The Crow's Nest 3-2

3-2

            At the mother’s house… everything was the same.  The front walk, the front door, the buzzing doorbell, Margaret walking through the house to the door, the key turning, the door sticking, the up the front hall escort, the into the front parlor, the modest mounds of “rubbish”, my chair and… Margaret did not sit down in the mother’s chair at the desk… as was her style.

            “I HAVE CALLED YOU TO BUY SOME MORE OF MOTHER’S RUBBISH.  HERE, HERE AND OVER HERE” she began with added air slicing hand gestures.  “HOW MUCH FOR ALL OF THIS RUBBISH HERE.  DO NOT INCLUDE THE FISHING POLES.  THOSE ARE FOR MRS. TAYLOR’S BOY.  FINE YOUNG MAN BUT NOT A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD.  GOES FISHING. WILL NOT WORK. ALWAYS FALLS IN THE RIVER NEVER CATACHES ANY FISH.  FINE YOUNG MAN THOUGH.  COULD BE THOUGHTFULL IF HE THOUGHT OF IT.  FINISHED UP LAST IN CLASS I’M SURE.  GUESS THAT CAN’T BE HELPED THESE DAYS NOW TELL ME HOW MUCH FOR ALL THIS RUBBISH”.

            I looked at the jumble of four fishing poles, reels and their binding ball of snarled old fishing lines.  I looked at the rest of the …rubbish.  A large 2 gallon olive green glass Civil War era demijohn dominated the front of the small piles of offerings.  It was half full of old postage stamps that had been torn or clipped from postcards or envelopes and pushed down the neck of the bottle… long ago.  A footstool, a small brass bucket, a valise, a table lamp, 19^th century cardboard cracker boxes, a small box of glassware including a pattern glass cruet in blue glass, an umbrella, a parasol, a 1900 cast clay & painted plant urn, a stack of magazines, a stack of old books, a white enamel covered metal box filled with postcards and ephemera, a metal tray holding old tools, a very small box with three jackknives in it, a faded and soiled machine made wall tapestry of the “SPIRIT OF SAINT LOUIS”, a framed print of a country doctor visiting a home, another framed print of a church in Rumford Falls, Maine, a clump of wooden handled WWI era domestic cleaning tools, a not very old globe of the world, a pile of old women’s shoes, a small box containing old tintype photographs of mostly middle age men, an old dog collar, a stack of 20^th century bumped & bent pewter plates of various sizes, three rolled up wall maps from a local school circa 1930’s, three boxes of jumbled rubbished, a single broken black painted carriage lamp, two perfectly useless old harden tar filled buckets, a random gathering of glass jars in a cardboard box and… HOPELESSLY MORE RUBBISH of the same ilk WITH… a singular addition of a WW1 era cheaply made fraternal lodge sword within its scabbard and having its cheap but flamboyant harness… too… laid on top of one pile as if a finalizing “TAH-DAH”.  “One hundred twenty-five dollars for all of it” I said clearly.  That price offered was the top dollar valuation of the demijohn assuming it was in perfect condition.  I did not inspect it.  I did not even touch ANYTHING.

            Margaret waffled where she stood, hesitated, looked at me, looked at the rubbish piles, lower her slicing hand and said “WELL… I SUPPOSE THAT WILL HAVE TO DO.

            It was gonna “have to do” because the stuff sucked.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t look at the stuff or Margaret.  I looked at the fishing poles.  I was glad couldn’t buy them.  “PAY ME PLEASE AND MAKE OFF WITH YOUR RUBBISH” boomed Margaret’s voice.  It awakened me and I looked at her.

            “What has happened at Blood Farm?” I heard myself say.  Margaret looked back at me, paused, scowled, paused again and said.

            “THAT’S ALL FINE AND WELL FOR YOU TO ASK BUT IT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  EVERYONE KNOWS HOW SURPRISED I WAS.  I NEVER HAD A CLUE.  I ALWAYS JUST ASSUMED BUT I SUPPOSE ONE BETTER NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING.  IT HAS ALL BEEN WORKED OUT NOW BUT I NEVER WAS MORE SURPRISED”.

            “Surprise?  Surprised about what Margaret?”

            “SURPRISED ABOUT THE WILL:  MOTHER’S WILL.  SHE HAD A WILL.  NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  WAS.  STILL IS.  CAN’T SEEM TO GET AWAY FROM HER.  SHE SEEMS LIKE SHE’S STILL ALIVE.  SEEMS LIKE SHE’S HERE LISTENING TO US IN THE LIVINGROOM.  ARE YOU THERE MOTHER?” Margaret shouted past me toward the upper end of the front hall.  This moment, in hindsight, was the first moment that… I… realized Margaret …as Alice will define it shortly… “has gotten cuckooed”.

            Silence followed Margaret’s query.  Then she looked at me and resumed “MOTHER HAD A WILL SHE MADE WITH HER LAWYER IN PORTLAND.  VERY FINE LAWYER HE HIS.  HARVARD.  KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYTHING.  HAS ALL THE RIGHT PEOPLE READY AT ANY TIME.  CALLED UP AFTER HE READ ABOUT MOTHER’S DEATH IN THE PAPER.  CAME RIGHT UP WITH HER WILL.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  MADE A WILL WITH HIM YEARS AGO.  EVERYTHING; ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING COVERED BY THE WILL.  THE LAWYER SEES TO IT ALL.  ABSOLUTLY ALL OF IT.  I HAVEN’T HAD TO DO A THING.  A LOT MORE TO MOTHER THAN I EVER KNEW.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  VERY CAREFULL.  PROBABLY ALL FOR THE BEST BUT IT WAS QUITE A SURPRISE.  EVERYTHING IS SPELLED RIGHT OUT.  THIS HOUSE.  OUR HOUSE.  MOTHER’S HOUSE.  IT WAS ALL HERS NEVER MINE NOT EVEN NOW.  TRUSTED THE LAYER CALLS IT.  IT’S ALL TRUSTED.  THAT MEANS IT IS STILL HER HOUSE.  ALL HER MONEY TOO.  TRUSTED.  LOTS OF MONEY SHE HAS TOO.  THE LAWYER SEES TO THAT.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO A THING.  JUST KEEP UP APPEARANCES HE SAYS.  OTHERWISE EVERYTHING IS TRUSTED”.

            This oral blast from Margaret… I took sitting in my chair.  I understood the blast and… felt I might be getting a profit on my journey after all.  The mother WAS crafty and HAD “trusted” Margaret; set her up for life.  I got it.  The lawyer had a firm grip on all of it and… I bet it is worth his time and grip… were my thoughts.  “What happened to Blood Farm?  She owned Blood Farm didn’t she?” I cautiously queried.

            “THAT TOO:  TRUSTED.  SHE TRUSTED THAT TOO.  TO THEM.  TRUSTED BLOOD FARM.  TO THEM.  IT IS ALL THEIRS NOW.  AGAIN.  MOTHER TRUSTED IT BACK TO THEM.  IT IS ALL THEIRS AGAIN THE LAWYER SAYS.  TRUSTED.  JUST LIKE MOTHER’S HOUSE.  IT’S ALL THEIRS AGAIN AND MOTHER TRUSTED THAT TOO.  THE LAWYER SEES TO IT.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING.  THEY CAN LIVE IN THERE WITH ALICE’S RUBBISH AND NEVER WORRY ABOUT A THING.  I NEVER HAVE TO GO THERE AGAIN.  THE LAWYER TRUSTED IT.  HE DOES IT ALL.  THAT IS ALL FINE AND WELL FOR ME.  DIDN’T WANT THAT BOTHER ANYWAY.  BLOODS ARE ALL DRUNKEN FOOLS.  MISERABLE OLD MAN STILL FIGHTING THE PORUGUESE.  THINKS HE’S SAILING AFTER PIRATES OUT THERE.  MISTERABLE OLD DRUNK HE IS.  TRUSTED THE LAWYER SAYS.  SO ON AND SO FORTH.  COMMITTEE AT THE BANK.  LAWYER HEAD OF THAT.  GROUP OF MEN.  RESPECTABLE BANK MEN.  THE FIRE CHIEF.  FINE YOUNG MAN HIM.  THEY’RE ALL TRUSTED.  ETC., ETC.  MEET ONCE A YEAR.  SAME AS MOTHER’S HOUSE.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO A THING.”

            This second blast I didn’t understand precisely but understood the essence:  Blood Farm had been returned… in trust (?)… to Alice and the captain by the mother’s will.  It was theirs; all theirs and… paid for “in trust” (?).  That the mother’s lawyer was in charge and a bank and other men including the “fire chief” were the trust guardians (?).  Probably true and makes sense I reasoned quickly.

            “PAY ME PLEASE AND MAKE OFF WITH YOUR RUBBISH” boomed Margaret’s voice.