Maybe I should be a recluse. Sounds relaxing.
As a general rule, I don’t worry myself about my family. My dad left when I was a toddler, and from what Mom told me before she passed, he wasn’t in contact with his parents, either. That road just leads to a bunch of closed doors, and there’s enough to feel shitty about without ruminating over people who ditched you.
Except my grandpa apparently knew something about me. At least that I existed. And I guess I’m about to learn something about him. Given he left me this building, he must not have had other family, so I reason his stuff is still upstairs.
There’s a slim alley between the brick building and the antique store, wide enough for two people to walk down and closed from the street with a black wrought-iron gate. As I stand there, examining the building with my eyes, a shorter woman, probably in her fifties, emerges down the alley. She opens the gate and pauses as she looks at me.
She has about the same haircut as mine, number six with the clippers, and a blue collared work shirt that’s paired with jeans. The woman slightly tightens her brow as she considers me, suspicious, and I frown in response.
I’m too tired for a hard time right now.
She turns and walks back down the alley, stalking to the rear again, probably back to the antique store.
I scrub my hand over my face. No use delaying. There’s a side door that seems to lead upstairs, and when I try the key, it works.
As expected, some of his stuff is left, although on closer look, it’s clear someone has been through. There are shadows and nail holes on the wall to show where pictures once hung. Wooden shelves sit largely empty, and when I step into the kitchen, thereare random items scattered among the largely bare cupboards, some of which are open.
The lights work, which is a relief, and I turn them all on and open the windows as I take proper stock. I cleaned myself off as best I could with a towel in the truck, but I’m still damp from the ditch, so I get in the shower, lingering in the hot water.
I never knew my grandfather, but now he has died and I’m in his house, which I own.
Fantastically weird.
I walk around in a towel.
The place is large, with two bedrooms and a small office. Bigger than anywhere I’ve lived. It’s got old wood flooring and some fixtures that look original, and wide windows that overlook the busy street below as well as the backyard and the neighbor’s house. I put on some pants and check the pipes and guts, and open up all the closets and cupboards.
I find plenty of needed repairs, but they aren’t too disastrous.
Nothing that remains seems to betray anything personal about my grandpa, and I push aside the curiosity that comes with being in his place, focusing on what matters.
This is going to sell for a lot of money.
I lay my hands on my belly, and I start chuckling. A warm, soothing feeling eases through me, a lifetime of financial stress beginning to melt away.
In a busy city neighborhood like this, with a brand-new development right next door, I have no doubt buyers will line up. The building needs some work, clearly, but that doesn’t matter. I’m going to walk away from this with a fat wad of cash in my pocket.
Maybe I’ll enjoy a little time off, a vacation somewhere warm. But then I’m taking that money back to Missouri, and I’m using it to start my own business. Something that will provide for me and my crew for the rest of my life.
Real security. Not having to rely on anyone else but me.
As I walk around examining the rooms, my eye catches on a photograph. It looks like it’s been dropped under the bed, and when I bend, I see a man that looks like me.
So much like me that I startle and have to sit back on my ass, plopping on the hard floor.
Dark hair, heavy eyebrows, and no smile for the camera. He wears a T-shirt and raises up a can of beer.
Before I can think, I throw the photo back under the bed. My heart pounds.
I can deal with that later.
I’ve got business to do before I can crash and sleep off this drive. First, I find the folder that the bank left me. It’s apparently got more information about what they called “the particulars of his estate.” There’s one kitchen chair left, wooden and wobbly, and I sit in it as I take a quick look, curiosity helping me clear my bleary eyes.
The documents are filled with technical talk, but I decipher mention of multiple tenants on the deed. Another form shows someone named Susan and another, Nancy, but maybe they’re not here anymore.
There can’t be anyone in addition to the flower shop. Where would another apartment even fit?
The financial documents frustrate me, indecipherable, so I push them aside. I’m ready for sleep, but first I need to go downstairs and introduce myself to the florist. Otherwise, they might hear me taking a piss and call the police or barge in themselves.
