Help Yourself

by Rachel Michael Arends

  I am (was) sorry if you feel the conditions of your inheritance are not very chivalrous on my part. I assure you that I believe they are for your own good and that in the end you might come to agree with me (posthumously, of course).

  If you are unable to complete a task, Fritz will, unfortunately again, be forced to declare this proposal null and void. He will, in that case, turn you out of the house, and you will be left with nothing. Rest assured that Fritz would not enjoy this outcome; he is a most affable young man, and evictions aren’t a hobby he would take up with any vigor.

  I have been told that I am a long-winded meanderer. I believe it. Especially in the short time afforded to me between having discovered you and becoming ill-suited to making your proper acquaintance (that is to say: dead), I have been less straightforward in my logical capacity than I knew myself to be prior. I apologize. I would have liked to leave you with a sturdy impression.

  Now to describe the property you stand to inherit. As you may know, native that you are, North Carolina boasts many long, thin islands along its acquaintance with the Atlantic Ocean. These are called barrier islands, and essentially they are sand bars. They are very large and very pretty (if my opinion counts anymore) sand bars, with trees and houses and roads on them. Between the barrier islands and the land is the intracoastal waterway, filled with brackish water—meaning a mixture of salt and fresh water, so that dolphins may appear as well as the occasional alligator. On the other side of the island is the Atlantic Ocean: the true love of my life.

  I apologize for that insensitive remark. You might very well have been the love of my life, had I known about you.

  I am sorry to say, if you are curious to know, which indeed you are if you have inherited my family’s curiosity (though hopefully not our hemorrhoids), that your mother was not the love of my life. I can be sure of this because I remembered only fleeting impressions of her until a document recently came into my hands. That document was how I became aware that you might, potentially, exist. Because you’re reading this now, Merry, I think we can both safely conclude that you do. Indeed.

  I have left you at the edge of North Carolina, looking toward the barrier islands. Let me now land you on one: it is called Topsail. I don’t claim it’s the best, for I realize others are more famous, including one among the Outer Banks, where the Wright brothers learned to fly. There are wild horses and giant dunes on others, if I remember correctly from things I have read, but I wouldn’t know about any other barrier islands directly. I discovered Topsail Island first, you see, and it was enough for me.

  Let me direct you more specifically toward the south end of the island. There you will find the home I loved most, though I didn’t spend as much time there as I could have. My London house is far grander, to be sure. Becoming ill, though, it occurred to me to revisit my ocean home. To say that I’m glad I did would be a profound understatement. Somehow, I found it easier to contemplate death while watching the sea.

  You might not be the sentimental type, so I’ll tell you something else. The beach house is worth quite a lot of money. I hope that fact entices you to attempt to complete the tasks and receive title to it, along with a sum of cash that will not only help you maintain it, but perhaps help others you love maintain what they love.

  I’ll add quickly that if you don’t earn the house, Merry my dear, then my brother Max will inherit it. He’s a curmudgeonly old bastard, and I’d really hate to have him get it.

  By now you’re sick of my meandering. I am, too. I grow tiresome and tired simultaneously.

  I’ll move on to the conditions you will have to satisfactorily meet in order to solely inherit my beach house, along with the accompanying stipend.

  You live there for the time it takes to fulfill #2 below.

  You complete the tasks, which will be communicated to you by Fritz Forth individually and checked off by him at completion. If a task remains incomplete to his satisfaction after a period of time determined by him, then I’m afraid he will be obligated to kick you out. (I assure you he won’t like it.)

  If all tasks are completed, you will receive the money as well as the free and clear title to the property. You could sell it, live there, or whatever you like.

  I think that is all. Again, to reiterate, I apologize for having been unaware of your existence for the vast majority of your life thus far. I would have liked to have known you. I wish I were more confident in the vice versa, but the end of life is full of regret and self-doubt. Dying is a terrible inconvenience.

  Look to Fritz for assistance; he is an exceedingly good man.

  Sincerely and belatedly, and with all the love one can give someone he’s never known, which I have found at times to be rather more than expected,

  I remain (though I’m dead)

  Yours truly,

  Claude Pershing

  Honestly, what would you think of a letter like that?

  I sit sort of stunned a while, until I notice Fritz take the papers from my hands and put them into his briefcase. When I look at him straight on again, I see that he’s watching me closely. I watch him right back.

  “If I agree to the proposal I just read, I’d have to live with you.”

  Fritz nods. “I’m gay, if that helps you feel more comfortable.”

  “I suppose it takes away the worry of you making passes,” I say.

  “It most certainly does. Any other concerns?”

  “I’d have to believe that you’re trustworthy enough to give me the goods if I earned them, since it would be in your power to say I didn’t do something ‘to your satisfaction,’ and you could kick me out with nothing at all,” I say.

  Fritz nods again. “That’s right.”

  “Are you trustworthy?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  He doesn’t seem to relish his power over my destiny. It looks like it gives him a stomachache.

  “You can say no,” he suggests.

  “Do you want me to say no?”

  He doesn’t answer. He looks at the same paper he read from originally. “I can help you change your life forever,” he reads. “If you fulfill your father’s set of challenges, strange though they may seem, you can save your family from financial ruin, solve an important mystery, and maybe even find love on your own terms. You can finally learn to help yourself.”

  Questions rise up in my mind, like bubbles when the stew starts to boil. I don’t know half of what Fritz is talking about: A mystery? Financial ruin? Love on my own terms?

  I can’t form up any question well enough to ask out loud; they pop out of my thoughts too fast. I feel like I’m caught between two worlds. I keep picturing images I’ve seen of the ocean and remembering snatches of my father’s letter one minute, and looking at the mountains through the window and imagining my Grandma and Mom alone in our cabin the next.

  When I hear a pan hit the kitchen floor, I look up at the clock.

  “Shoot!” I say, because I know Phil is here, and I know he’s madder than a hornet.

  Although I’ve already mentioned his temper a few times, I want you to know that Phil isn’t just one of his attributes. He’s also a good kisser, he fixes things around our cabin without being asked, and he’s the best cook I know.

  I suppose future beauticians get started by raiding their mom’s makeup drawers, and future builders borrow nails and scraps from the piles beside their daddy’s sawhorses. Me, I always knew I wanted to make good food. Phil was born knowing more about cooking than I’ll probably ever learn, on account of his parents both being so culinary. Now Phil’s an amazing chef, and he’s taught me a lot of what he knows. We talk about herbs and spices like other lovers discuss their future plans and their dreams.

  Phil pushes through the swinging door. “Nothing’s been done!” he shouts.

  “Now you watch your tone,” I say.

  He puts his left hand out like a stop sign to shush me. He raises the fingers on his right hand one at a time. I really hate it when he does that. It seems
to me that even if he’s only mad about one thing, he thinks of more on the spot just to get through all his fingers.

  He puts his thumb down: “You didn’t get the soup started.” Pointer: “You didn’t tenderize the meat.” Middle: “You didn’t get anything chopped,” ring: “or prepped,” pinky: “or… Who the hell are you?”

  Fritz has left his seat and is standing directly in front of Phil. “It’s really all my fault. I interrupted Ms. Strand’s work,” he says.

  Phil stares at him hard.

  I hope he doesn’t scare Fritz away.

  “I fixed the wobbly leg,” I say.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have taken up with Phil again when I returned to Peaksy Falls. But he brought me over some brownies with little bits of salty toffee and chewy caramel baked in, and I just couldn’t resist. I don’t like to admit it, but Phil’s cooking is to me what game shows are to my mom and grandma.

  Phil is still sizing up Fritz when Amy Jo comes in the front door. She has on her uniform, which reminds me that I’m still not dressed.

  “Are y’all sick?” she asks, putting one hand on my arm and one on my forehead.

  She’s heavyset and matronly, with knees that don’t seem strong enough to carry her all day, but somehow they still do it. Amy Jo gives the whole place a homey feel when she’s here.

  Amy Jo and Cyril, Phil’s parents, had a family restaurant out on the highway, which was open for decades. It wasn’t “upscale gourmet” fare like Phil now serves here at the Mountainside, mind you. But growing up in his parents’ place gave Phil so much confidence with ingredients and flavors that cooking now seems instinctual to him. I suppose he’s like a dancer who began leaping when he could barely walk, or Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello from age four. Phil’s comfort with food is just a natural part of him, like breathing.

  I’ve always had the same sort of crush on Phil that freshman girls in college get for the professors who teach their favorite subjects. Last week there was a perfect example. He’d yelled at a delivery man in front of the entire kitchen staff, and I thought he was just about the biggest ass I’d ever seen. But then he gave me a taste of a new salad he’d put together. I chewed slowly and savored the flavors—tart and sweet fruity vinaigrette dressing, fresh textured mixed greens, dried cherries, salty nuts, and bitter, crumbly smooth cheese…well, I couldn’t help but kiss him when I’d finished. I suppose I’m his one and only groupie.

  “I feel fine. I came in early to do a few things and lost track of time,” I tell Amy Jo.

  “Would you stop babying her, Ma?” Phil says. “Lunch will be real easy today, since no one has done a single useful thing around here all morning! Now hurry up and get dressed, Merry.”

  He heads back toward the kitchen.

  “No,” I call after him.

  Phil turns around slowly.

  “I’m leaving,” I say. I grab on to Fritz’s hand, which he doesn’t seem to like one bit.

  Phil looks Fritz up and down, from his short hair, across his fancy clothes, to his shiny shoes.

  “You’re going off somewhere with this guy?” Phil seems to think the idea is a joke.

  I don’t speak; I let my expression do the talking.

  “Who the hell is he?” Phil asks.

  I pull Fritz toward the door, but Phil gets up ahead of us and stands in front of it with his arms crossed.

  “You’re not actually thinking of walking out of here.”

  “It’s not forever,” I tell Phil. “I just have to take care of some business out of town with this lawyer. I’ll explain it to you later, once you’ve calmed down.”

  Phil looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “You better quit talking nonsense, go change your clothes, and be back here in time for the lunch crowd,” he says.

  It’s so quiet for a minute that I swear you can hear the dust settle on the hostess stand.

  Fritz turns to me and breaks the silence. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He looks nervous, like he’s the one who’ll have to pass a bunch of tests, not me.

  I recall the most important parts of what I learned this morning. While Fritz isn’t a bona fide genie, he is offering to help me change my life, which I realize needs some changing. I look straight into his eyes. He’s a prim and proper Englishman, who’s just about the opposite of Southern-style me. And I know this is weird, but I trust him.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  I give his hand a squeeze and march us right on past Phil and straight out the door.

  Chapter Two

  IN WHICH JACK MORNINGSTAR GOES SURFING

  As told by the man in question

  Katie’s mouth tastes like summer: sweet from sangria and fresh strawberries, smoky from vegetables we grilled on the deck, salty from ocean water.

  I inhale the coconut scent of her lotion, feel a fine grit of sand on my fingertips as her flat, tanned stomach rises up to meet my caress. A day of wind and waves spent under the blessing sun has left us tired, but not too tired for each other.

  Chaser presses her cold nose to my neck. I push her off, but it’s too late. The enveloping warmth I’ve been immersed in begins to fall away. I don’t want to wake up.

  What I want doesn’t matter.

  Reality creeps in. I reach deeper into the sheets, but it’s no use. Heat and summer have dissipated like love grown cold. The air is chilled, the bed is empty. It’s winter and I am alone.

  Chaser whines. I look at the clock to see that it’s after ten. The sun rising over the water didn’t wake me like it did every morning during the sunny month that Katie and I spent together in this house. I keep dreaming of that time, only to wake again with a bitterness that wastes me. It was either last July or a lifetime ago, depending on how you add it all up. Today is gray; the ocean is daunting and wild. It looks angry. Like it has been betrayed.

  Chaser play bows to me. She was Katie’s dog. If Katie were here, she would fall on Chaser’s golden hair and kiss her muzzle, apologize for sleeping late while the poor “good girl” held her bladder. Katie would take Chaser on a five-mile beach run to make up for it.

  If only she were here.

  Freezing rain lashes against my face while I watch Chaser on the beach below the deck. I envy her resilience, her optimism. Or perhaps it’s just her dog-sized brain that makes her able to forget the rawness of loss, at least long enough to run in the rain.

  Chaser was a rescue from the shelter, a golden retriever/chow mix that seems to possess the best attributes of both breeds. She’s loyal, quiet, and eager to please thanks to the golden side. She also possesses chow smartness, has a purple tongue, stand-up ears, a feather-duster blond tail, and a gorgeous coat. She was a breeze to train and never forgets what she’s learned. The first time she jumped on our bed, we ordered her down, and that was it. When we tried to coax her up afterward, to warm our feet on cold Chicago nights, she’d look at us as if to say I’m not allowed up there! I don’t know where she gets her speed from. She’s the fastest dog I’ve ever seen, except the greyhound that was here last summer.

  I remember Katie admiring that greyhound until Chaser started to pout. The greyhound’s muscled elegance reminded me of Katie’s own; she was always eager to run, too.

  Trying to keep pace with my wife, though I never quite could, had kept me fit. If Katie ran up the beach now, or surfaced from the sea, or dropped from the sky, she’d scold me for growing soft, for letting my muscle tone go to hell. If she walked inside or appeared there suddenly, she’d see that I’ve let everything else go, too.

  Chaser races along the edge of the water. She’s clearly happy and blissful, like she thinks life is a game, like it’s beautiful. She seems oblivious to the frigid wind pelting rain against her thick coat. She chases a bird, she jumps. It eludes her and she runs on. She looks up to see me and switches direction to race my way.

  If it weren’t for Chaser, I might have given up any number of times. I might have stayed in the water and not climbed back onto my surfboard, might have let the o
cean erase my pain and memories once and for all. But Chaser seems to know when I need her, with a well-timed bark from shore. She watches all the while I’m out there, reminding me that she needs me, that we still have each other.

  I pat Chaser’s wet head when she reaches the deck, three flights of stairs and plank walkways up from the beach. I let her bolt into the house ahead of me, dragging sand, salt, and cold seawater with her.

  Katie would have a fit if she were here. She always complained that I was too messy and disorganized, too laid-back. If she didn’t keep after me, I would fall apart.

  I fill Chaser’s water bowl and give her fresh food. I dump last night’s cold, half-empty pot of coffee and start a new one brewing. Though I know better, I open the fridge. I shut it again; there’s nothing fresh in this house. I take a protein bar from a box in the pantry and eat it without tasting.

  I check my e-mail and find a note from Martin.

  I got the files you sent last night. Will you finish up today like we discussed?

  Martin is my business partner, formerly my best friend. Six months ago, he would’ve called and hassled me instead of writing. He might have said, “You only sent half the stuff I need because you’re too busy playing house to get anything done. Get out of bed and finish your end of the deal! We need to deliver on time; you know this client is our bread and butter. Or in your case, tofu and lettuce, or whatever Katie lets you eat.”

  He would have joked about my last-minute ways, confident that I’d come through in the end because I always did. Now neither of us ever seems so sure. And I can’t stomach the sound of his voice.

  What time do you need the rest? I type and hit send.

  I turn and watch the rollers. The windows are fogged in sea mist.

  Martin’s response is in my inbox the next time I look back. A minute or an hour might have passed; I honestly don’t know.

  We agreed on three o’clock. Remember? And I know you’re sick of hearing this, but Sam and Varun are in way over their heads on the Langdon proposal. I wish you’d come back and do your real job. I could use some help keeping this company alive.