What Was Left

Another writing contest – this one with an interesting prompt. Writers were given a choice of five characters, five settings, and one thing that must be included in all stories.

I chose “half-siblings” from the list of characters, “duplex” as my setting, and the thing every story must include was “a painting, from an earlier time, that looks eerily like the protagonist”.

My story didn’t win, but it took me to some interesting places as I wrote it. I’m proud of it, even though it’s a bit messy and all over the place. Nothing like writing 3,000 words on a deadline.

In the wake of their father’s death, a brother and sister confront issues of legacy, memory, and inheritance.

What Was Left

In his early twenties, Ronnie dated a girl who told him that all the deaths in her family happened between Thanksgiving and the New Year. The reason that Ronnie remembered it was that his girlfriend at the time – Amy or Annie or something – had said it to him at the funeral of her brother who had drowned while trying to rescue a child who had fallen from a boat. It was August.

Ronnie laughed, not ten feet from the casket, and drew glares from the family. Fair enough. They had never liked him anyway.

The relationship with Amy/Annie had only lasted that one summer, but he still thought of her from time to time for two reasons.

First, she had this theory that the reason she and Ronnie were made for each other was because she was born on September 9, 1981, and Ronnie’s birthday was October 8, 1980. Nine times nine is 81, and ten times eight…yeah. In his later, more mature, years, he might have diagnosed this as mathematical symmetry in place of emotional symbiosis. In the moment, this was beyond Zodiac-buffoonery and was cause for immediate dismissal.

Second, now that he was approaching fifty years old, he thought she was mostly right about one thing: the deaths in his family did indeed seem to fall between Thanksgiving and the New Year.  

What Ronnie never learned, because they lost touch after their breakup, was that the girl, Amber Olson nee Cadney, soon reunited with a frat boy from her college back in Kansas, got married, and became a Jayhawks booster. Her husband’s birthday was October 8, 1980.

***

Ronnie’s father Hank died two weeks before Christmas. His decline was slow and painful – he had suffered from dementia for years, a disease that did not show itself until his wife, Ronnie’s stepmother, had already lost her own battle with lung cancer.

The timing was convenient, to be perfectly ghoulish about it. Ronnie’s family had already planned a large family reunion over the holidays and the extended family was together for the first time in years.

The funeral was on Christmas Eve Eve and the burial on the day after Christmas – Boxing Day to his Manitoban cousins. Hank was the last of his generation: father of two (Ronnie and younger sister Jodie), grandfather of two (Jodie’s sons Tommy and Benji); preceded in death by his parents (Joe and Rosa), his two sisters (Ronnie’s aunts Betsy and Quincy), and two wives (his partner of forty years and Jodie’s mother, Edna, as well as Mae, who he controversially married and widowed within two volatile years in his late-seventies). Survived by countless nieces, nephews and cousins in this remarkably fertile family.

Ronnie was the bastard, born to a woman his father dated briefly before shipping off to Vietnam.

Only when Hank returned from Johnson’s War, in body if not wholly in mind, did he find out that he was a father and his ex-fling, that wild child of the 60s who had given generously of her free love in the back of his Dodge Charger, had gone west and abandoned her toddler, little Ronnie, on the proverbial doorstep.

To Hank’s credit, he took Ronnie in and raised him, with Edna’s eventual help, as best as he could.

***

Hank’s apartment was a time machine. He hadn’t redecorated in twenty years and the style was somewhere between 1990s coastal grandmother and laid-off dockworker on a bender. There wasn’t much worth saving but someone had to do it.

The job fell to Ronnie and Jodie and the landlord gave them a month. The three of them met on New Year’s Day and got the rundown: they could use the dumpster down the street because it was behind an apartment building that the landlord’s father owned. No need to paint or patch or even clean; he just wanted them out so he could flip the place for the spring market.

The landlord had a little mini-me that followed him around, a pre-teen son following quietly in his wake. Ronnie couldn’t help but compare this family’s real estate dynasty with his own family legacy – medical debt had cost Dad Ronnie’s childhood home. Ronnie had only ever rented. A mortgage, like a relationship, did not fit his ethos of freedom. Only Jodie and her husband had made any headway on the American Dream. They had an 1800-square-foot bungalow on the east side of Cleveland; big enough for a two-car garage but small enough that the kids had to double up in the bedrooms like it was the 1930s.

Jodie and Ronnie both took the first week of the year off work and got to work. Jodie tackled the bedrooms and bathrooms; Ronnie was on kitchen and garage detail. Some small trinkets would be their only chance for an inheritance.

It’s the little things, easily overlooked, that make it worthwhile to comb through every item. It might be a vintage pen tucked in a desk drawer that would sell for a few hundred dollars on eBay. Or the first edition Truman Capote or Larry McMurtry novel in mint condition, shelved and forgotten.

Ronnie struck first when he tried to move a gray plastic box in the garage and nearly slipped a disc. It was the size of a shoe box and must have housed solid lead. After dollying it into the living room, the box was found to contain worn silver half dollars featuring a robed woman and mint dates from, at a glance, 1916 through World War II.

As Ronnie sifted and stacked the coins in the light of the living room window, Jodie took a rare opportunity to sit and talk about family history.

“I think he relaxed a bit once we got older, but Mom said he was pretty hardcore after he came back from Vietnam,” Jodie said. “She made him get rid of the guns, but I found a go bag in his closet.”

“I found a tent and camping gear in the garage but threw it all out. Mice got into it.”

“They used to camp the Alleghenies. But Mom was good for him. ‘She brought me in from the cold,’ he once told me. I don’t think I understood until now how much he missed her.”

Ronnie had been scrolling through his phone.

“Do you know what these are worth? That’s Lady Liberty. These are all 90% silver coins. Each of these are worth twenty bucks easy, and some could be way more.” He nudged the box with his foot, wondering what thirty pounds of Walking Liberties times twenty dollars might be.

“In case the banks collapsed or the apocalypse. I didn’t know about these boxes, but he’s given some to Tommy and Benji before. Come over some time, they’d be happy to show you.”

The mailbox on the porch rattled as the mailman dropped off the last of the bills and advertisements addressed to the dead inhabitant. Jodie returned to the bedroom while Ronnie wondered how you’d transport all those coins when the world ended.

***

One morning, he annoyed her by standing at the doorway to the bedroom while she worked on sorting through his clothes. He was pointing and asking questions.

“What’s the Buckeye necklace for?”

“Dad’s coffee buddy Andrew went to Ohio State. Andrew’s brother gave it to Dad when Andrew died. He wanted to get down to the Horseshoe but didn’t have anyone to make the trip with him.”

“He never asked me.”

Jodie didn’t respond.

“That Christmas tree in the glass bottle?”

“It’s a snow globe that Tommy made. I didn’t realize he’d kept it. Are you done packing the plates in the kitchen?”

“Where’s the TV?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s just chairs and a couch in the living room, and nothing in here. Where did Dad watch TV?”

“He didn’t, Ronnie.”

He waited as she folded sweaters.

“Ronnie, God, you’re… he gave up on television a few years ago. He couldn’t figure out streaming although God knows I tried to help, and he didn’t really care about sports anymore. One day I came by and the TVs were gone.”

“He stopped caring about sports?”

She sat down on Hank’s rocking chair next to the bedroom window and opened the blinds to the community garden in the neighboring lot.

“It’s funny now, looking at those raised beds. I wonder if that’s how he thought of it. He told me that he treated his mind like a garden that he could stroll. He said he had enough material to last him the rest of his life.”

“Huh.”

“It’s kind of sweet. I wonder what he used to think about most.”

***

Ronnie and Jodie rarely fought when they were younger; the nearly ten-year age gap made them more indifferent than antagonistic. But Ronnie learned soon after Hank died that Jodie could be tough as the Viet Cong when she dug in. Her husband Ted could have tipped him off if he’d only asked.

The topic of discussion was Hank’s burial arrangements. He had left no instructions.

Jodie took the lead and suggested that Hank should be buried at Lakeview Cemetery, Cleveland’s historic park-like retreat near her home in Cleveland Heights. 

Ronnie countered that Edna had been cremated and her ashes kept in an urn on the mantel, first at the family house on Clifton Boulevard and later in the duplex on Bunts. Besides, it was cheaper.

Cheaper, Jodie had scoffed. Where was Ronnie’s pecuniary concern when she was taking unpaid days off to ferry Hank around to doctor’s appointments? Did he realize how long it took to rendezvous with the VA at Checkpoint Home Health Care?

Ronnie tried a different tack. 

It was his general belief that gravesites would be unvisited in no more than two generations, possibly less. Were her future grandchildren going to visit the grave of a man they had never met? Had she ever visited their grandparents’ graves in Erie, PA? If you really think about it, it’s as pure a representation of human narcissism as you’re likely to find. Here for a geologic minute, consume finite real estate for an eternity. Besides, think of the environmental impact. 8.3 billion people in the world, times eight feet by three feet, give or take.

Jodie flared and Ted held his palms to her as if to say please call off the artillery, he’s just being an idiot but she surprised her husband by taking aim at both men in her final volley. 

Jodie had a general belief too. She asked Ronnie if he’d noticed how the saleswomen at the Toyota dealership where he worked were always the ones who arranged office lunches. Or Ted’s female coworkers, the customer service reps at the commercial real estate firm downtown, who had the exact same job description as Ted, wasn’t it these women who ordered the bagels on Friday and supplied cake for the monthly birthday gatherings. Had Ted ever brought a cake to the office? Had Ronnie ever coordinated a party room at a local venue for the office Holiday shenanigans?

One more belief that Jodie had, while everyone was on the topic: the role of women in home healthcare. Had Ted ever bothered to notice that she was always expected to take the day off when one of the kids was home sick from school? That she made the doctor’s appointments, she arranged the vaccination schedules for them from the time they were born until the day they walked out that goddamn door as adults? That she had driven Edna to her doctor’s appointments when Hank stopped driving? She had helped Hank find the first floor duplex when she didn’t think he could handle stairs anymore, she had answered his calls when he got confused and forgot where he put something, she had crossed town, in the rain in the middle of the night on a weekend when Hank had left the stove on and the upstairs neighbors called the gas company because they could smell it in their bedrooms. She had done everything, everything, just as Edna had done everything when they were children.

Ted was stunned into respectful silence. Ronnie, who could always be counted on for a rejoinder, mumbled something about not wanting to step on her toes because she was so good at it. Then Jodie dropped some verbal Agent Orange on his head and stomped off to bed.

A few days later, Hank was buried on Boxing Day in section 10-A in Lakeview Cemetery.

“Sorry Ronnie,” Ted said that night as Ronnie laced up his boots by the door. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No, she’s right. I’m alone. I can help more.” And he meant it.

***

When Jodie stumbled across the painting in the bedroom closet, it was like finding something precious she’d misplaced years ago, even though she knew she had never seen it before.

It was behind Hank’s suit pants, wrapped in brown paper. She heard Ronnie muttering to himself in the living room, so she decided she would show him.

“Sorry, just taking a break,” he said. “Making some prop bets.” He saw a look on her face and put his phone down. “You’re right, I need to stop. I’m blowing money that I don’t have.”

The flush in her face was something different. In his confusion, he thought that he might prefer the nuclear option to whatever this new twist might be.

“I found a painting in the closet,” was all she said. Then she propped it on the chair across from him. Ronnie leaned back into the couch and frowned at the man in the painting smiling back at him.

“Who is that?” he asked. Ronnie’s first thought was that he was somehow looking into a mirror in a carnival fun house.

There was a man in a boat, maybe a canoe. His hands grasped oars, their handles like yellow #2 pencils that extended beyond the frame. He was slim, athletic, with definition in his shoulders. He wore jean shorts to mid-thigh, a tight white t-shirt with a V-neck, and dog tags around his neck. Behind him was a pond, ringed with trees. The water was gray, reflecting an overcast sky incongruous with his summer attire.

His expression was a crooked grin, enigmatic. One eyebrow was arched and his curly black hair whipped with the wind. The artist had focused on the face and you could feel his eyes on you. You wanted to hear what he had to say to back up that delicious smirk.

“Who is that, Jodie?” he asked again. The face of the man in the painting was Ronnie’s face thirty years ago. Ronnie had never been in a canoe, and he would never have worn jean shorts, but if he had, this is exactly what he would look like.

“I’ve seen him in Dad’s albums from the 60s. His name was Richard Boss. He was a friend.”

Ronnie had a staring contest, let his eyes wander down to the dog tags and the aggressive pull of those forearms, and then met his eyes again.

“The painting is signed M. Price. Dad’s girlfriend before the war was named Melissa. I don’t know her last name, but I know she painted.”

She wondered what he was thinking.

“Were there other paintings?”

“No.”

Ronnie rubbed his chin. 

“How much do you know about this, Jodie?”

She looked at him in profile, but he gave nothing away.

“How much do you want to know?”

When he didn’t respond, she forged carefully ahead. Melissa had run around with Dad and his friends the summer before he left for basic training. She was a fun girl, “spicy”, Hank had said. When he shipped out, there were no expectations. By chance, he met another GI in Vietnam from Cleveland who had once dated her. He said Melissa had moved to Sante Fe to focus on her art. Dad didn’t think much about it until he came home and met Ronnie.

“And Richard Boss?”

“He died in the Easter Offensive. Dad didn’t say much. He was just one of his friends. He had a lot of friends back then.”

Jodie didn’t know how far to push it.

“Did Dad ever tell you why he enlisted?”

Ronnie shook his head, still looking for something in the painting.

“There was a lottery. What a strange thing to call it. Every day on the calendar had a slip of paper, and those represented your birthday. This was in December of 1969. The idea was that the first numbers picked would be the first guys drafted. Birthday as destiny, I guess. I think Dad said if you were in the first hundred, they’d get you, so you might as well just enlist and pick your branch. Over three hundred, you were safe.”

“What was Dad’s birthday again?”

“April 11, 1944. His birthday was the 14^th chosen. He was 25. The funny thing is Richard Boss was like 283 or something, but he enlisted with my Dad and they went off to boot camp together.”

Ronnie finally switched his gaze from the painting and back to Jodie. His eyes were wet, but his cheeks were dry.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Ronnie.”

“I have a proposal.”

“It never mattered.”

“I have a proposal,” he said again.

“OK, what’s that?”

“I’m going to keep the photo albums and a few old books. You keep the box of the 90% silver. Use it to pay for college or save it for the apocalypse. Whatever comes first. The rest goes to Goodwill.”

She thought this sounded both reasonable and mature, and that perhaps she had never been prouder of her brother.

“What about the painting, Ronnie?”

“I’ll take it to the dumpster. No offense to Richard Boss, he’s obviously quite handsome, but he doesn’t mean anything to you and me. I don’t see how this painting taking up real estate on a wall helps anyone.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath and nodded.

“Only one condition, Jodie. I’ll start bringing dinner over Sunday nights like I used to. The boys can show me their coin collections. Then after dinner, you and I split a bottle of wine and you tell me about the stories from those photo albums while Teddy-boy cleans up. That sound fair?”

“Fair,” she said.

“Is that not fair?”

“More than fair, Ronnie. Now stop or you’re going to make me cry too.”

And then he got off the couch and grabbed the painting and he walked out the front door towards the apartment complex with the dumpster.