or an army retreats one man at a time. Individual deaths, not just numbers of the dead. Personal stories of people with nicknames and secrets. One of Dominick’s great-grandfathers had gone AWOL from the Union Army after Gettysburg to walk home for the birth of his daughter. Then he walked back and reenlisted in the same regiment under a different name so as to avoid being shot as a deserter. Those kinds
of stories.
There were over 4,000 graves in Alexandria National Cemetery, Union soldiers who had died in one of the many army hospitals that once filled the Old Town. Mostly young men and boys. There was one woman’s grave. The place had filled up quickly, with its overflow becoming Arlington National Cemetery just to the north. Two hundred-some US Colored Troops were buried here as well. Dominick walked down the road between the marshaled white grave markers. Even in death they’d been mustered into formation.
The acres of identical stones, their precise sight lines, their total success at willed anonymity irked Dominick. This was bad history. If there had to be graves, then each should be itself and speak of the person it memorialized. All those lost stories. He had read that among the last interred here were the four men from the Quartermaster Corps who had died in pursuit of John Wilkes Booth. He had come to find them but had soon given up the search. He had noted that the main gate to the burial ground was at the end of Wilkes Street, and somehow that seemed story enough to follow up for one day.
Dominick liked to walk, to reach a certain pace and rhythm that seemed effortless. And there were more birds here—wrens and chickadees and robins, a flash of cardinals and bold blue jays. It would seem that his sister Amanda—if she really was his sister—was more than willing to take on the onus of seeing his mother’s estate affairs through to liquidation. She had asked him if he wanted any things from the house, and he’d said no. He didn’t even want the memory of them.
He wondered about this Amanda. He knew nothing at all about her. Was she married? She wore no rings. Did she have children? She never mentioned any. What did she do for a living? He found her attractive, in an unlikely way. All the things she lacked—the makeup, the clothes, sophistication—were somehow pluses. He should not trust her, but he probably would. He would ask Barnett about her. If she wanted to deal with all the details, she could have them along with the furniture. As long as it meant he could escape sooner.
Before the war this land now filled with the Union dead had belonged to the family of General Robert E. Lee’s wife, a great-granddaughter of Martha Washington. The way of estates, lost in a war, filled with the unremembered. Again he had this place from the past all to himself. He would meet with Barnett, then decide what to do. Why had George and Martha never had children of their own? The only Lees Dominick had ever known were Chinese. He had Barnett’s address from his letterhead, a place on King Street. He would stop by there after lunch. He walked back to where he had parked the car, back to the sound of the
present, traffic.
The woman at the desk said that Mr. Barnett was with a client, but Dominick could take a seat if he wanted to wait. What were these people called these days? No longer secretary or receptionist. Executive Assistant? Client Services Manager? He thanked her and sat down. He had given his name, but his mother’s last name and his were not the same, so he wondered if the woman behind the desk, or Barnett, would know why he was there. This was not a medical waiting room, so there were no magazines arranged on a coffee table, and he hadn’t brought a book to read. The only thing to look at was the woman behind the desk, who did not want to be looked at. There wasn’t even any art on the walls, as if any aesthetic statement might be too controversial. But it didn’t take long. A man came out of the office behind the woman at the desk and spoke to her briefly, and then he looked over at Dominick. He came over.
“Dominick? Frank Barnett.”
Dominick stood up and they shook hands.
“This would be about your mother’s estate, I gather. You are aware that your sister Amanda has dispensed with this firm’s services.”
“Yes, she told me that. How about adding one more billable hour so that we can have a little chat?”
“Your timing is good. I just had a cancellation. Come on in.” Barnett was built like a box—short, broad chested, square shouldered. His double-bre
asted silver-on-black pinstriped suit confirmed his intention of looking that way. Dominick followed the expanse of suit into the inner office, which proved to be as sterile as the reception room—no wall of law books or hanging framed diplomas, no family photographs or bric-a-brac about, a blond desktop as barren as a desert. An American flag hung from a pole at one end of a wall of windows; the navy-blue-and-white-medallion flag of Virginia hung at the other end. The view was of the parking lot.
“Your mother was quite a woman,” Barnett said as he settled into his high-backed black leather chair behind the desk. Dominick took one of the two cushioned captain’s chairs facing him. “Quite a woman, knew her mind, made my job easy. What can I do for you?”
There was something about Frank Barnett, Esq. that made Dominick think gladiator—his thick neck and hardened muscle hands, his steel-gray hair cropped close, a jaw square enough to hold a helmet strap in battle. His suit was like armor. He would look right holding a shield and a short Roman sword, Dominick thought. Barnett was hardly a Spartan name.
“I apologize for my sister’s presumption,” Dominick said.
“No harm. I was Marjorie’s attorney, not yours. Amanda said you already had counsel. It would be best if I could transfer everything directly to him, but—”
“I’m afraid all that is in Amanda’s hands. You know, we’d never met before. Amanda and I, I mean.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“And I was wondering if there was some proof that she actually is my mother’s daughter.”
“Yes, there is a birth certificate.”
“Fine.”
“Not that it would make any difference as far as the will and estate are concerned.”
“No, it’s not that. I was just wondering. Do you know anything about her that you might tell me? I’m still trying to figure her out.”
“Can’t help you there. I’ve only met her twice. Last Saturday when I dropped off the papers at the house and a year or so ago when she came in with Marjorie to change the deed on the property.”
“Okay. Can you tell me of any potential problems we might face in liquidating the estate? You know, anything our lawyer should anticipate?”
“Your mother set it up to be as simple as possible. Probate should be pretty straightforward. The only wrinkle I can see is the covenants with the HOA on the sale of the property.”
“The HOA?”
“The home owners association of that gated community she lived in. Those groups sometimes act like they are a law unto themselves. But it just takes a little massaging.”
There was a soft knock at the door, then the woman from behind the desk out front looked in. “Mrs. Hildebrand is here after all,” she said.
“Anything else?” Barnett asked.
“Probably not,” Dominick said, getting up. “Thanks for your time.” They shook hands. “Martial arts?” Dominick asked.
“Tae kwon do.” Barnett said and smiled. It was a cold gladiator’s smile.
***
Amanda was hurt. She didn’t want to admit it, and she wasn’t even sure why. He had said he was tired of being cold, but the fuel oil guy arrived while Nemo was loading his things into his car and he left anyway. He had taken a suite in a hotel downtown. He wasn’t deserting her, he said; he was just getting out of her hair. She had asked him for his cell phone number, and he said he didn’t have one. A likely lie—driving a Lexus and no cell phone? Right. She had even bought spareribs to make for dinner—all men liked spareribs—and she hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him. He had been so agreeable, so non-macho, in letting her take charge of things. She had thought maybe they could get to know each other a bit better. He was her little brother after all, and she really knew nothing about him. There had to be more to him than Marjorie’s dismissive anecdotes. Or maybe it was because this hollow feeling she felt inside rhymed with a similar feeling from long before.
Amanda went from room to room turning on the lights. It was taking the house a long time to warm up. It was sort of creepy being here all alone. It felt as if Marjorie had not wholly left the place. There was her distinctive taste in artwork, for instance, unrelentingly nonrepresentational. Every room was servant to one large stark abstract canvas or another. The several pieces of metal sculpture in the hallway looked dangerous, like devices deigned to impale toddlers. The artwork had been there for years. God knew where she got it, which lover. Amanda wondered if the works had appreciated at all over the decades. She would have to have them appraised as well. The faint smell of Nemo’s cigar lingered in the kitchen.
She called Morgan’s number but got just the voice mail. She needed to talk to someone. Dusk had turned to evening. As long as she could remember she had dreaded nights alone, but tonight’s darkness was steeper than usual. She went up to Marjorie’s room and turned on the TV, then searched through her backpack for her emergency stash of Xanax. She took two. She would be a big girl about this. No need for her voice to start lecturing her. Wheel of Fortune was on. She’d get drunk. But first hide the car keys. A woman contestant bought two vowels. Down to the kitchen. Vodka was needed, Xanax fuel. Don’t panic. Everything’s under control. Back to the room with the vodka bottle and a tumbler of ice, locking the door behind her. She turned up the volume. She’d be safe and then pass out. It would be like death, but then she’d wake up and it would be morning.
The estate sale lady arrived at eleven. Amanda had been expecting a man. The woman explained that she was just the appraiser. She had a deep Southern accent; otherwise Amanda noticed little about her—she was still in a bit of a fog. There was only instant coffee to drink, and Morgan was not answering the phone or returning messages. The appraiser woman in her charcoal suit toured the house, taking photographs with her phone and making notes. She left an agreement for Amanda to sign. Amanda was glad when the woman left. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of ginger ale, wondering why it was that ice cubes submersed in ginger ale didn’t clink against the sides of her glass the same way they would if the liquid around them was water or whiskey. She moved her glass; the ice cubes didn’t clink. There had to be a scientific explanation.
Her mind being empty, her inner other voice returned. Sometimes it seemed like the voice of her mother, putting barbs on the obvious: You didn’t look at yourself in the mirror this morning did you? You don’t know anything about looking right. You don’t belong here. That woman who just left gave you negative marks. Story of your sorry life. You don’t belong around respectable people. It went on like that until Amanda slipped her earbuds in and turned up some J. J. Cale to drown it out. She didn’t hear her cell phone ringing.
***
The Mansion House Suites were alright, but they were just the first step. Dominick had to leave. It was like the same ends of magnets aimed at one another, the opposite of attraction. He had to get out of town. The next day he went back to Frank Barnett’s office and retained him as his attorney. He didn’t know any other lawyers in town. He thought of this as a tactical maneuver, leaving a centurion as a rear guard when he retreated. He wrote Barnett a retainer check to represent him in the matter of Marjorie’s estate. Just a precaution, a chicken’s way out.
Barnett seemed to understand. “I’ll let Amanda know,” he said. “It’s still fifty-fifty? Nothing changed? Anything added?”
“Reasonable fees for her handling it all,” Dominick said. “Whatever is normal.” Dominick had a whole fictive scenario worked out to explain why he had to be elsewhere, but Barnett wasn’t interested. He couldn’t tell Barnett exactly how he could be reached. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Dominick drove out to Manassas. The rain didn’t let up. He stopped at Stony Bridge, where so many boys had died through misdirection. He didn’t get out of the car. The very next day he was on the road headed south, for the Keys.
Chapter 4
It came off just as Morgan said it would, and the house was sold. They hadn’t got quite what they had hoped for, but it was close e
nough. Not even that shyster Barnett could find fault with the outcome. He didn’t have to know how they had gotten there, and it had taken them less than the six weeks he said would be the absolute minimum amount of time that it would take to close a deal. Amanda had to hand it to Morgan—she had done it again.
At first, the stipulations in the agreement with the HOA seemed designed to inhibit a quick sale. Amanda couldn’t list the property as for sale in the MLS. She couldn’t put up signs. She couldn’t sell the place herself. She had to go through the HOA’s own realtor. She couldn’t leave the place vacant. It had to be maintained and look lived in. The agreement did not dictate how many rolls of toilet paper had to be in every bathroom, but it could have. It was Morgan, when she got there, who saw a way past all that. She would make a bid to buy the place. “Then we’ll see what happens.” Morgan was black. She thought that might panic them a bit. It did.
Amanda wasn’t there for Morgan’s meeting with the realtor and the HOA council member, but Morgan told her all about it when she got back. “At first they called me Mrs. Custis, and I corrected them, saying it’s Ms. Custis. The only Mr. Custis was my daddy and he’s dead.”
They were in Morgan’s hotel room in Washington, DC, where Amanda had been staying since the estate sale had cleared the furniture out of Marjorie’s house. Morgan was still dressed from her meeting in a vampish black dress with a slit up the side and black stockings. She’d taken off her spike heels. As she spoke she was taking off all the jewelry she had worn—the rings and bracelets and gold necklaces. “I talked down home,” she said and laughed. “My Aunt Jemima–Diana Ross impersonation.”
“Were they polite?” Amanda asked.
“Oh, they were downright gracious gentlemen. We talked about the price and other fees. The HOA guy, Leonard his name was, talked about the association and its benefits and rules. He gave me a packet of stuff that I left in the cab. I told him I appreciated all that and that I was really in love with the house and that it would be big enough for my family. I asked him about raising chickens there.”
