W Is for Wasted

trace the similarities between the child and the wreck of a man he’d become, the faint link was there.
    The second photo showed the same towheaded boy, progressed to age ten. This time he and his Uncle R sat on the front stairs of a white frame house, Uncle R on the top step with Terrence seated between his uncle’s knees one step down. The affection between the two was unmistakable. Behind them, I could see a portion of a screen door. Off the bottom step there was a boot scraper shaped like a dachshund, and on the right, partially obscured, was a cast concrete planter filled with marigolds in desperate need of watering. Now I picked up the family resemblance; the same flop of straight hair, the same tilt to the eyes. This one was also marked ME AND UNCLE R . The date was June 4, 1945.
    The third and fourth photos were indoor shots, one with a Christmas tree showing in the background. Uncle R wasn’t visible; in fact, I was guessing he was the photographer. Young Terrence, now perhaps twelve, was the proud possessor of a .22 rifle, the box and wrapping paper still in evidence at his feet. No date on the back. The fourth photo was taken in the kitchen, the same house and the same holiday, judging by Dace’s shirt, which appeared in both. Terrence and his Uncle R toasted the season with clear-glass punch cups held aloft. The drink might have been eggnog, something creamy-looking. The curve of whiskey bottle to the right suggested that Uncle R had greatly improved his libation. He might even have accorded Dace a wee tot of Old Crow. This time Uncle R was sitting at the boy’s side with his free arm slung across his shoulders.
    No wonder Dace had come looking for his Uncle R’s kids. Uncle R was family as he remembered it; family as it was in the days when he was young and life was good. If he’d been estranged from his own children it would be natural for him to dream of forging a bond with the only family he had left. He’d wanted to be clean and sober before he presented himself. According to Dandy, he’d been drunk until the day he died. So much for that idea.
    I heard the rustle of paper.
    “Well, this is a kick in the pants,” Aaron said.
    I looked up to find him examining the final document, which was backed in blue. “Is that his will?”
    “Indeed.”
    “What’s the date? Dandy said it was July 8.”
    “That’s it,” he said.
    “So not sewn into the lining of his sleeping bag after all?”
    “Nope. Are these the three witnesses you mentioned?”
    He flipped the pages and held out the final page so I could see the printed names and signatures: Pearl White, Daniel D. Singer, and Felix Beider.
    I realized that “Dandy” was the shorthand version of Daniel D. Dan D. “I never heard their last names except Pearl’s, and I wasn’t sure that was correct. Dandy referred to her as Ms. Pearly White, but I thought it might have been a play on words.”
    Aaron returned to the first page. “Not a word about the disposition of his remains, but his kids might expect to have a say in the matter. He’s got all three listed, but there’s only one address and that’s his son, Ethan’s. Nothing for the two girls, so maybe he didn’t know where they were living.”
    He turned to the second page and I saw his gaze zigzag down the lines of print. His mouth turned down in an expression that suggested surprise. “The guy was frosted. Says here, ‘I have intentionally omitted to provide in this will for my son, Ethan, or for my daughters, Ellen and Anna, whose loathing and disdain are irreparable and who have repudiated our relationship and severed all ties.’”
    I said, “Dandy told me about that. It must have been quite a blowup.”
    “Well, this is helpful,” Aaron went on. “Says, ‘Be it known that I own no real property, have no debts, and have no assets other than the monies deposited in my savings account and the incidental personal effects in my safe deposit box. It is my desire that the executor of my estate should notify my children of my death and deliver the gifts I’ve set aside for them.’”
    “If he’s disinherited his kids, does it mean his money goes right back to the state? That would be a pisser,” I said.
    “Oh, no. He made sure he had all his ducks in a row. For starters, he’s set it up so the executor and sole beneficiary are the same.”
    “Meaning what? Is that a good thing or bad?”
    “It’s not a problem one way or the other. I think the tricky issue lies