He picked up the gun and looked at it as if it belonged to someone else and had come into his possession by mistake. Oddly enough, he thought, there was more of a rationale for the weapon now than at any previous time. His company had just begun an extremely sensitive military project. But did a California gun license have any legal status in Connecticut? Could he get in trouble simply for having the pistol? He put it back in the suitcase. It would stay there, and he'd be back in L.A. in a few days.
He drank the bitter remains of some orange juice, made instant coffee, and smoked his first cigarette of the day. Next, he called Uncle Roy and said he'd be over later in the morning, explaining that he'd already had breakfast. Then he found Dick Hudson's number in the telephone book. The lawyer came on the line at once and said he'd be glad to see Jeff anytime.
"Thanks. I'll stop by in about an hour."
"Fine, fine. You know where we are?"
"Church Street?"
"Right you are."
Jeff went into his bedroom to finish unpacking. His suit was rumpled from being left in the suitcase overnight, but he knew Aunt Kitty would be glad to give it a quick press for him. After putting it by the front door, he busied himself by disposing of the rest of the perishables in the kitchen. They filled less than half a trash bag.
Dick Hudson's office was definitely the establishment of an unpretentious small-town lawyer. The chairs were leather, but worn and scuffed. The carpet felt like it wasn't there, and the rest of the furniture might have come from a forties movie. But it all looked somehow reassuring, and it wasn't uncomfortable.
Hudson was a large, middle-aged man with fleshy hands and a full head of graying hair brushed tightly back over his skull. Property deals, wills, and probate were the mainstay of his practice, with two or three divorce cases a year thrown in for good measure. He spent a minute or so commiserating with Jeff about his father and a few more on idle pleasantries. Then he got to the point.
"I suppose you want to know about the will. That's understandable, perfectly understandable," he soothed. "You probably want to get back to California as soon as possible."
"Right," Jeff said. "But I'm mostly interested in knowing how involved I'll have to be in the process."
"Ah."Hudson looked at Jeff for a moment, as if he was unsure of what he had heard. "Well, it takes a few months, and there's nothing we can do about that. It's just the way the system works. But your presence isn't really required, if that's what you mean. You'll have to sign a lot of documents, but I can ship them out to you by Express Mail and you can return them to me the same way."
"That's what I wanted to hear."
"Good. Now as for the will itself"-the lawyer looked mildly embarrassed-"your father left some money in the bank, but not much. Couple of thousand. He was getting by on Social Security, as you probably know."
"Right, yes."
And there's the house and its contents, furniture and tools, and ... uh ... that's about it."
Jeff nodded; he sensed there was more to come.
"Anyhow," Hudson went on, "you and your uncle Roy are the only two living blood relatives."
"I know."
"Okay. Well." Another deep breath. "The will specifies that the house and everything in it be sold, and that the net receipts be divided equally between you and your uncle."
Hudson looked at Jeff as if he expected the younger man to explode and begin tearing up the office.
"Fantastic," Jeff said as soon as he grasped the news. "That's fantastic."
"Uh..." Still wary.
"No, really, I'm delighted my father did that," Jeff explained. "Uncle Roy and Aunt Kitty have been retired for quite a while now, and I'm sure they can use some extra money. That's fine with me. Really." He felt a new measure of respect for his father.
"I see." Hudson's face relaxed somewhat. Wills tended to bring out the worst in people, but apparently not in this case. "I'm glad you feel that way. Everything should go smoothly. It'll just take a little time."
They exchanged addresses and telephone numbers, and then chatted for a few more minutes. Jeff was distracted, though. Glancing out the window, he caught sight of the dome skylight over the reading room of the Millville Public Library. He'd spent countless afternoons and evenings there, and now a vivid image took hold of his mind. Georgianne was at one table, doing homework. She was wearing a miniskirt and those patterned black tights that were popular back then. From where he sat, Jeff had an excellent view of her legs under the table, the glorious reach of her thighs. It was as if Georgianne were a picture, composed only for Jeff. She looked up, distracted momentarily, and noticed him. She smiled and winked before going back to her homework.
The image was so powerful Jeff couldn't remember saying good-bye to Dick Hudson, although he knew he must have. He had lunch with his aunt and uncle and his cousin Nancy, a divorced dental technician. It was pleasant. They sat around the kitchen table eating roast beef sandwiches and drinking lemonade. He was able to talk easily with his relatives, the recollection of Georgianne now a kind of delicious aftertaste. Aunt Kitty lightly ironed his suit.
They got to the funeral home half an hour before the official start of the wake. Jeff spent ten minutes sitting alone with his father's body. They had done a good job. Not too heavy with the make-up, no signs of disfiguration or pain. He could still see the strength of character in George Lisker's face, even in death. His father had the features of someone who'd been his own man. Worn, weathered, and battered with age, and now submissive to death, they were still, somehow, strong. Well, I got that much from you, Jeff thought, even if we didn't understand each other most of the time. It had been worse when his mother died. Now, Jeff felt remarkably peaceful, and he wondered about it. There was something cold in you, old man, and maybe there's something cold in me, too. Did it have to be? There was warmth in Mom-but didn't she have strength as well?
Jeff shook himself slightly and left the room for a cigarette. It had been hard enough talking to his father in life; there wasn't much point in trying now.
The afternoon passed quietly. Not many people came, but those who did stayed until four o'clock. Nearly all of them were older people who had known Jeff's parents over the decades. They were very kind and friendly to Jeff, asking about his life and work in California and telling him, sincerely, nice things about his father. It was a different and more enjoyable experience than he had anticipated.
The evening session was even better. More people came, and many of them told Jeff that his father had always thought highly of him.
"Maybe he didn't show his feelings much," one elderly woman said. "But he had them, and we all knew how proud he was of you, Jeff. I don't know if he really understood, or liked, you know, computers and all that high-tech stuff you do. You know what we old folks are like-can't stand anything new. But he knew that was the way the world was going, and he was proud of you."
Jeff was touched. How strange to learn now what his father had felt about him! Was it all true? Maybe if Jeff had been around more often over the years, or if he'd paid closer attention, he would have gotten the message.
But did George Lisker ever know how his son felt about him? Probably not, Jeff thought. I did love you, but you made me feel I could never measure up, and that still hurts.
A few minutes after nine, as Jeff and his relatives were about to leave the funeral home, a fat, sweaty man rushed up to them.
"Jeff! Boy, am I glad I caught you. I tried to get here earlier, but I was stuck in a meeting. I feel real bad about it. Hey, I'm sorry about your dad."
He was shaking Jeffs hand vigorously while he talked. It was Mike Rollins, Jeff finally realized.