W is for Wasted

When faced with a tedious questionnaire, which is essentially what this was, the only remedy is to tackle the job one line at a time. In the top box, I typed in my name and address. I typed in Dace’s full name. Put an X in the box indicating the petition was for Probate of Will and for Letters Testamentary. I could see now that this was closer to a multiple-choice test where the answers had to be debated one by one to decide which seemed closest to the facts. I’d been taught to tackle the easy answers first and then go back to the tougher ones. I patiently X’d my way down the page until I reached the question about the estimated value of the estate. I wasn’t sure what to say. I typed in the sum in Dace’s savings account. Under “real property,” I typed “none,” which might or might not be correct. When I reached the bottom of the page, I scarcely had the heart to plow on, but I forced myself to persevere. I did pause at the line that read, “Proposed executor is named in the will and consents to act.”

I thought, really, consents? I had a choice here? It hadn’t occurred to me that I could abdicate my responsibilities as representative of the estate, but there was actually a box I could mark if I decided to refuse. The idea was tempting, but what justification could I supply? There were no boxes to be marked declaring that I was insane, incompetent, or stupid. I couldn’t picture simply piping up in court, telling the probate judge I didn’t feel like doing it, but thanks so much. That half a million bucks was going to end up someplace and I had to accept the fact that it was my job to escort it through the system.

I completed the form, removed the document from the typewriter, made a copy, and then made four copies of Dace’s will on my handy-dandy copy machine. I then put the paperwork in a manila envelope, which I slid into my shoulder bag. A copy of the inventory form and copies of the papers that had been in the safe deposit box I tucked into a file folder, which I’d be taking with me. I was already thinking ahead to the trip, for which I’d have to allot two days. The drive was roughly two and a half hours. If I took care of clerical matters first thing in the morning, I could probably leave by nine. Once in Bakersfield, I’d track down Ethan at the address his father had noted in the will and hope he’d be willing to put me in touch with his sisters. I knew nothing of the family, but if Evelyn Dace still harbored hostile feelings about her ex, it would be smart to avoid her altogether. The provisions of the will wouldn’t affect her in any event, and I was praying she’d keep her distance.

I stowed my Smith-Corona in the trunk and then drove home, taking my emotional temperature, which was only slightly elevated in anticipation of events to come. I was certain my anxiety could be soothed if Henry offered me a batch of cinnamon rolls or an eight-by-eight pan of chocolate-chunk brownies. All in all, I felt good. I like having a mission. I like being on the move. The actual balance in Dace’s bank account was funny money as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to think about it until the details were sorted out.

I parked and I was making my way through the squeaky gate when I stopped in my tracks.

Was I out of my tiny mind? The implications of the situation descended like a hundred-pound weight. I had a brief vision of myself knocking on Ethan’s door. Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m a very, very, distant relative. Your father cut you out of his will and left everything to me.

This was not going to go well. Dace’s kids knew nothing of me and I knew precious little about them. In one stroke, Dace had relieved them of a sizable inheritance and placed the burden on me. Why would they be pleasant or courteous or even civil when I was delivering such bad news? They’d be pissed as hell. Maybe notifying Ethan by mail was a better approach. If he or his sisters wanted to contest the terms of the will, he could contact me through his attorney. That would save me driving 150 miles to get the shit kicked out of me. I didn’t want to deal with their rage or their indignation. If the three of them were indifferent to news of their father’s death, I didn’t want to deal with that either. Dace had made a mess of his life, but he’d tried to make amends. Drink and drugs aside, he’d been dealt a bad hand. It was time for someone to give the poor guy a break.

Just then, Henry came striding around the corner of the building with a bucket of water and a folded newspaper under one arm, narrowly avoiding bumping into me. I yelped as water sloshed out of the bucket and down the front of my all-purpose dress. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.

He put the bucket down. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, but I had no idea you’d be standing there.”