Things Unsaid

“I should’ve talked to him sooner,” Jim muttered.

“Not this again, Jimmy,” Cousin Ed said, while packing books.

He doesn’t get it, Jim thought. None of them get it.

“At least you got the books, you’ve spent more time here than all his kids and me combined,” he paused holding out a book, “Which box does this go in?”

“Sculptures of West African Tribes, ahh, put it with Africa. I’ll have to sort this all out later anyways.”

This had been the last few hours. Idle chit-chat while packing the hundreds of books in their recently-deceased grandfather’s library.

He was dead; the art world rejoiced.

At 83 he passed quietly in his manor house in rural Mississippi, leaving behind three children, two grandchildren and about $10,000,000 in art.

And a library.

Some of the books were rare. Inheriting the books shifted Jim’s net worth by a factor of at least 4.

Winston Winthrop was an art collector. He specialized in tribal art from the Amazon, and there wasn’t a private collection like his anywhere in North America. It was one of the best kept secrets of the art world.

Deep in the woods, down three dirt roads, he lived in a quiet house overlooking 10 acres of forest.

“You’d never know the man lived here, judging by the hard water stains in that toilet,” Ed said, shaking his head,” Jim replied.

“I still can’t believe you want this stuff. What are you going to do with a bunch of old books?” Ed asked.

“Oh, read and re-read them I’m sure. Of course, once Lydia gets a bit older I can start teaching her,” Jim paused, secretly dreading the damage a three-year-old could exact.

“Excuse me gentlemen, are you done in this room yet?” one of the curators from the auction house stuck his head in the door.

“Piss off, I’ll tell you when we’re done,” Jim sent daggers over his shoulder. Without a word, the man left. “Damned vultures.”

“You know, they didn’t kill Grandpa,” Ed gave Jim a look.

“No, but all they see is their commission after the auction. Why didn’t I talk to Grandpa sooner?” Jim asked, more to himself than to Ed.

“Probably because you didn’t want him thinking you wanted to turn his art into a beach house. That reminds me...MOM,” Ed shouted out the door.

Just then Aunt Ruth walked in, all five-foot-two of clothes that were a generation too young for her. “What is it, Ed?”

“Where are the tags that we’re supposed to hang on the art pieces that we get the proceeds from? There’s a new Harley with my name on it. Jim ought to have his too so that the art goons know to look and not touch.”

“I left them on the kitchen counter, dear. And you,” she turned her eyes to Jim kneeling on the floor, “You don’t get a single piece. Dad made it very clear that he wanted you to have the books.”

Jim’s ire rose, “That’s correct, but I remember a certain someone remarking how inconsequential these books were compared to the millions the art is worth. Dad and Uncle Bob agreed that I could have a piece of the collection, so long as it doesn’t present a value over $2000. Don’t worry, you’ll still get your damned beach house or...”

Ed cut in, “Jim, don’t…” but it was too late.

“You listen to me boy,” Aunt Ruth’s voice rose with each word, “My father’s will explicitly stated that his estate was divided into three for each of his children. Bob wanted the house, and that ate up his third. Doug and I are to split the art. You spending every summer with him and eating up all the time Ed could have spent with him doesn’t give you the right to decide what the man does with his estate when he dies!”

“Can you even begin to comprehend the work that went into acquiring this collection?” Jim stood towering over her, finger pointed to her chest, “You don’t have enough brain cells to rub together to even begin to comprehend how beautiful of a legacy Grandpa built. I’m the only one in this family who gave a shit about the art that he loved so don’t expect me to be pleased that you leeches are going to squander the collection he built so you can wear bikinis on the beach and pretend you can still turn heads!”

“That’ll do, Jimmy,” the voice of Doug Winthrop, Jim’s father, cut through the fight.

“A fine job you did on him, Doug. No respect for his elders,” Aunt Ruth pretended to be affronted and hurt.

“Shut up, Ruth,” Doug said flatly, “You provoked him. Jim knows more about the art in this house than most of these curators putting price tags on it. Bob and I agreed, and don’t even pretend you’ll be hurt for it. You’ve got $5,000,000 coming to you, same as me.”

At that, Aunt Ruth walked out dragging Ed in tow. Once they were alone, Doug looked at Jim, “‘Pretend you can still turn heads’ might have been a bit far,” barely concealing a chuckle.

“I’m sorry, Dad. Seeing 60 years of hard work disappear to the highest bidder makes me want to vomit,” Jim sat down at the small table in the middle of the room.

“It’s the way of it though, isn't it?” Doug pulled up the opposite chair and looked around the room. “One generation passes, and leaves a legacy for the next. None of us understood or cared about his art collection. You got to understand. This was all stuff that made it very hard for me to run around the house when I was a kid. I’m glad to be shot of it. Besides, some of it is going to a museum, we are at least honoring those wishes he had.”

“So now I have to go to the National Art Gallery to look at some of the pieces Grandpa let me hold since I could walk? The closest I can get to the man is behind a velvet rope? Have a guard tell me to not get too close to pieces that will still have my fingerprints on them?” A tear choked Jim’s speech. This was ridiculous, a grown man crying over art that was never his.

“Jim, Dad had the best gift he could have asked for in you: someone to share his passion with. Your grandmother never cared. We never cared. But you did. He asked me before he passed to make sure you got the library. He didn’t leave anything specific to Ed, so that is something?”

“I’ll make sure I get it packed up before the end of the day. I don’t want any of these curators getting sticky fingers. Some of these books are only found in the Congressional Library at this point,” he could keep crying later.

Doug laughed, “See that you do, and don’t let your aunt hear that or you’ll cause more of a fuss. I’ll keep her busy,” and with that he gave Jim a squeeze on the shoulder and left the room.

Alone, Jim stared at the books. Aside from a couple knick-knacks on the shelves, it was row after row of books. Most didn’t have their dust jackets and all of them were annotated with Grandpa Winthrop’s fine handwriting.

He smacked the table. It’s my own fault. I never said anything, and so, nothing ever happened or changed. Jim didn’t want the art because he thought it should be his, or even because of the great value of it, but because of what it meant. Each piece he looked at, he saw the care and concern of a man spending a lifetime building a completely unique collection.

As the years progressed, Jim watched his grandfather become more reclusive and talk less to the family. Any time his kids talked to him it was just because they wanted some money from him. “A bunch of damned vultures,” he told Jim on the phone last year, “They can fight over it when I’m dead.”

Once Jim found out what the nature of the will was, he spent a lot more of his time trying to figure out how to convince his grandfather to change it. He never found a way to do it, without making his grandfather think he just wanted a bigger piece of it. Worse for Jim, he never even tried to have the conversation.

A picture of him and his grandfather hung on the wall, “I was so afraid you’d look at me differently, I never tried to stop you from making a mistake.”

He stood and set to work on the next shelf. Wedged in between two larger books was a small black journal, unadorned except for “Jimmy” in gold script in the bottom right corner.

He opened the book and the first page was a letter addressed to him, dated for, “I would have only been 6 when he wrote this.”

“Jim, you, of all the family, show the most promise. When Ed tried to draw on a wood carving, you ran over and hit him with the wiffle-ball bat you had. You told him that it was ‘grampy’s toy.’ He howled and ran for your grandmother. Then you came and told me all about how you defended my toys. I’m keeping my eye on you, kid.”

Next page, a year later.

“Jim, your dad called and said you haven’t stopped asking if you could come back to visit. He’s asked me to cover a plane ticket to take you for a week. And you know what, I think I shall. I can’t wait to see you.”

They kept going. Page after page of notes written to him throughout the years. Until he got about halfway back, and he found the rest of the pages stuck together. On the opposite page, there was one last note. This was only a few weeks ago.

“Jim, age is a bitch. You spend your whole life building an empire of the mind and bank account to leave to your children only to resent the giving of the gift. The vultures won’t stop circling, and it appears I must give in to them. Had I the mind, I think it would be no better end than to have the art all go to a museum and for the money I have remaining (not much left, truth be told) be turned to mulch. But, your grandmother wouldn’t think too kindly of me and it appears I’ll have to answer to her sooner than later. Frankly, it’d be hilarious for you to get the whole kit and kaboodle. Then you’d get tied up in endless lawsuits about other members of the family having been cheated, or whatever other horseshit your aunt would come up with.

You not only have been the one person in this family to understand me and love what I love, but to love me. All the years going to shows together and auctions, the joy was always the thrill of the hunt but as I reflect during what feel like my final weeks here on this planet, I realize that the true joy was knowing you and watching you become the man you are. I’ve always loved you, and Ed and my children. But you’ve been a companion more special than I’ve ever known how to express.

On the pages stuck together, he wrote, “Once Ruth clears off, tear paper.” Jim poked a hole in the paper, and revealed a wad of $100 bills, held together with a binder clip with a note that said, “$20,000, pending last minute scotch purchases.”

“Jim, you want a hand with these books? I’m not sure your dad can hold these guys back much longer,” Ed peeked in the door.

Jim smiled, “Yeah, that’d be great.”