The Reading of the Will(Barry) Marcus returned home from the reading of his grandfather’s will, entered the second story apartment quietly, went and sat on the living room sofa. Hearing the metallic click of the front door, his wife emerged from the kitchen. “How did you make out?”

“Not bad… reasonably well.”

“Who showed up?”

“The usual rogue’s gallery,” Marcus muttered. “Grandpa Morris’ brother and sister along with a handful of dysfunctional grandchildren.”

Leah cringed. “More like vultures.” She pointed at a frayed journal resting on her husband’s lap. “What’s that?”

Marcus ran his fingertips over the tattered binding. “After Grandpa Morris sold his house and ran off to the boondocks of northern Maine, he began keeping a journal.” Opening the cover he glanced at the handwritten, penciled script. “Ten years of personal reflections and reminiscences… he wanted me to have it.”

“Well that’s certainly nice.” Leah kissed her husband on the cheek and sat down on the sofa next to him. “Did he leave you anything else?”

Marcus nodded his head up and down. “All his woodworking power tools.”

“What about the Ryobi table saw?” Marcus had always admired the tool. It certainly wasn’t commercial-grade, top-of-the-line, but it cut through hardwoods effortlessly and with surprisingly good accuracy.

“Yes, the Ryobi table saw is ours now.” He smiled briefly but then his features went blank.”

Leah grabbed his hand and squeezed tight. “Anything else?”

“A Ford F150 pickup truck… he gave us that too. It’s brand spanking new with less than twenty thousand miles on the odometer; there’s no outstanding loan because he paid in full at the time of purchase.”

“A new car.” Leah was feeling slightly lightheaded. “That’s quite generous. I don’t suppose Grandpa Morris left you much of anything else.”

Marcus did not respond immediately. Rather, he cracked his knuckles, stretched his limbs leisurely and stared out the far window. “The log cabin in Maine and ten acres of woodland surrounding the home… it’s ours now.” He moistened his lips and cleared his throat. “There’s no mortgage. He paid for the property in full at the real estate closing.”

“Leah glanced briefly around the ratty apartment. The rent was exorbitant, frigid air crept through the leaky window trim in early October and the landlord refused to fix the longstanding leaky bathroom sink. Now they were homeowners with a new truck and equally new lease on life. “Anything else?”

“A hodgepodge of financial investments… mostly stocks and bonds.” Only now did Marcus finally turn and stare rather pointedly at his wife. “A quarter million dollars worth.”

* * * * *

Later that night in bed Leah said, “I forgot to ask what your grandfather left his siblings.”

“Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.” Marcus retrieved a handwritten letter that was sandwiched between the pages of his journal. “Read for yourself.”

October 10, 2024

Marcus and Leah,

As you already learned from the reading of the will, I am leaving all my worldly possessions to you and you alone. Rest assured that my moronic son and daughter will be demanding their fair share. They deserved nothing – not for themselves nor their distasteful offspring. If they challenge the issue, feel free to give each of them a copy of this letter.

My son, Harry, who is a compulsive gambler, (i.e. race tracks and casinos), could never manage money. He cheats on his wife and has no social graces. My daughter, Thelma, is, was and always will be an inadequate personality, a hypochondriacal ne’er-do-well who never worked an honest day in her laughable life. Does that sound too harsh? Truth is often a toxically tough pill to swallow.

If your father - may he rest in peace - hadn’t passed away, he would have received the bulk of my inheritance. As mentioned a moment ago, my remaining children will surely insist that you divide the inheritance among family members, but I would prefer you liquidate all my assets and donate the money to a shelter for stray dogs and cats rather than give a plug nickel to either of those unsavory creatures.

Grandpa Morris

* * * * *

Leah laid the letter gently on the bed. “What’s a plug nickel?”

Wrapping an arm around her slender waist, Marcus snuggled closer. “Some of our early coins from the 18th and 19th centuries,” Marcus explained, “were made with a small silver disc added to the center of the coin to give it value. A plugged nickel is a nickel in which someone removed that center disc and replaced it up with some other metal, less valuable than silver.”

“We just went from living paycheck to paycheck to being independently wealthy,” Leah observed.

“That’s a fair assessment.”

“How did Aunt Thelma take the bad news?”

Marcus chuckled maliciously. “Aunt Thelma, the queen of histrionics, put on quite a theatrical show.”

When the lawyer read through to the far end of the rather brief and unambiguous will, Uncle Harry groaned making a series of unintelligible, guttural sounds before rushing from the room in a blind rage, and then, as if on cue, Aunt Thelma placed a fist on her forehead and swooned, collapsing from her chair to the carpeted floor.

Marcus was unimpressed. The gesture was more for dramatic effect than an expression of genuine anguish. When no one made a motion to assist the fallen woman, she staggered to her feet and, like the true tragedian, disappeared down the stairwell.

* * * * *

One night six years earlier in early June Marcus brought Leah to a cozy restaurant on Federal Hill in Providence. When the meal was over they wandered out into a flowery courtyard, where he sat her down on a stone bench beneath an arbor carpeted with clematis and passionflower. Once she was properly settled, he recited a fragment of a poem in a soft, lilting voice:

Since we’ve seen each other, a game goes on.
Secretly I move, and you respond.
You’re winning, you think it’s funny.
But look up from the board now,
look how I’ve brought in furniture
to this invisible place, so we can live here.

“Such a cryptic verse!” She gushed in whispery tones. They were surrounded by a blur of ivory laced with purple petals.

“It’s by the Persian mystic, Jelaluddin Rumi.”

Leah ran her dainty fingertips over the gingham pattern on her dress. She was a lanky, dark-haired woman with a sallow complexion and decidedly tomboyish figure. “Since we’ve seen each other, a game goes on…” She repeated the opening line. “Why am I winning?”

“Because I worship you and can’t imagine life apart.”

She smiled with womanly delight. “And what furniture have you secretly smuggled into our imaginary room?”

Marcus pulled a small velvety box from his pants pocket and opening it revealed a sparkling stone.

* * * * *

“Why did God put us here?” Grandpa Morris spoke with grandiose authority.

He was a heavy-set, barrel-chested man with a prominent, hooked nose in his early fifties. “Can you answer the question, Boychik? It’s an eschatological conundrum.”

They were in the basement workshop where the handyman kept his woodworking tools. “Yes, Grampy. I know the answer,” Six year-old Marcus replied in a singsong, childish voice.

“Is it to cheat on our wives and denigrate the children?”

“No, Grampy. Wrong answer.”

For dramatic effect, Grandpa Morris slammed his fist on the wooden work bench. “To lie, swindle and disparage our neighbors?”

“Of course not. That’s stupid!”

“Eat to excess, swill hard liquor and gamble our life savings away at the dog track?”

Marcus made a disagreeable face, jutting his bottom lip out in a reproachful gesture. “God put us here to enjoy life. You told me a thousand times.” “God put us here,” the boy repeated emphatically, “to be happy.”

“God is all and all is God!” the older man confirmed, “and His divine plan was unmitigated joy.” “You’re six years old,” Grandpa Morris continued in a gravelly drawl, shifting gears altogether. “Every kindergarten-age child should learn how to sharpen chisels.”

The older man with the ungainly nose and mop of graying hair produced two rectangular stones, one dark orange, the other jet black, and laid them on the workbench next to a can of light machine oil. Spraying the orangey stone with a bead of oil he slathered the tip of a half-inch chisel with the slick liquid. “The trick is to tilt the blade at a sharp angle until the beveled surface locks onto the stone.” He crooked his head to one side. “You understand what I’m telling you, Boychik?”

Marcus edged closer and stared at the metallic blade. “I don’t understand nothin’.”

“No problem,” Grandpa Morris tousled the little boy’s auburn hair with a free hand. “Just pay close attention.”

“Once the blade is properly seated on the surface of the six-hundred grit stone, you slide it back and forth in a figure eight pattern.” The silver blade skated with balletic precision over the moist stone a half dozen times. “You got to find the angle where the cutting surface locks in. That will usually be around twenty-five degrees.”

“Twenty-five,” Marcus repeated. He was mesmerized by the way his grandfather manipulated the tool.

“Here, you try.” The older man handed his grandson the chisel. The boy fumbled with the blade before resting the tip on the stone. “Angle’s too high,” Grandpa Morris counseled. “Lower the handle a tad bit.” The boy did as he was told. “Do you feel the blade, the cutting surface, resting on the flat surface?”

“Yes, Grandpa. I can feel it now.” The boy eased the blade forward and back in a repetitive circular motion.”

Grandpa Morris pulled the thousand-grit, black Arkansas stone forward and squirted a thin layer of oil on the surface. “We’ll finish the honing and that should do it.”

When they had finished putting a razor-sharp edge on the half-inch chisel and all the tools were put away, Grandpa Morris said, “Are you familiar with the Russian folktale about the heron and the crane?”

“No Grampy. Never heard of it.”

Grandpa Morris scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved in several days and the salt and pepper stubble carpeted his cheeks like a layer of dusky snow. He slouched down on a dilapidated Adirondack chair that had been brought indoors for the winter. Several of the backrest slates had rotted away, and he made a mental note to grab some knotty pine or tulip poplar from the lumber yard, trim the wood to a half-inch thickness and replace the damaged boards.

Grandpa Morris hoisted the young child up on his knee. “Two birds, a Crane and Heron, lived in a swamp, each having nests on opposite ends.” “One day, tired of living alone, the Crane decided to propose to Miss Heron.”

“He wanted a wife.”

Grandpa Morris leaned far back in the chair as the boy nestled comfortably against his chest. “Of course. When their hormones are flowing, even feather-brained birds fall in love. It happens a million, gazillion times on any given day.” “But that high and mighty Heron turned Mr. Crane down, saying his legs were spindly and his flying poor.”

“How sad!”

The Crane went home dejected, but the Heron thought it over and realized she would be better off with him than being alone, and so she asked the Crane to take her as his wife.

“She did the right thing… fixed the mistake.”

With a stubby index finger, Grandpa Morris thumped the child on the forearm. “Not so fast, Boychik!”

The Crane refused because she had been so terribly mean, but almost immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to be alone and hurried back to her to ask if she would be his wife, but she refused him again.”

“Such crazy birds!”

“The very next day Miss Crane reconsidered and hurried off to the far side of the swamp to ask Heron to take her back, but again he let her down. To this day, they still go back and forth proposing to each other, but never marry.”

The old man lowered the boy down on the cement floor. “Why did God put us here?”

“To be happy, Grandpa.”

“And why did God put Miss Heron and Mr. Crane here?”

“Same thing.” Marcus scratched an earlobe. “To live together and enjoy life.”

“As I mentioned earlier,” Grandpa Morris said in a stolid, tone, “Our misguided existence has become an eschatological conundrum.”

* * * * *

When still in high school, Grandpa Morris started his handyman business out of the basement of his parents’ home. He mowed lawns, replaced broken door locks and damaged hinges. He cleaned gutters, scraped, caulked, primed and painted outdoor windows, doors and trim. Morris would give a written estimate for anything needing repair. In college he majored in economics and finance. His parents thought he would move to New York and seek work in the stock market or a Wall Street investment firm, but Morris stayed put. He lived at home and continued his handyman business, investing the meager savings in private investments.

When Marcus turned sixteen, he worked weekends for his grandfather, who taught him how to rough frame sheds sixteen-on-center, tape sheetrock, and run electrical wire. When Grandpa Morris retired and moved to northern Maine, Marcus took over the well-established construction business. He had been to college but much preferred working with his hands rather than his head.

* * * * *


“The quarter-inch band saw blade snapped. We got to replace and realign a new one,” Grandpa Morris said. “Pull the broken blade away from the graphite guides.”

Marcus, who was in his med-twenties, had come a long way since learning how to sharpen chisels. He disconnected the electrical cord and cracked open the metal housing. Clearing the forty-five inch blade from the upper wheel, he began threading it through the plastic table slot.

As Marcus finished, Aunt Thelma plodded down the stairwell and gawked rheumy-eyed at her father. “Whatcha doing?”

Grandpa Morris never bothered to look up. “Fixing a busted tool.”

“That’s nice.” With her stringy gray hair and pencil-thin nose, the woman hovered quietly in the far corner of the room without speaking.

Ten minutes passed. Marcus installed the new blade and was positioning the dowel-shaped, graphite guides within a hair’s breadth of the vertical band. Satisfied with the setup, the boy tightened the small set screw with a hex wrench. Without saying goodbye, his aunt shuffled noiselessly to the stairwell and left the room.

Grandpa Morris shook his head. “Over an uneventful lifetime my sister amassed an endless collection of ambiguous and undiagnosable physical ailments and neurasthenic maladies.”

“What did she do all day?” Marcus asked.

“Following high school, Thelma usually slept until noon then rose and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast - a cup of café au lait with a dash of cinnamon and a buttered croissant.”

Marcus reconnected the electrical cord and turned the machine back on, but the metal blade was riding too far to the right side on the rubber wheel tire. “You’ll have to adjust the tilt a half-turn or so,” Grandpa Morris counseled.

Marcus rotated a small knob counterclockwise. “What did Aunt Thelma do following breakfast?”

“Nothing much. The woman went for long walks in the local park and returning home, would rest in the back yard, while watching the chickadees, finches and cardinals feast on sunflower seeds at the feeder.” “Then,” his grandfather continued, “Thelma might chant a Hindu mantra - om mani padme hum - in hushed tones until any free-floating anxiety dissipated, she felt bored or lost interest.”

“Sounds very soothing,” Marcus observed with a laconic grin. He only had to restore the adjustable safety shield over the front blade strip and the job was finished. With the band saw restored to proper working order, Marcus pushed the topmost lever backwards releasing any tension on the newly-installed blade.

Only now did the older man look his grandson full in the face. “My sister was far too busy filling her time with existential nuttiness to attempt anything as mundane as changing a band saw blade or finding a husband and raising a family.” The older man grabbed a stubby pencil and drew a circle on a slip of paper. “This is planet earth and over here,” he drew a second circle no larger than a tiny dot, “is the the itsy-bitsy, parallel universe where your aunt resides most of her waking hours.”

* * * * *

The week after the reading of the will Uncle Harry showed up unannounced. “You think it’s fair, grabbing all my brother’s money and personal effects?”

“I took nothing,” Marcus corrected. “It was given me.” Marcus sniffed the air. “You’ve been drinking.”

“What did you say?”

“You reek of liquor.”

“Bullshit!” Uncle Harry stammered. He shook a fist menacingly in the air. “I want what’s rightfully mine.”

“This is rightfully yours.” Marcus handed him a copy of the letter Grandpa Morris had hidden away in the diary.

After reading the letter he ripped it in a dozen pieces and flung the remnants in the air. “Dirty rotten bastard!” Uncle Harry disappeared back into the darkness without bothering to say goodnight or close the apartment door behind him.

Saturday afternoon, Aunt Thelma arrived to plead her case. She wore a neck support with a foam collar. “What’s wrong with your neck?” Leah asked.

Thelma waved a limp wrist dismissively in the air. “It’s a long story and I’d rather not go into it.”

Marcus thought it rather odd that she didn’t wear a neck brace to the reading of the will. Was the medical support bogus, from an old injury and only resurfacing now for dramatic effect? “By all rights my brother and I deserve a portion of Morris’ inheritance.”

Marcus handed her a copy of the same letter he had given his uncle. She read the letter and stood frozen rigidly in place for an inordinately long time. “My brother always was a self-serving wretch, a good-for-nothing son of a bitch.” She crumpled the letter and flung it in the air before rushing off.

* * * * *

The following weekend Marcus and Leah made the six hour drive to the Bar Harbor region in northern Maine to inspect the log cabin. Grandpa Morris had cleverly installed spacious windows flooding the living space with light during the day. He also contrasted the dark wood tones on the exposed walls and ceiling beams with lighter colors in furniture, rugs and fabrics. The overall effect was both rustic and countrified but with a quirky, contemporary flair.

Saturday morning they toured Acadia National Park. At Thunder Hole, a small inlet, naturally carved from the granite rocks, when the waves rushed in, air and water was forced out like a clap of distant thunder as sheets of ocean water spouted forty feet with thunderous roars. Seven miles past Thunder Hole they stopped at the famous hundred-and-ten foot Otter Cliff - one of the highest Atlantic coastal headlands north of Rio de Janeiro.

At Wildwood Stables on the southeastern side of Mount Desert Island they took a horse-drawn carriage ride through dense forest on a single-lane, dirt road. The scenic carriage roads were originally constructed by John D. Rockefeller in the early nineteen hundreds with fences and barricades strategically placed to keep the pristine wilderness free of cars and noisy tourists.

“Living up here would be heavenly,” Marcus noted later that night as they were lying in bed under a down comforter. Leah edged closer, resting her head on his chest. “Our apartment lease comes due the end of the year. We could let it lapse and relocate up here over the next few months.”

What about the business?” Leah cautioned. “You’ve built up several hundred loyal customers that call for renovations and repairs throughout the year.” She wriggled her rump settling deeper into the bed. “You know no one in Maine and would be starting from scratch, competing against the well-established, local competition.”

“A huge number of bed and breakfasts and motels in northern Maine cater to the tourist industry.”

“That’s fairly obvious,” Leah confirmed. When they visited the tourist bureau at the entrance to Acadia Park, the lot was full to overflowing with hundreds of visitors purchasing tickets and studying tour guides. Converging on the bucolic park from all the New England states and nearby Canada, the vacationers all needed a place to stay and spend the night.”

Rising from the bed, Marcus flipped the light switch, went and retrieved his grandfather’s journal, which he had squirreled away in the overnight bag. Taped to the rear cover was a two-page list scribbled in pencil on crinkled, loose-leaf paper.

“What’s that?”

“When Grandpa Morris arrived here, word got out that he was a woodworker with a knack for home repairs and renovations,” Marcus picked up the thread of his previous remark, “so he never really retired. He simply transplanted his handyman business six hundred miles north.” Marcus waved the pages in the air. “Grandpa Morris jotted down names, addresses and phone numbers of two hundred steadfast, regular customers.”

“A simple phone call or flyer in the mail… we let them know that the grandson is taking over the business.”

“Twenty percent discount for all returning customers.” Marcus shut the light and returned to bed. Kissing his wife on the side of the mouth, he added “Could you picture spending the rest of your life in a log cabin and raising our future children here?”

Leah rolled over on top of his body. “And how soon could we get started on the siblings?”

Snaking his arms round her waist, Marcus kissed his wife full on the lips. “The sooner the better.”

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