The Inheritance

The Inheritance
By
Nancy Julien Kopp

Strong winds tore through the big trees surrounding Jennie’s small stone house. A steady rain drummed against the windowpanes, and wisps of icy air filtered into the cottage. Jennie poured more tea into her cup and caressed the pink-flowered china. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the warmth reached her hands.

She touched one of the soft petals of the daisies Stephen left earlier in the day. He’d made his weekly duty visit, tossing the flowers on the table where they still lay. If he’d hand them to her and say, “Here, Mom, I thought you’d like these”, she’d float on air for days. But not her Stephen. He brought the flowers for the benefit of the curious neighbors who checked out every caller that showed up at Jennie’s door. “Can’t be too careful,” Hetty Carson always said. Bother with her! Nosey old woman, that’s all she was.

Jennie replayed the afternoon’s conversation with her son. Her mind held reels of his visits.

Stephen burst through the door, threw the bouquet on the oak dining table with one hand and whipped out a cigarette with the other. “So, how are you doing today, Mom?”

“Stephen, don’t light that in the house.”

Why did she have to tell him every time? He was fifty-six years old, and he knew the rules of her house. He came every week to assess her condition. Not that she had an illness. No, all that ailed her was old age and all the travesties that traveled with it. If she appeared cheery and fit, Stephen became a grump, mouth turned down and clamped tight. Any decline in her health or body seemed to be the only thing that lit his eyes with joy.
“You’re an open book, Stephen, easy to read. You only visit me to see how long it will be before I die.” She looked him in the eye and finished, “You’ll wait a good while longer before you inherit this cottage.”

He paced and drew out another cigarette but quickly replaced it in his pocket. “It’s no good to you, Mom. It’s falling apart, needs plenty of work to make it worth living in.”

Jennie rose slowly, allowing the stiffness to ease before she answered. “Your father built this cottage before we married. You were born here, and I’ve lived here for almost sixty years. Do you think I can walk away and start over again? I’m comfortable here with my memories. Good memories and bad ones, Stephen.”

Stephen placed both hands on the table and glared. “You’ve got to face facts, Old Woman. You can’t live here forever. There’re places that take care of old girls like you. You can live in a nursing home of style and luxury with staff to wait on you hand and foot. All you have to do is sell the cottage to the developers. It’s like sitting on top of an
oil well; they want it that bad.”

He’d left in a fury after her adamant refusal to bend, and she’d prepared her tea. Now, Jennie pulled a soft, blue shawl around her shoulders and sipped the spicy brew. Stephen wanted the cottage, his inheritance. When had greed replaced the loving little boy of long ago? Her hand trembled as she drew a letter from the inside cover of a book and leaned closer to read it once more--an offer for her cottage that would keep Stephen in fine cars and tailored suits for years to come. Prime property the letter tagged it, urging her to sell immediately. The letter had been the beginning of a trail of correspondence, realtors, and Stephen. Each of them painted a picture of a new life. Was a fancy nursing home their idea of her fondest desire? A bunch of dunderheads! Didn’t they know she’d lose Edward all over again if she left the cottage?

It wasn’t only Stephen who wanted her to sell. One by one, the neighbors had made a pilgrimage to her door, bringing some over-baked offering and sweet talk. She changed the subject when they brought up the developer’s offer, or maintained her silence. At least, she’d done so until Hetty showed up with the sorriest loaf of banana bread she’d ever seen. It wasn’t difficult to replay that little scene in her mind
.
Hetty slid the lopsided loaf onto the table and folded her hands across her ample stomach. “I’ve signed the contract for my house, Jennie. Why don’t you do it now, too?
It would make so many people happy, especially your Stephen. None of us will get our money until all the houses are sold. Please Jennie. You’re making this hard on everyone. Must you always think of yourself first?”

The dam of her silence burst. “Oh yes Hetty. I must think of myself first, and do you want to know why? I never did before, but now it’s time. I never thought of anyone but Stephen when my Edward spent every spare minute at your house, every minute that your own man was working overtime to feed your brood. I never thought of anything but preserving my marriage so my son would have his father, and I’d still have my husband.. He’d get tired of Hetty I told myself, but it went on for years even though neither one of you suspected I knew. All the neighbors were aware, and they probably laughed behind my back. I kept quiet for Stephen, to keep a family together and to bring back a man I loved to his dying day. And for what? Edward is gone, and now Stephen thinks only of himself.” Her breath came in short rasps. She banged her ivory knobbed cane on the tile floor. “Now get out of here and take that damned bread with you!”

Jennie smiled now thinking of the stunned look on Hetty’s face as she made a hasty retreat to the door, then retraced her tracks to pick up her baked offering before she fled.
The shrill ring of the phone interrupted her reverie. “Stephen, is that you? Oh, Mr. Bronway. No, it’s not too late to call. Tomorrow morning will do nicely. Come at ten, and I’ll make us some tea.” She returned the phone to the cradle with one hand and rubbed her throbbing temple with the other.

Jennie closed her book and snuffed the candle. The cottage would be saved once she signed the papers her longtime solicitor brought tomorrow morning. If only she’d be
around to witness Stephen’s rage when he learned his mother had given her home to the Trenton School for Girls with the stipulation that it never be sold. The rental income was theirs to do as they pleased, theirs, not Stephen’s. He’d have a temper tantrum, but perhaps he’d learn a needed lesson. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to stop expecting her to give in to his every desire. She should have practiced some of that “Tough Love” the talk show hosts offered as a way to help a wayward teen. Instead, she’d ignored Edward and given all her time and attention to Stephen. The result of her folly showed in Stephen’s attitude. He’d probably never put flowers on her grave, but how could that hurt more than the way he treated her now? It would be a long time before Stephen learned of her decision. She didn’t plan to leave this earth soon.

Jennie’s cane tapped across the tile floor as she carried her teacup to the sink. A sudden blinding pain assailed her, and she leaned against the sink, then slid slowly to the floor.
The wind and rain rattled the windows along with an insistent knocking noise. Jennie strained to hear a muffled voice.

“Jennie, I must talk to you.”

She pushed herself up against the cupboard door and called, “Hetty, I need you.”

The door swung back on its hinges, and Hetty bustled into the room. “Oh no. Oh no, Jennie, don’t you dare die,” Hetty ordered as she kneeled next to her longtime neighbor.

Jennie wanted to laugh, but her head hurt too much. Instead, she reached for Hetty’s hand. “I’m not going to die. It’s only one of my migraines.” She rubbed at the wrinkles on Hetty’s hand. What a lot of living it had taken to get them.

A tear slid down Hetty’s cheek. “I came over to say I’m sorry I hurt you all those years, but loneliness causes a lot of things to happen. We’ve been neighbors for almost sixty years, and I don’t want to change either. I want to stay here, too.” She sniffed and wiped her cheek.

Jennie sighed. “Well help me up so I can fix another pot of tea, and I’ll tell you how you can save your house and help others at the same time. I warn you, though, your family won’t like it.”

Hetty struggled to her feet. “They don’t like much of anything I do now, so why worry?”

Their laughter drowned the noise of the storm as one old woman helped the other stand.
Hetty’s laughter died away, and she held Jennie’s hand between hers. “Edward, he never… Jennie, he never stopped talking about you. He loved you so much, but your mission in life those days centered on being the best mother a boy could have. I wanted Robert to love me the way he loved you, but it never happened. It made me angry, but I was too lonely to send him away.” Hetty’s lower lip trembled.

Jennie grabbed the tea kettle. “It happened a long time ago, Hetty, and we need to bury it. Now go get your awful banana bread, and we’ll have our tea.”

Story ID:	467
Written by:	Nancy J. Kopp (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Osceola IA USA
Year:	1995
Person:	Jennie