A Family Trust

by Ward Just

  Naturally enough the courthouse had talked of little else for two days. Amos Rising’s death was a political event of the first magnitude. At first the talk centered on the details of death, the length and depth of the suffering, the condition of the corpse, and the extraordinary (and costly) measures taken by the doctors. But that was only a prelude to rich and fantastic speculations concerning the succession. No one could remember the last time Amos Rising had set foot in the courthouse, but his newspaper was read with the care and attention normally reserved for railroad schedules or tide tables; the I set the day’s agenda. It was understood absolutely that the Intelligencer represented the official view of events in Dement. With the old man gone and his three sons in charge it was obvious that that view would change, and reality therefore change. The old mirror was smashed and the new one not yet in place. But which son would take charge? The clerk of the county court, Marge Reilly, arrived early on Tuesday morning and when the doors opened at nine she found herself the most popular official in the building. It was the most unusual day of her twenty-one-year tenure as clerk of the county court, a jurisdiction that included the probate court as well. These visitors who arrived outside her office door, what did they want? They wanted a took at the will.

  She hunched over her desk and stared at them, four men in huge suits, cigars in their mouths or rancid in the ashtray, round blowsy men with sparse hair and pink cheeks and pouches under their eyes. (Wasn’t it strange, none of the courthouse hangers-on was thin; some were short and some were tall, but all of them were overweight.) They sat poised in front of her, still wearing their heavy coats, hats in their laps.

  A terrible thing, they’d chorused. Horrible, shocking, a tragedy. But not, the spokesman Earl amended, unexpected.

  No, she said, not unexpected.

  Earl sighed heavily. Old Amos, a thorough man. Of course—thank God!—he would have his affairs in order. He was not a man to allow the future to take care of itself ...

  She nodded, waiting.

  Yes indeed, Earl said, wagging his head. Amos Rising and I were like that. He held up two thick fingers, rubbing them together, smiling sadly. Then he cleared his throat.

  It isn’t here, she said finally.

  Earl nodded. Now they could begin. Well, when—

  That isn’t for me to say, she said.

  His manner became grave and he clucked once. Now Marge, he said, there’s a law—

  One of them produced an envelope from an inside pocket, the lines from the appropriate statute scribbled on the back, and handed it to Earl, He carefully raised his eyeglasses to his forehead with one hand, holding the envelope two feet from his face with the other.

  Here, he said, I’ll read it for you ...

  “A will may be inspected by the public ...” This, from the one sipping from a container of coffee; he was a township supervisor lately on the outs with the old man.

  Now this statute, the third one began.

  And she’d laughed in their faces. She’d said, Earl. Earl, Earl, Earl. I know the statute. I know it by heart and can recite it, all of it, not just the lines you have there. But that’s only one statute among many. There’s another which contains quite a different meaning. If you’ll read all the statutes (she knew he never would; these clowns had the attention span of adolescents). If you’ll read all the statutes pertaining to a will in probate you’ll see that much is within the purview of the clerk, in consultation with the court and with the state’s attorney and, of course, with decedent’s attorney.

  The clerk, Earl said. You.

  Me, she said.

  So it hasn’t been filed.

  Didn’t say that.

  Then it has been filed.

  Didn’t say that either. Of course in due time you could sue for a writ of mandamus ... She watched the one with the coffee container knit his brow and begin the laborious process of searching his vocabulary for mandamus. It was a search through a thicket of moots, subpoenas, pari passus, affidavits, habeas corpuses, and mortis causas. She said, And I don’t think you’d want to do that. Might make some folks angry.

  Earl replaced the cigar in his mouth and leaned across her desk and smiled, disclosing a row of even, stained teeth. He touched her on the forearm, his finger making a red mark on her white skin. He said, Come on, Marge. Everyone’s interested. We’re friends, we’re all of us friends here. Give a little.

  Sorry, Earl, she said. Then she stood up and turned over the papers on her desk, the ones they’d been trying to read upside down. These men were like schoolboys. She said, It’s time to go to work. Don’t you boys have anything better to do? She watched them as they rose in a foursome to return to the foyer. They would remain there for fifteen minutes, polishing the marble with their camel’s hair shoulders, and then they would be back for another series of questions. They’d bring a retired bailiff with them to give their mission a sense of legitimacy. They had to have something to report: some small fact, any fact at all would do. But they would find her door closed and her assistants unhelpful. When they returned she would have the will and the codicil out of her top drawer and into her private safe. That was the arrangement she’d made with Elliott Townsend and she intended to fulfill it to the letter. There was a time when blood was thicker than the law, and this was it, Her father had been one of Ammos Rising’s closest friends (indeed, she had not told him of the old man’s death, fearing that the shock would break his fragile health). She’d known Amos all, her life and had known Elliott Townsend for more than thirty years. Come on, Marge, she mimicked Earl, give a little. She laughed out loud, shaking her head. The will and the codicil would remain in her safe for as long as Elliott wanted. She believed it was possible to keep the codicil a secret forever, or for as long as they needed to keep it a secret. It had been done before in extraordinary circumstances. A strange codicil, no question about that, and subject to misinterpretation unless you knew the family. If you knew Amos and his relation to the boys then it was absolutely in character. In any event, these were private matters between the deceased and the family and the public had no true right to pry into them, whatever the law said. ant one-thirty Marge Reilly looked into a hand mirror and touched up her cheeks with rouge, applied her lipstick, smoothed her dress and touched her hair and put on her hat, Thus prepared, she checked the safe, left her deputy in charge of the office, and joined the judge and the state’s attorney on the front steps of the courthouse for the ten-block walk to the First Presbyterian Church.

  Elmer Tilberg suggested they take his black DeSoto, the sedan the county supplied the state’s attorney. Haight’s men would see to it at the church. But Tom Kerrigan thought not; a mild day, he said, let’s walk instead. And Kerrigan in the lead, the three of them moved off down Blake Street.

  They were silent a moment, then Tilberg turned to Kerrigan. “Who are the pallbearers?”

  Marge answered him. “People from the newspaper. And Elliott, of course.”

  “Any honoraries?”

  “No.”

  Elmer lifted his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Logical, when you think about it,” the judge said.

  “Too many of us, Lord knows,” Marge said.

  “I loved that old man,” Elmer said.

  Tom Kerrigan looked at him sideways. “It’s okay, Elmer. He can’t hear you now.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Elmer said stubbornly.

  “No doubt,” said Kerrigan, “There’ll be an outpouring of love this afternoon. Oceans of it.”

  “That’s right,” Marge said. Tom Kerrigan’s sarcasm was something they all had to live with. It went with being Irish.

  Kerrigan lowered his voice. “Have you told your dad yet?”

  She shook her head. “I talked to him yesterday and I didn’t have the heart to say a darned thing.”

  “I can call him if you like,” Tom Kerrigan said. “Your dad and I—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “It would have to come from me.” She touched him on
the arm and added, “I appreciate the thought.”

  Now they were halfway down Blake Street, in the center of the shopping district, moving slowly through the noontime crowds, the two men and Marge Reilly conspicuous in their dark clothes and formal hats and overcoats. They passed a television repair shop and the cafeteria and the department store, its serene plastic mannequins gazing round-eyed through wide windows. The three of them were preoccupied and did not notice the shoppers: robust women in cloth coats with children and packages and wallets in their palms. The merchants called them the lunch mob, lookers more than buyers. These were women from the old neighborhoods on the south side of town, their English labored and rough and amusing to the merchants with whom they did business; women of the old world, they always paid cash. On the street they were quiet and hesitant, as if visiting; the chilldren were well-behaved, solemn almost, as they accompanied Mother in search of goods. The windows reflected the images of the women, speculation bounced back: their heads cocked, heavy fingers tapping chins. When one of the children got out of line and began to skylark on the sidewalk the women would snap stoptliat and cuff the child if he were within reach. And the child would return meekly to the fold, staring into the window at the shoes or cameras or greeting cards or nylon hose or saxophones.

  Elmer said, “Did you see the editorial today?”

  Kerrigan looked at him. “Of course.”

  “Well written,” Elmer said.

  “They said what they had to say with clarity.”

  “I didn’t,” Marge said. “I didn’t see it. I spent the morning with Earl and the boys. Thought I’d never get away. Boy and brother, they’d keep you all morning.”

  Tom Kerrigan grinned. “What did they want, the will?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “The codicil, too, I suppose.”

  “Word does get around,” she said dryly

  “What codicil?” Elver asked. He turned around to face them, stumbling a little over his feet.

  She said, “Over to you, Judge.”

  “Amos wrote a codicil to his will,” Kerrigan said slowly. He turned toward Elmer but he was really talking to the woman. “It has to do with distribution of stock. There are certain conditions pertaining to its eventual disposition.” He paused and added, “If, whether, when or who—any of those four.”

  Elmer said, “Oh.”

  “Isn’t that about right. Marge?”

  “Don’t ask me,” she said cheerfully, wondering how much he really knew as opposed to what he was pretending to know:

  “The point is,” Kerrigan said mildly, “the paper will go on as it always has. Except that instead of dealing with the old man face to face we’ll be dealing with the boys, mainly Charles. And they’ll be dealing with a ghost. On the whole. I prefer our position to theirs.”

  Elmer said, “Mitch is the oldest. I figured Mitch—”

  “No,” Kerrigan said. “The old man was shrewd about that. Mitch is too involved. I think Amos understood that the paper had to move ahead, even though that wasn’t his favorite direction. And of the three of them Charles has the best shot at keeping it. I mean protecting it.” He knew he had lost Elmer. Now he was speaking for the benefit of the woman only, letting her know that he knew the situation. “But Charles is a very different man, I’m not sure the old man knew how different. But he’s a wizard with the books and I think the old man sunderstood finally how important that was. And would become.” He glanced again at the woman, knowing now that he was about to lose her, too. “When the center doesn’t hold ...” He said, “That’s an Irish idea.”

  Marge looked at Tom Kerrigan. He was staring straight ahead, his wide mouth arranged in its customary half smile, one end up and the other down. A brilliant mind, she thought, not for the first time. But his tongue was too sharp. He angered the powers that be. Years ago, when her father wasstill active, she’d listened to him give Tom advice. Don’t be so damned quick off the mark, her father had said; impatience is not a virtue. And it isn’t necessary for you to inquire into everything that goes on around here, and comment on it. Be a good thing if you stayed away from Mason’s at noontime, too. That place—she remembered, her father scowling into Tom Kerrigan’s implacable smile—is wired for sound. And she remembered Tom draining his glass and looking at her father with that smile and saying. That’s not my metabolism. Then, cheerfully: We are who we are, and the way he said it indicated he would do nothing about it. He would not change. It was Irish stubbornness; the powers that be had selected him and the powers that be would have to suffer the consequences. No, her father replied, you’ll suffer the consequences. And Tom nodding and agreeing. In that, he’d said, you’re absolutely right.

  “Of course they would never sell the newspaper,” he said. “Why the hell should they? It’s a damn good living and I suppose it’s in their blood. If you believe that sort of thing. I don’t.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Elmer said.

  Not for the first time, she thought.

  “They look on it as a public service, no doubt,” Kerrigan said.

  She flared. “And why note”

  “It’s quite a codicil,” he said. “It reads like wool against marble, I should imagine.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. They were talking now in low tones, approaching the newspaper building. A knot of black crepe hung on the door. Marge waved to the switchboard girt, whom she knew, and got a sad gesture in return. That day’s editorial, titled simply AMOS RISING, was Scotch-taped to the glass. A small group of men, all dressed in dark suits, was gathered in front of the building, reading it.

  She said casualty “See much of him lately?”

  He pursed his lips. “A little. Before he went into the hospital. And once after.”

  “Seemed alert,” she said.

  “Very.”

  She said, “He was vigorous until the end.”

  “Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Yes and no.”

  Now she knew they were talking about the same thing. She hated to do this to Elmer but she wanted to find out before the close of business that day She wanted to know the state of relations between Tom Kerrigan and Amos Rising, and if Tom had made a deal.

  “There was talk he was weakening even before he went into the hospital.” She paused, wondering what she would say next. Elmer was dumb, but sometimes he surprised you. “A little uncertain.”

  “I think that’s fair to say.”

  “I’d heard it both ways,” she said. “That he was strong as ever and that he’d been—weakening.”

  “Well, he knew the situation. And he didn’t like wit.” Tom Kerrigan looked at her over the top of his eyeglasses. Elmer was staring pensively ahead. “He wondered whether he was analyzing it correctly His health.”

  “Did you talk for a long time?”

  “Long enough.”

  She hesitated, wondering who had been present at the meeting; whether it was private or not. She said, “I suppose the boys were there. Charles.”

  “No,” Kerrigan said. “Actually, they weren’t there.”

  “So you saw him alone.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say we were alone.” He looked sideways at Elmer. “People were in and out,” he said vaguely. “Elliott came by, stayed for a minute.”

  “You reached a meeting of minds—?”

  Then Elmer Tilberg skipped ahead of them, full of energy, turning to face them both. “He was against the project. Against the zoning and would have fought it to the bitter end. Everyone knew that and if you’re going to try to disprove it you’re going to have to have evidence. You’re going to have to have evidence of some kind.” He stood obdurately in their path, waving his forefinger.

  They both smiled and shrugged. It was true after all, what everyone had said about Elmer for years. Dumb, dumb as a post; but sometimes he surprised you.

  They were passing the Elks Club and others had caught up with them. She looked left, across the narrow lawn and through a picture window in
to the bar. The bar was crowded. She noticed that everyone at the bar was seated on a stool, hunched over. The place was dark. On the wall, back of the bar was an enormous elk’s head, the rack flared in a bony fan. The bartender moved back and forth with a bottle in his hand. None of the men appeared to be talking, Then several of them turned and watched the others on the sidewall In a moment all of them at the bar were facing the sidewalk. One of them said something and the men at the bar laughed. Presently they turned on their stools and faced front again, so many heavy black birds on a fence rail. The bartender resumed his rounds with the bottle. She quickly averted her eyes and they moved along.

  There were six of them now and they walked in a bunch toward the church. It was a narrow structure and high, though surprisingly spacious inside and plain, except for the carving around the choir and pulpit. The lawn and the steps leading to the arched door were crowded with people. A hearse and three limousines were idling at the curb, the people on the sidewalk self-consciously turning away from them; the back of the hearse was stuffed with flowers. Tom Kerrigan took her arm to lead her up the steps. Elmer had dropped back.

  She said quietly, “What’s going to happen, then?”

  He said, “The old man. was angry He wanted this last thing. And he wanted me to get it for him.” Kerrigan lowered his voice. “But he was aware that it would be tough and there would be plenty of opposition. He didn’t want to strangle Charles but lie believed the thing was no good. He told me a little about the arrangements he’d made ... about the I”

  “And are you going to get it for him?”

  Kerrigan shrugged. “He’s dead. I made no promises to him. It irritated him but he accepted it. The truth is, Marge, the opponents have a lousy case. The only heavyweight in this town against it is Elliott Townsend—”