What To Keep. Mary Schramski

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      He’s loosened his tie enough so he could undo the top button on his white-and-blue oxford shirt, but he hasn’t. I bet his wife picks up his shirts from the cleaners every Wednesday. She’s probably someone he met in college, who put him through law school by teaching third grade and is now in good standing with the Greensville Junior League. But there’s no ring on his left hand, not even a tan line.

      “I have the key to the house,” he says, and digs in his pocket.

      “Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

      Ron takes his hand out of his pocket. He walks to the edge of the steps, stands across from me. A tiny breeze brings his aftershave to me. It’s one of those citrusy, clean kinds. I imagine him splashing it on this morning, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, naked from the waist up, a towel wrapped around his somewhat slim, forty-five-year-old waist.

      “This happens every once in a while,” he says.

      “What?” I look at him. He’s staring at me, then he smiles.

      “Houses dumped on unsuspecting, long-lost relatives.”

      I shake my head. “No way.”

      “I specialize in wills, probate, estate tax. Believe me, this happens. Sometimes there’s no immediate family. If the deceased hasn’t left a will, then it all goes to the closest relative or the state. Your uncle was lucky he had you.”

      “I’m not sure how lucky, since he’s dead.”

      We laugh at the same time, and then all of a sudden for some odd reason I think about my mother and when she died two years ago. How I had to sort through her underwear, wonder if I should put her Hanes size-seven briefs in the Goodwill bag. I decided that her underwear being worn by a homeless woman who lived one block off Main Street in a cardboard box was too sad. So through guilty feelings, I threw the crotch-stained nylon panties in the kitchen trash.

      “One relative is better than none. But too many can make for big problems,” Ron says.

      I smile. “Never had that problem. As you know my family’s pretty small—really nonexistent.” I look up and notice the white trim under the porch roof is flaking badly. On the airplane I let myself daydream of what I’d find, all the while telling myself that doing it was dangerous. Yet I let my imagination dredge up an out-of-focus, black-and-white photograph—a large house—breathtaking, like in one of those happy movies, easy to sell, a cash deal.

      Ron’s voice cuts in. “I did a complete search. There was your uncle’s sister, who passed away years ago, and your father. That’s it.”

      My mother’s monotone voice had always told me thin stories about strange ex-in-laws. She had acted as if I wasn’t related to them, as if I’d only been issued from her.

      Ron’s cell phone, in his slacks pocket, rings. Bill and I both had cell phones when we first got married. We’d call each other all the time until we couldn’t pay the bill.

      “Your pocket’s ringing,” I say, and then wonder why I said something so stupid.

      He laughs, checks the caller ID then looks at me. “Mind if I take this?”

      “No, go ahead.” It’s probably his wife, the one who doesn’t make him wear a ring, checking in, seeing if he’ll be home for dinner.

      He walks to the other side of the battered porch, clicks a button and begins talking. And I’m glad I don’t have to say anything for a few minutes.

      I push my hair back. My face is sweaty. I look out into the yard. There are no houses close, just magnolias and overgrown bushes, dirty brown with dead spring blooms. This land has to be worth something.

      “Sorry about that,” Ron says as he walks back. “Major problem with a client. I should get back to the office.”

      “Thanks for bringing me out here.” I glance around. “You said there was a car?”

      “Carport is at the back of the house. I never gave you the house keys.” He digs into his other pocket, finds a set of keys. “Buick Riviera, 1977. Eighty thousand miles. A cream puff. I came over after you called and started it. Even has air. Drove it to charge the battery. If you want to sell it, I’m sure you’ll find a buyer.”

      “I want to sell it.” I take the keys. They swing, glint, hit my palm.

      “House key’s the one with the red yarn tied in a bow. I think your uncle’s housekeeper did that.”

      I pick it out while Ron walks down the steps. He turns around. “I had my secretary arrange for a county inspection late this afternoon. Every house over a hundred years old in Guilford County has to be inspected before it’s put on the market.”

      “Do you think it’ll pass?”

      “I don’t know. They’re pretty stringent these days.”

      “I hashed out a plan on the airplane—sell the house or at least sign with a Realtor that I trust and get back to Vegas.”

      “Sounds like a workable plan. The county wants to save the historical homes, so the owner is responsible for repairs. That way when it’s sold, the buyer knows what they’re getting into. You have my card. Call if you have any questions, problems. I’ll need you to sign the probate papers when they’re finished, which should be in the next couple of days.”

      “What about your fee?” I just finished paying six hundred dollars for my latest divorce. God only knows what a probate attorney costs.

      “My billing clerk will get in touch with you when everything is assessed.”

      “Great.” I watch as he walks to his car, climbs in. He’s tall, well built and moves with confidence. I go to the front door, try again to remember standing on this porch but can’t. I slide the key in the lock, turn it the wrong way then back again. The dead bolt clunks open, and I seize the knob and open the door.

      “This wall has to be fixed.”

      “Fixed! Why? It looks fine to me,” I say.

      Clay, the Guilford County inspector, is running his finger down the bedroom wall. I’ve been following him for the past thirty minutes, hoping—no, wishing—the house passes inspection. And now, it looks like I’m not going to get what I want.

      “See this green line? Mildew. Happens all the time. Rain seeps in and mildew takes over just like that.” Clay snaps his fingers.

      I squint, barely able to see the mossy green line. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s just a stain.”

      He looks at me and grunts. “Lady, I’ve been doing this kind of work for a very long time. This is mildew.”

      Half-moon sweat stains are rising on his blue work shirt. The house is hot, stuffy. I didn’t have time to open windows, if they’ll open. And Clay has informed me of many other things. Greensville is experiencing a heat wave, the likes of which the folks СКАЧАТЬ