The Writer

Chapter 2

I went for a walk through the slight drizzle coming down in the park near our house a few days after that funeral. My neighbors there became so surreal. There were children laughing, people making small talk, and joggers running slowly past me. I felt as if I was in a painting, the kind that make no sense. 

I walked out of the park out into the sidewalk. All of the people in the street were so wrapped up in their schedules, rushing down the sidewalks, looking determinedly busy, and not looking up, down, or to the sides. They were all so wholly focused on looking as busy as the people walking beside them. Looking at my feet when I walk is what saves me from them. All of them act as if this small country town has something to do with the grand scheme of things. 4

I crossed the street and looked upwards. The rain fell in my eyes. It was somehow the most peaceful feeling of utter abandon, standing under the cloudy sky, and not particularly caring what happened in the next moments but just living for that rain.

When I reached our house I trudged up the stairs on our porch. These wooden steps had seen so many come and so many leave. They were worn down from years of people rushing up and down them. My Dad used to skip these steps two at a time, leaving me with my short legs in the dust behind him. When I opened the door to our small house the scent of burned meat invaded my nose. Dad was the main cook in our family, and none of us wanted to eat the mountain of casseroles in the freezer, so Alex thought that it would've been a grand idea for him to make Mom and I some dinner. But the fact that Alex had no future in cooking became steadily more apparent as that night progressed. He burnt the meat, overcooked the vegetables, and the cookies he made we had to eat with bowls and spoons. When Mom went walking back into her room she whispered to me with a distressed wink of her eye, "It's the thought that counts, right?"

That next morning was one of those days where I struggle to leave my bed behind. I slowly, agonizingly lifted my body from the blankets and stumbled like a zombie into the bathroom. Once I looked half-way decent I went downstairs and into the kitchen. I was surprised to find that Alex and Mom were already up. They were eating cereal and discussing something in low tones. Alex's eyes darted up for a second and saw me standing there. "Morning," he garbled through a mouthful of half-chewed Cheerios.
"Why are you guys up?" I mumbled. Mom whispered, "We're reading Dad's will today remember?"

Once we all looked halfway decent we left the house and went to the bus stop. Stepping on the bus I had one of those moments where I fantasize about just jumping out and running as fast as I can the opposite direction to where I'm going.

But unfortunately I never act upon those impulses.

So I ended up walking up the brick staircase of a law firm that looked like it had stood there since the beginning of time. The brick was decaying, and chunks of individual bricks had fallen onto the pavement. The windows were so fogged up with grime that I could only barely make out that there was a light in the window. The sign above the door had cracked almost all the way down the middle and it read, "Arch(crack)ie and Sne(crack)ed."  We walked in through the big graying door and my Mom started talking to the obese woman at the front desk. The carpet looked like it had been an antique about eighty years ago and the chairs were even worse.  We  waited nearly an hour in that museum before the woman sent us through another door to a room with one of those official-looking tables that take up nearly the whole room. We sat and this very elderly man walked through another door and hobbled slowly toward the table. His cane was silver plated, his glasses were on the very end of his abnormally large nose, and his suit jacket looked about ready to pop off. He looked like a Santa Clause that had gone into a law profession instead of toy making. He wheezed a greeting as he plunked down into one of the seats. He took out a yellow folder and opened it on the table. I swear a puff of dust came out when he opened his mouth. He spoke in a wheezy, monotone voice, "I'm Mr. Sneed (cough) and I have been selected to read to you that last will and testament of Robert Belleview." Alex and I proceeded to sit there for hours while the lawyer and our Mom droned on about documents, numbers, and money. I was in that state where you almost fall asleep and you have to jerk your head up to stay awake. I was startled awake when I heard the lawyer say, "And here we have the letters he left for Alex and Henle."

"Wait, what?" I sat up in my chair.

The Santa Lawyer didn't even glance up from cleaning his antique glasses, "Why yes your Father wrote some letters for you before he died, quite common in cases like this sort."