Inheritance

Wyld Craft/Issue 2/Spring Summer 2024

Inheritance

Dedicated to my late brother, Donny, who loved to ride his bike.

June noticed Mr. Morton’s feet first. His brown loafers came apart at the seams. His khakis weren’t much better, hanging from his painfully thin frame. She hadn’t seen him in months, felt the need to contain her shock, swallow it, a big pill rammed down her throat.

“Hello!  Glad you came! Canape?” he said, holding out a silver tray with little crackers blobbed with something white. 

June’s discomfort grew. She did not want a canape. 

“Thank you, Alan,” her mother said, giving June the be polite and take one nudge.

June complied, standing like a statue, cocktail napkin displayed on an upright palm. 

The house had a lemony just-cleaned smell. Afternoon light streamed into the living room through the front window. 

June remained frozen next to her mother, hyper-aware of the alien Mr. Morton greeting others, offering his gross little snacks.

Her mother’s smiling face glimmered above straight posture, a pressed flowered dress and sandals. Her hair was perfectly smoothed back in a neat ponytail.

June slouched in self-consciousness. She’d won the earlier party attire argument, but somehow her tee shirt, cut-offs, dirty Keds, and  messy bun didn’t scream victory. 

They hadn’t planned to stay long. June was relieved to see her mother raise her time to go eyebrows, went to find someplace to throw out the untouched canape. She entered the kitchen, finding a mess of cream cheese and crackers hanging out of open sleeves, a dirty butter knife exposed on the counter. She pictured Mr. Morton in his old shoes and baggy khakis spreading cream cheese. She pushed back the memory of him out front in his cycling clothes, returned from his Saturday ride, gulping from his tilted water bottle.

“Thanks so much for having us,” Mom said. She shook Mr. Morton’s hand stiffly, as though he was a stranger, June thought. 

June copied her mother’s gesture, avoided Mr. Morton’s eyes. It would be easier if he was a stranger. She followed her mother out the door and down the walk to the street.

Her mother glanced back at Mr. Morton’s house.

“Terrible,” she said. 

Mr. Morton was dying of cancer.