W Is for Wasted

I got the gist. He said he filed a lawsuit.”
    “He sued the state . . .”
    “Right, right. Because his name was cleared. I remember now.” There was a pause while he plucked the D string and adjusted the tuning. He addressed his next question to the machine heads. “He die with a will or without?”
    “With.”
    “What happened to the money? I hope you’re not going to tell me he blew it.”
    “No, no. It’s still in the bank.”
    He smiled briefly. “That’s a relief. Man’s a bum. Never did anything right in his life. So what’s the process in a situation like this?”
    “Process?”
    “What happens next? Are there forms to fill out?”
    I experienced a momentary jolt and I could feel the heat rise in my face. I’d just caught a flash of how this looked from his perspective. Now that I’d delivered the bad news, he thought I’d be telling him about the money he was coming into. He and his sisters. His asking what was to happen next was procedural. He hadn’t brought up the subject sooner because he didn’t want to sound greedy. Maybe he thought I’d been beating around the bush out of delicacy. Given the news of his father’s death, he didn’t want to leap on the pecuniary matters without first giving the impression of filial respect.
    “He named me executor of his estate.”
    “You?”
    I shrugged.
    Ethan thought about that briefly. “Well, I guess the job’s largely clerical, isn’t it? Filing papers and stuff like that?”
    “Pretty much,” I said. “The will’s been entered into probate.”
    “Whatever that means,” he said, and then focused on me fully for the first time. “You act like there’s a problem?”
    “Well.”
    Annoyed, he said, “Would you quit fumbling around and just get on with it?”
    I stared at the floor and then shook my head. “I don’t know how else to say this, Ethan. He cut you out of the will. All three of you.”
    He stared at me. “You’re kidding me.”
    I shook my head.
    “Son of a bitch. All this, because we had a falling-out? I don’t believe it. Is that why you brought it up? That business about the ‘quarrel’?” He used his fingers to enclose the last word in digital quote marks, implying that it was my claim and not necessarily the truth.
    “I’m sure it must seem harsh.”
    “Harsh? It’s ridiculous. I don’t know what you heard, but it’s bullshit.”
    “I’m telling you what he said; the story as he relayed it to his friends. He said you slammed the door in his face. I don’t know if he was speaking literally or figuratively.”
    “And for that, we were disinherited? A few cross words and he dumps us? That’s not right. That can’t be right.”
    I dropped my gaze and waited. It was natural for him to vent and I needed to give him the space.
    “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
    I met his eyes.
    “You want to hear what went on the last time we spoke? Fine. This is the truth and I got witnesses. I’d come over here to pick up the kids. I was living somewhere else temporarily. My wife was standing right there, so you can ask her if you want. He arrives on my doorstep so drunk he can hardly stand. He’s selling me some hard-luck story about half a million bucks and how he never did nothing wrong . . . he’s been falsely imprisoned . . . big boo-hoo. Like I could give a shit. He’s begging my forgiveness, wanting to give me this lovey-dovey hug and stuff. He actually thinks he’s coming into my house so he can get to know my wife and kids. He smells like a sewer, like he puked on himself. There’s no way I’d let him in. With my kids home? I told him to get the hell out and not to call until he was clean and sober for a month, which he must not have managed since I never heard from him again.”
    “Did he see your sisters that same visit?”
    “Of course. You probably know that already since you bought his version, hook, line, and sinker. He said he wanted to talk to them, and like an idiot I told him where Anna worked. He showed up drunk there as well and made a horse’s ass of himself. Anna was so pissed at me she didn’t talk to me for a month. Now we get cut from the will, like we did something to him instead of the other way around.”
    “Ethan, honestly, I’m not blaming you for anything.”
    “Why would you? You’re not the butt of the joke. Tell you what. As far as I’m concerned? The guy was dead when he went to Soledad. I wrote him off the day he left and so did Ellen and Anna. Screw