a Dollar a day

By James Merolla

L azily,

I

T ook

T he

L etter.

“E squires;

B entley,

L azlo

a nd

C ook.

K eep

b oth

o ptions

o pen.

K eeping

T he

W ednesday

e vening

n ow.

T hursday

y ours,

t oo.

H ave

o ne

u nfilled

s pot.

A ll

n egotiations

d ecided.

D ollars

o ver

l egal

l imit.

A ll

r egs.

s ecured.”

“Last will and testament of your late wife to be read at these times. Two items of value left to you, Thomas. Regards, BL & C.”

Beatrice left a will? She left me something of value and spoke no words? The woman I hurt and squandered? Wasted? Often Ignored? Not celebrating any anniversaries, birthdays or New Year’s Eve with? That wife? Can’t be.

This doesn’t sit well.

This

weird

enigma’s

not

true.

Your

tired,

harassed,

often

unfulfilled

spouse

assuaged,

near

death?

Doling

out

lucrative

lira?

Awarding

real

scratch?

I was delusional. And yet, she drilled generosity into me. Changed my spirit that way. For about an hour.

It was her mantra: “Be generous! Give at once! Don’t let loved ones wait.”

I was never generous enough.

Maybe this was her final act to show me how giving is actually committed. Was this her better nature? Is this mine? Or will she get me back in her departing? Is this some final punishment? Oh… my.

Oh, well…. (Those short words – oh, well and oh, my – summed up my entire philosophy of life as I approached my seventh decade. Something good happens? Just say, “Oh, my!” Something not good? Say, “Oh, well….” Pretty much covers everything with no languishing lamenting. Beatrice came to hate those little words.)

Which reaction would it be?

Listeners,

I

think

the

late

emergent

Beatrice

left

another

charitably

kind

behest.

Ordinary

options

kill.

Ordinary options decimate all wonder and mystery. Wound possibility. Or at least spoil the fun, wouldn’t they?

I had to find out. Two weeks later, when I thought I might spigot, I did.

The law firm of Bentley, Lazlo and Cook was anything but. Soft, billowy, unshaven millennials, they looked like the kind of playground sycophants I instructed my sons to push into snow piles.

“Stop! Be kind,” what was left of my inner voice said. “You are two generations removed. This can only end well, right? You are getting two unreported, unknown, unexpected things from a person who you did not value. At 69, you are old enough to curse, despise or confirm.”

Had I lived long enough to finally know any better? Was my royal nature at hand? Temptation is not a sin, onto itself, Beatrice would always lament. It’s when you give in, that you have explaining to do. Don’t yet give in to resentment unexplained.

The soft firm called me into the padded room they called an office. It contained one circular clock and one square clock. Neither gave the correct time.

“Thomas,” said Bentley, “the singular, sanitary contents of your wife’s behest are not to be revealed.”

“I’m sorry, what? Then, why….?”

“However,” added Lazlo, “what she has bequeathed, is.”

“Your former spouse,” cemented Cook, “has left you, in her final will and testament, an overly filled little black book and $20,000.”

“Oh… my!” I squirted, involuntarily. “Twenty thousand dollars!” (Beat.) And what was that other thing?”

Lazlo

iterated

the

truncated

list

encore.

Bentley,

Lazlo

and

Cook’s

knack,

brusque

or

oaken,

knowingly

offered me nothing. I would have to pull the answer from the tonsils.

“What, pray tell,” I squeezed, “is in the book?”

“This letter of explanation….and nearly exactly 20,000 notations,” said the roundest of them.

“The same number…as the money?”

“Well,” snorted Lazlo, attempting humor. “I was a civics major…they told me there would be no more math for the rest of my life. They lied. The short answer is… ‘yes.”

I opened the letter sheepishly, but it was a ram’s head to the stomach.

“Thomas, who doubts. Ever since we met at age 10, in the midst of my childhood, I would count the days of hope where you might, someday, own up to what you could and should have done, initiate something for someone’s greater good, instead of what you had always squandered or failed to do. I had always wished for you to be more so we could be more,” it began. “From the day we met in our little town, outside Falugo’s Pharmacy, to this reading, is precisely 20,000 days, or, put another way, 54.79 years, give or take an uneventful Monday.”

Could it be 20,000 days? I read on.

“Here, in this little black book, I have recorded every slight, every pang of pain, every scintilla of agony you caused me, every betrayal of trust, every sinister intent, every agonizing word, spit in anger, every hour, every day, every sleepless night, twenty thousand and twenty thousand dollars strong,” it went on.

“As heartbroken as I was, my final act involves all the money I had left in the world. But now, it is yours, dear Thomas. How could I not show you the real meaning of generosity unless I demonstrated it to you? The precipitous balance must not be lost on you. $20,000! 20,000 days. Enjoy, if you can. Oh, well! Oh, my! Owe well! Owe my! Owe nothing! Owe everything! Prudently, Beatrice.

“Post: if you destroy the book, unread, you will eternally prove my point.”

Inside, she had notated each pain, every slight, real or imagined, in her unmistakable handwriting, the consonants sharp and angular, like sentries at a Medieval gate.

In all that time, sharp, sharp, sharp, you are saying I didn’t do anything right? Nothing was good?

This

waffling

enraged.

Nice

try.

You

think

her

odious,

underhanded,

straight

armed,

niggardly

double

dealing

offended?

Lawyers,

look

again.

Really

see!

Every wasted second.

Oh, well and oh, my.

“I’m afraid to inquire. I don’t want any confusion. What does it all mean?” I asked.

“It means, Thomas,” said Bentley. “You will receive exactly one dollar a day until your death. The entire sum would take 54.79 years to distribute in total. And if you die first, and that is a certainty, given your age, the money goes to her favorite charity – The Little Book Society.

“And,” concluded Cook. “In that case, the funds go out all at once. Otherwise, the sum cannot be rushed or invested or bequeathed or speculated to anyone else in your living.”

“I die and it goes where at once?” I groggily lamented.

“To

what

entity,

now?”

To

your

tepid

horde

of

useless

septuagenarians

and

ne’er-

do-wells?

Don’t

octogenarians

let

live?

Amid

real

screwings?

Laughingstock!

Idiot!

To

think,

Lady

Equality’s

bribe’s

lengthened

at

checkout.

Knifing

blindly,

or

otherwise

Kafkaesque.

Muddling, confusing and skewing any thoughts of her royal nature or mine! Well?

To myself, I said this.

To them, there was an awkward silence. I could hear the ticking of each incorrect clock in echo. “I have a great deal of reading to do,” I stammered, tapping the plump tome. “Looks like a page turner.”

I arose and wrapped up the letter and the book with a thick black rubber band.

“Just a minute,” smiled Lazlo, reaching into his pocket. “Your inheritance.”

He handed me three quarters, two dimes and a nickel.

“Your inheritance will work in the parking meter downstairs,” chuckled Cook. “Or the laundry down the street. Think, Thomas, of the possibilities!”

I opened up to page 33 in the little black book…. “A simple ‘Thank you,’ was mostly all I ever wanted. Alas, it’s too late for me to hear it, but not late for the rest of the rest of your life.”

Her will was painstakingly clever and cleverly painstaking. The bill had come due.

“Thank you,” I said, looking up, and meaning it.

Lesson learned. A dollar is another day.