Chapter 2 Trash-ures

(Part 1)

Beth stood motionless in front of those looming doors. They ticked and clicked with a dozen clocks. The gears and cogs spun in endless furious circles. "You're late." Beth heard an echo of daunting whispers. "But not to worry, you're always on time here." 

She was sure she didn’t want any part of these doors or the meeting beyond them. Her arms drooped down by her sides, her eyebrows raised. She pouted; childishly perturbed that Gabe had left her there.

“No turning back I guess. Time to face my demons.” Her hand reached for Caleb's shoulder, the other wrapped around her baby. If she had to fight for them, she would.

“Mommy your eyeballs are popping out.” Caleb covered his mouth and closed his eyes. 

Beth straightened herself out, expecting a loud creak when the doors began to open slowly, but not a peep. Time, as it were, stopped with all the clicks, clacks, and whirs.

Orange blossoms fluttered through the gap but flapped right back out on a chilling wind as the somber chambers of Mr. Weatherly’s law firm crept into view. Stiff, motionless, well-dressed people sat with hands folded around the sturdy rectangular table. A cold draft stung her skin. 

Mr. Weatherly sifted through a tall stack of manila folders. "Welcome," he said and began his opening statement. Beth could hear even from where she stood. "We are here for the reading of the will as written by Mr. Seth Matthews, prepared and witnessed by me ... Mr. Weatherly."

Beth waited for the doors to close behind her. It seemed the respectful thing to do ... not to interrupt Mr. Weatherly.

She was mesmerized by his voice and pondered his accent—British perhaps. Not quite, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. It was music, like a flute; No, perhaps a violin—every string in perfect harmony with the next. She took it in, every word, and every note. 

“Tastes like honey,” she could hear Grandpa say when he liked someone’s voice with an encouraging word, “sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.”

Nobody noticed her yet nor the massive double doors that had opened without a sound. For a fleeting moment she considered walking away, but for some reason she couldn't move. It was beginning to feel very cold around her and Mr. Weatherly’s conference room didn’t match the calm demeanor she experienced in other parts of The Grand Seville.

“Mommy,” Caleb whispered. “The ceiling is moving.”  

Beth didn’t dare look up, but she did, with one eye closed and her head slightly tilting. Why does he always see these things, she thought. She almost shuddered out of her boots. The arched glass ceiling breathed. Each pane swirled and spewed out rings of smoke forming winged snakes, horned fowls, and twisted sea dragons whose eyes dripped with liquid fire. These creatures changed shape with each passing second. Mr. Weatherly, and his angelic voice, seemed oddly out of place.

“I don’t like it,” Caleb whispered. 

Beth squeezed Caleb’s hand. Get a grip, Beth, or they’ll put you away like your father. Nothing is real, nothing is real. “We’ll be okay, Caleb. Just don’t let go.”

“Won’t let go.” His little voice cracked.

Grandpa's family sat around Mr. Weatherly's conference room table—nobody fit quite right in the large leather chairs. Grandpa's five children, thirteen grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren were now itching to escape. But Beth knew that greed held them there. Grumpy greedy faces of men and women, who bore Grandpa’s last name but had no moral right to it, waited impatiently to hear what Old Man Seth had bequeathed them.

“It’s the bus ride from hell all over again,” Beth said, a little louder than she meant to. 

It caught their attention—their creepy, stiff-necked, vein-popping attention. It took a few “ahums,” and a dozen throat-clearing gurgles before they turned their backs on her, one by one.

Mr. Weatherly’s face crunched into a frown as he continued to read each line meticulously to wide-eyed people tapping pencils and bright red fingernails on the glass-topped table, twitching their noses, and forever clearing their throats. He stopped as Beth had worked up enough courage to walk closer with Caleb by the hand, and Daniel now cradled in her homemade baby sling, which she had to check twice as she did not remember how it got there. 

Jasmine and lavender wafted through the doors behind her, gently closing, again without a sound until the click of the well-oiled lock. Click. Mr. Weatherly nodded, suddenly aware he’d been frowning.

“I’m so sorry.” She blew strands of unruly brownish-blonde hair away from her face. With stray blossoms falling off her shoulders Beth dropkicked her life’s belongings beneath the table and surrendered to the oversized leather chair. Desperately trying to avoid their grimaces and smug sighs she apologized again.

“No need, Ms. Beth.” Mr. Weatherly poured a large glass of green tea, ice cubes popping with dazzling colors, and placed a muffin—twice the size of her hand, surrounded by exotic fruit and oozing thick warm cream from its sides—before her. She spotted the sugared white blossoms and cherry on top and wondered, though she was hungry if she could even manage a bite.

“My favorites,” she whispered and took a few gulps. Then she and Caleb dug their fingers into a delicious mess. All the while aware of the uninvited guests slithering overhead in that cold glass ceiling.

Mr. Weatherly nodded in approval and handed Caleb a cup of juice with a long licorice straw, and a baggie brimming with rainbow fish crackers. “Mighty fine Band-Aid^®.” Mr. Weatherly pointed at Caleb’s elbow.

“Thank you,” Caleb said. “It’s porple.” His thin body perked up.

“Indeed it is.” Mr. Weatherly chuckled and made sure to give Caleb some extra attention.  

"Larry—"

"The bus driver?" Mr. Weatherly interrupted Caleb.

"Yep, the bus divor." Caleb's face was as serious as any four-year-old could get. The tale of his journey on the bus became the center of attention—every word an exclamation. 

Mr. Weatherly made sure that the family members around his table heard every word. Caleb smiled when he knew he had an audience. His words became more cheerful. "I told them bout Jesus, too, like Grandpa Seth tot me."

That name alone—Jesus—sent shivers through the ceiling. Caleb's innocence had power. The heart of an innocent child then began to vanquish the fearful creatures in the glass ceiling above. 

Beth took note as she leaned back with an awkward smile into the leather chair. “Caleb, let Mr. Weatherly speak for a while.” She pulled him close and brushed through his curly brown hair with her fingers.

"Thank you Caleb," Mr. Weatherly said. "Back to business then."

Mr. Weatherly continued the reading of the will, which Beth didn't expect much from. The hand-delivered invite was why she showed up. She loved Grandpa Seth. He never judged even after she had made a few bad choices and wound up with two babies before her 21^st birthday without a husband—frowned upon in her family, and reason enough to be ostracized. Today, on her 22^nd birthday, she no longer cared.

Grandpa Seth loved Beth regardless and laughed at her horrible jokes with botched-up punch lines, and he appreciated her creative homemade cards. Always proud she had inherited his love for art. He received a card every week, with an extra one when she came to visit.

“My Beth,” he would say as she peeked around his bedroom door. “How I love to see your face.” His old scarred and weathered countenance would beam and come alive, and though his voice trembled it was music to Beth’s ears. He could still hold a conversation but sometimes during their walk in the garden he would fall asleep in his wheelchair. She stayed nonetheless till his nurse offered to set up a room for her. “No,” she would reply. “Just give him this card and tell him I love him.”  

****

At the end of the day Grandpa’s fortune fell into the hands of his ungrateful children: Four yachts—two for racing—, four mansions, three vacation homes, a dozen vintage cars, and a collection of baseball cards in original packaging.

“Nothing for Beth?” Her mother’s feeble attempt to care fell on deaf ears.

Mr. Weatherly gave Beth a reassuring wink even though the pile of manila envelopes was gone.

“Remember,” Mr. Weatherly said in a stern voice. “These things come with a price.” He handed each of them a letter. “These … things … are yours only after you complete the tasks Mr. Seth has laid out in the letters addressed to you.” He shook his head and exhaled. “I will see you all in a couple of months.”

They shrugged, they huffed, they shook their heads rapidly with pruned lips, but none seem to have any intention of opening their letters. The oldest son, Beth’s Uncle Jake, left his on the table. No one seemed satisfied with what they had received but at least the black sheep of the family, namely Beth, and her children did not receive a dime. Even her mother, Grandpa’s supposed caregiver, had said enough. And with her young lover hovering over her shoulders, looked the other way just in case she would be cut off from the rest of the family as Beth had.

The room emptied quickly leaving Beth and her boys sitting at the end of the table. The glass ceiling now emptied of unwanted creatures allowed the glory of the midday sun to filter through. When the last vestige of a spoiled child walked out the doors, Mr. Weatherly's conference room burst into a sea of color—like flowers blooming after a long hard winter, losing its blanket of smoke and must. 

End of Chapter 2, Part 1

Serendipity Copyright by Deborah L. Alten 2019

Advertisement:

Recommended by Beth
Baby Wrap Carrier