Memoir Manor

The will had called this place “the house on the lake.” That was true enough, if by house one meant a manor off of the box art for Clue and by lake a clear, crisp, body of water supporting a fleet of rich people in their shiny, bullet-shaped boats.

There’s something obnoxious about how clear that water is, Bryan Mason thought. Gravel crunched as the car came to a stop.

“We’re here!” Sandra announced from the driver’s seat. Bryan’s sister threw the car into park. She’d been so excited to make this drive, and now she was positively bubbly.

I guess any excuse to get out of the city is a good one.

The manor loomed over them, brown cobblestone covered in creeping vines. The grounds around it must have looked fantastic, but autumn had made the bushes brown and tired.

Bryan fidgeted with the corner of the legal-sized page he held, a photocopy of the original document. It was the single page of a will, with both his and Sandra’s names on it.

“As for the house on the lake, Maxine Wellerman II bequeaths it, all possessions therein, and the associated responsibilities to Sandra Mason.”

Neither Bryan nor his sister had many memories of Ms. Wellerman. Oh, they’d certainly heard about her; she was a distant relative surrounded by rumours and more than a few legends. Some said she’d been a bootlegger in the 30s, others claimed she was a refugee from some war-torn country in eastern Europe.

The rumours paled in comparison to the stories that emerged from the reading of the will — Bryan and his sister hadn’t been there. But they had started receiving phone calls from cousins they hadn’t seen in years. The calls had come in before the official letters explaining why the calls were coming in.

A manor for Sandra, one all the cousins were falling over each other to claim. And for Bryan?

“Everything in the house is bequeathed to Sandra Mason save for a single room. The upstairs study, and its contents, go to Bryan Mason.”

She gets a whole house. What am I going to do with a study?

But Bryan hadn’t said anything. He needed to be supportive. She was his sister, and cousins were coming out of the woodwork to make her feel shitty for getting an inheritance.

“It’s huge,” Bryan said. That was about as supportive as he could manage after a three hour drive.

“Let’s go take a look!” Sandra exclaimed, stepping out of the car.

Bryan sluggishly threw open the car door and followed.

A fucking study. Who needs a study?

Sandra fumbled with a hefty key ring, threw the front door open, and bounded inside.

The floors were rich hardwood, polished to a mirror sheen. A green velvet rug unfurled from the door out to a huge staircase that spun upwards. Hung on the walls were more than a dozen oil portraits. Stern faces sat in heads mounted on old military uniforms, dresses from a century past, and old gentlemen’s pea coats.

“Which one do you think is Maxine?” Sandra asked.

It literally doesn’t matter. “Why don’t we go have a look at what you inherited?”

Sandra made a sour face as she turned to her brother. “Come on, don’t ruin this for me.”

“I’m not ruining it.”

“You always do, with your sour puss attitude.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not sure what you say to someone who just inherited a house.”

“Whatever. Go up and look at your study.”

Bryan instantly knew he’d fucked up. There was that twinge in her voice, the one that had showed up since they were kids, the one that said I’m either about to cry or scream at you.

“Sandra, I’m—”

“Just leave me alone for a bit.”

Bryan obeyed. This was a battle he knew he wouldn’t win. He approached the stairs and looked back at Sandra, standing there with the oil paintings. You know how these things always seemed to have eyes that followed you? These ones had eyes only for Sandra, as though they were wondering what she’d do with them.

The study’s door was old and unassuming. Let’s see if there’s something worth selling on Craigslist, he thought, stepping through.

An entirely different atmosphere hit him, part old leather, part musty air, part pipe smoke, like a circle of leathery old men had sat around puffing pipes in here for decades. The walls were covered with bookshelves containing old books with worn spines that were brown, red, and flecked black. It looked like a reference section you’d find in a school library.

A massive oak desk was the only piece of furniture. On it were three items: a typewriter, a little black book, and a bulging manilla envelope.

The typewriter drew his attention first. His fingers caressed the metal casing, then hovered over one of the keys. Does this thing even work? He clicked a key, and a small metal arm swiveled out, printing a crisp F on a blank piece of paper. It worked like a dream.

I guess I own a typewriter now.

He’d always wanted one of these in college, back when he’d thought he would become a poet or a famous author. But none of that writing stuff had gone anywhere. What use did he have for a typewriter now?

What else could you expect from a relative who didn’t know anything about you?

He was starting to sound like one of the cousins. Bryan skipped over the little black book and went for the envelope. It bulged with promise.

Bryan scooped up the envelope, surprised by its weight, and edged the flap open. He saw a hint of green and a regal face looking up at him. Wait…is it really? He flipped the envelope over, and a bundle of cash stumbled out in stacks, plopping onto the desk with all the grace of a wad of manure.

Nearly a dozen Andrew Jacksons stared up at him with more than a hint of judgement. Each stack even had that little band you saw in movies, with the number printed on the side. It said $2000.

Bryan counted 10 stacks.

That’s $20,000! Bryan flipped through a stack of money with his thumb, as though that would convince him of its authenticity. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

She’d left him $20,000, and for what? They’d met once, maybe twice, and he’d been so young he could hardly remember her face.

Bryan’s eyes went to the little black book. With no note in the envelope, the explanation had to be in there. But did he want an explanation? He could just pocket the money and leave, tell Sandra the study was just full of old books. The little book might have instructions for the money, like investing it a certain way or, worse, distributing it among the cousins.

But if he didn’t read what was in there, he had plausible deniability. He could keep the money, maybe put a down payment on a house away from everyone and everything.

You’re being shitty. Stop being shitty.

Bryan picked up the book, flipping it over. Nothing on the front, back, or spine suggested anything. It could have just been a normal — if well-made — black notebook. He took a deep breath and opened it.

Notebooks didn’t open the way books did. With normal books, the weight of the pages forced you either to the front or back. Notebooks usually opened wherever they were heaviest, often right in the middle.

A polaroid picture slipped out. A young woman sat on a barrel, holding a tommy gun. She was surrounded by men in sharp, striped vests wearing hats. Flipping the polaroid over revealed the words “Chicago, 1932.”

Bryan flipped through the notebook. There were pages after pages of pictures, notes, and other scrawls depicting the same woman at various stages of her life. She’d been to Egypt, Rome, Russia, and more. She’d been photographed with mobsters, fighter pilots, billionaires, just about anyone you could think of.

Who was she?

Bryan turned to the first page of the notebook and found a short message.

“Bryan,

If I had you pegged right, you probably found the money before you read this. Consider that $20,000 your advance.

I need you to write my memoir; someone needs to set the record straight. Within a year’s time, a representative from a publisher will come to the house and ask for the manuscript. You have until then to provide them with one. Any royalties are yours to keep.

Your mother always sent me the stories you wrote in college. Amateurish, but they have promise.

Good luck,

Maxine Wellerman III.“

Holy shit. The $20,000 wasn’t for some trust fund. It was for a job. A writing job. But Bryan hadn’t written anything since college. The mere thought of putting words to paper froze him.

Bryan eyed the stack of money on the desk. $20,000 could cover his expenses for a year. He thumbed through the notebook again. A spark lit in him. Curiosity.

Then he slammed the notebook shut and put it back. I need a drink.

Bryan stuffed the money in his pockets and burst out of the study. He wandered down the stairs, looking for a liquor cabinet, but just ended up in the kitchen. There, he found Sandra. She was standing at the kitchen counter, head in her hands. She was working on a bottle of scotch that looked like the kind liquor stores kept in a locked case.

Instantly, concerns about the memoir faded away

“What’s wrong?”

Sandra looked up at him, eyes puffy, her hair a mess. “Ms. Wellerman knew about Richard and the affair.” She ran a hand through her hair. “That’s why she left me the house. To ‘take a step back and be glad the man’s out of my life.’ Her words.”

Bryan opened his mouth, hoping to find the right words, but Sandra beat him to it.

“And she’s right! Every single day I’ve been asking myself what I did wrong. And my friends were no help.” Sandra put a hand on the letter. “She knew what I needed more than my friends did. No wonder the cousins stayed away from her. She could see right through them.”

“So what are you going to do?” Bryan asked.

“I’m taking the house. Screw the cousins. I’m going to clean the place up, stay until I figure out what’s next.” Sandra laughed. “God, it feels so good just to say it out loud. It’s what I needed.”

And then, something clicked for Bryan. “I’m sorry, Sandra. You deserve this. I was being a dick.”

Sandra smiled. “Yeah, you kind of were. What’d you find up there?”

Bryan pulled the money free and stacked it on the counter. “Oh, just $20,000 and a commission to write her memoir.”

“That’s amazing! Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know...I haven’t written anything since college.” The words sounded hollow out loud. Maxine Wellerman III had known exactly what Sandra needed. How long had Bryan wanted to write? How long had he thought of sitting in a study, just like the one above him now, obsessing over metaphors and semicolons?

“Yeah...I think I might.” What else was he going to do? Stay in the city and bounce around odd jobs?

Sandra smiled. “I think I need to call Mom.”

“Probably smart.”

For his part, Bryan returned to his study. The books didn’t seem so old and unknown anymore. He sat at the desk, opened a drawer, and there was a stack of blank pages waiting for him. He pulled it out, placed it next to the typewriter, and shoved the money into the drawer.

He was a writer. It had only taken a push from someone who knew him better than most to realize it.