Behind the Last Window

Helga smiled as she signed the last line the lawyer had indicated on the pile of papers in front of her. She glanced up at his face and asked “is that all?”

“No,” you have to date it here.” He pointed at another line, “and then we are finished.”

“Then the house is mine?”

“Yes, and all the contents.” He picked up the papers. “I’ll be filing these with the city tomorrow to make it completely legal, but don’t worry. We have your signature, so it is all yours. Good luck with it.”

Helga rose from the chair and began to walk towards the door. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Lawson.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m just the executor. But I guess it’s a bit late to thank Mr. Fielding. He’s the one who put your name in the will.”

“Yes, he did, didn’t he? I was so shocked when you called and told me I had been included. I certainly never expected that he would leave me anything, much less everything, but I guess we have to respect his wishes. Now, you are certain that’s all I have to do.”

‘Yes, yes. Good bye now. I don’t have time to chat. I have another client to meet with.”

Don Lawson grimaced as he closed the door behind her and slumped down into his chair. What a horrible woman. He stuffed the papers into his briefcase and snapped the clasps shut, as an attempt to seal her presence from the room. It wasn’t as if she was his client. Baxter Fielding hadn’t even been his. He was just one he had inherited from his father after he passed. Not that he had anything to do with him. There was just that one phone call shortly after his father’s funeral. It was that woman. She had asked him to come to the Fielding house as she was worried that there might be a problem. She knew that his father had been Fielding’s lawyer and expected that he was also named as executor of his estate. She remembered that his father had been at the house shortly after the nephew died in that car crash to write up a new will. She wondered if it would be valid now that his father was gone. He had assured her it would be okay, as someone in the firm would take over. There was no need to worry.

The next phone call for this case came from the coroner informing him that Fielding had experienced another stroke and had died. It was time for him to take on the role of executor. His first task had been to retrieve the will from the house. Helga had met him at the door and led him into the master bedroom where a safe was built into the wall behind a portrait of Fielding’s parents. She showed him the latch on the portrait that allowed it to swing forward, then admitted she didn’t have a clue what the combination code for the safe was. He told her that he had it with him, as his father had it noted in his file for Fielding in the office. She left the room as he removed all of the items from the safe including the will, which was in a sealed envelope, dated the last day his father had visited the house. He put everything into his brief case and headed back to the office.

After documenting all of the different items and papers he had retrieved from the safe. Don leaned back in his chair and picked up the will, carefully examining the envelope to see if it had been tampered with in any way. There was nothing he could pick out. He slit the envelope open and spread the will on his desk. It started off the same as every will written by his father did. However, in the area in which the beneficiaries were named, there was only one name. This was unexpected, as the Fielding family was large. Although they had spread out over the country as time passed, they had continued to keep in touch and return to the community for special events. As the oldest son, Baxter would have been expected to share what he had inherited with the others. But no, he had not. He had bequeathed it all to Helga Swanson. She was to receive everything in the estate. The house, all of its contents, the bank accounts, the railroad shares and even all of the jewelry.

Don stared at her name in amazement. This couldn’t be right. It had to be a forgery. He studied the paper intently trying to find something he could use to prove that it was a fraud. But there was nothing wrong. That was his father’s signature, that was Fielding’s signature. That was the date stamp from the office. It was even written on the right paper, a high quality vellum that his father had insisted on stockpiling several years ago when the paper company had informed him that they would no longer be producing it. The only reason it could be a forgery was that name: Helga Swanson. Don shook his head, wishing his father was here to clarify what had happened. Had this woman managed to brainwash both Fielding and his father? Yes, they were both getting on in years, but they were not cognitively impaired. He knew something was wrong, but there was nothing he could do about it. He picked up the phone to give her the news.

Helga had a tough time not skipping as she walked down the sidewalk from the lawyer’s office. The house was hers. The house she had been determined to own for as long as she could remember. She thought back to the first time she had seen it. She was five years old. Her family had just moved into town. She was walking along with her mother when they went around the corner. There it was. The most beautiful house in the world.

“Mama,” she had said “I want to live there.”

“Don’t be foolish child,” came the reply. “That’s a house for rich folks. Not for people like us. Don’t put crazy ideas like that in your head. They will only drive you mad.”

But the idea was already there. It stayed firmly cemented in her mind throughout the few short months they lived in the community. Throughout the years that followed as they moved from one town to another, searching for work for her father. Throughout all of her years at school as she daydreamed about living in it, instead of listening to her teachers. As an adult she subscribed to the local newspaper to keep up on what was happening to the family that owned it, celebrating every time it was featured in photos of one party or another. Finally, the day came that she was waiting for. Baxter Fielding had a stroke. His wife placed an advertisement in the newspaper looking for a live-nurse to help her care for him. The waiting was over. She packed her bags and headed home, home to the only place that she felt was home, throughout her life.

It hadn’t been difficult to convince Mrs. Fielding to hire her. After all, there weren’t many people out there willing to take on a live-in position. Nor had it been difficult to convince the police that it had been accident that killed Mrs. Fielding when she had tripped and fallen on her garden shears when she was cutting roses for the dining room table.

Dealing with Mr. Fielding had been easy too. The stroke had damaged his left side, impairing his ability to move around without help, and slurring his speech, but his mind was still clear and active. He spent the majority of his time in the master bedroom and in the sunroom, reading books and doing crossword puzzles. She had the rest of the house to herself. She relished every moment she lived there. Her childhood dream had come true.

Baxter Fielding was of the fourth generation of the Fieldings who lived in this community. His great grandfather had homesteaded the quarter section near the village when he arrived in the 1800’s. He had sold his rights to the land to the railroad as it was working its way west, taking half of the price in shares in the railway. His grandfather had followed his fathers lead, not only working for the railroad but also buying up as many shares as he could over the years. This allowed his father to go away to college and earn a law degree. He invested his money building the house, making it the envy of everyone in the area. As the oldest son, Baxter had inherited the house and majority of the railroad shares but not the work ethic of the men who had gone before him. In disgust, his four siblings had moved out of the community, building their own lives in different states in much the same way as their great-grandfather had done. On the other hand, Baxter and his wife lived a very carefree life, hosting parties and growing roses, dependent on the money that he had inherited.

The death of his nephew shook Helga to her very core. It was the first time that she realized that her days in this home might be numbered. When Fielding asked her to call the lawyer, in order to change his will, she knew she had to do something. That day she did not retreat into the rest of the house while guests were present, but stayed by the door, listening to the conversation and watching what was going on inside. She carefully noted the combination numbers for the safe when Baxter relayed the to Mr. Lawson for safe keeping in his file in the office. She listened to the list of beneficiaries in horror, never once aware of the fact of how big the family actually was. She watched as Mr. Lawson sealed the will in the envelope and placed in in the safe. Later she gathered up the extra papers he had left behind on the table, taking them to her bedroom for safe-keeping rather than putting them in the trash. The next day when Fielding was in the sunroom working on a crossword puzzle she headed into the master bedroom, opened the safe and took out the will. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but she knew she had to do something.

In time she decided that she would have to make a new will, one in which she was the beneficiary rather than the family members. She began this task by practicing to write exactly like Mr. Lawson had done in throughout the will as well as copying both their signatures. She went to an office supply store to find a stamp that she could change the date on, happy to find a replica of that used in Lawson’s office. And then she practiced and practiced and practiced. She knew it had to be perfect.

When she heard about the death of the lawyer, she knew that luck was with her. Fielding was getting weaker all the time. It wouldn’t be long before he too passed on. The will she was writing was almost perfect. She took out the extra sheets of vellum paper that Lawson had left when he had been there to draft the new will. She took a deep breath and began to put the words on the paper. In time it was finished. She compared the two copies. No one would be able to tell them apart.

As Helga rounded the corner she stopped to gaze with wonder at the house she now owned. Her face fell. This looked nothing like the picture she had carried in her mind since she was five years old. That house was bright and cheerful, windows gleaming in the sunlight. This house was old and tired. It looked like no one had cared for it in years. But of course, that was true. She had been so busy enjoying the interior she hadn’t even thought about what it looked like outside. Well, this could be rectified. Not only could be, but would be as rapidly as she could make it happen. She had the money to do so. She pursed her lips. What could she do right away to make a difference? Why, she could wash the windows and make them gleam again. That would help.

She rushed into the kitchen to get a pain of soapy hot water and a variety of cloths to polish the glass. She started on the ground floor, stepping back to admire her work as each window was done. Yes, this was making a difference. Once the ground floor was finished, she went to the garage and found a ladder so that she could reach those on the second floor.

In time there was only one left. The last window facing the road. A she reached the top of the ladder she glanced into the room thinking that it was one she wasn’t familiar with. Had she ever been in it? She peered closely though the dirty pane. It looked like there were people in there. A whole group of people, staring at her with cold angry eyes. Helga stared back at them, wondering who they were and why they were there. Finally, she recognized Baxter’s parents from the portrait in the master bedroom. Why, these weren’t people. They were ghosts; ghosts of the Fielding family who had passed on. Yes, there was the great, great grandfather with his arm around a woman dressed in pioneer clothes. And there was the little girl who had died of scarlet fever before her tenth birthday. And the nephew from the car accident, his wounds still red and raw. Helga froze, not knowing quite what to do. There was a flash of light as Baxter’s face suddenly filled the whole window pane.

Helga jerked backwards, in an attempt to get away from him, causing the ladder tip and fall. The window filled with the faces looking down at her. They faded away as her head struck the edge of the brick planter and the blood poured out. Their job was done.