I do not believe in omens, as what people call omens usually can be explained as coincidences, and although coincidences are facts, the belief in omens is not a belief in science. People who put stock in omens believe that some mysterious, mystical force is guiding what happens in our lives. I believe in science. I believe in facts.
But if I did believe in omens, I would not be enthused about the fact that none of the three pens on my nightstand works. Until I get up and find an operational pen, my data will not be complete.
The same perfectly put-together, impossibly pretty secretary is the gatekeeper to Jay L. Lamb’s office. Today, however, I am not waiting alone in an uncomfortable chair to find out my father’s displeasure with me. I am sitting next to my mother, who is also in an uncomfortable chair, waiting to find out what my father has intended for us.
“Can we go in yet?” my mother asks the impossibly pretty secretary. It is 9:11 a.m. We have been waiting eleven minutes longer than we should have to see Jay L. Lamb.
“It should only be a few more minutes,” the impossibly pretty secretary says apologetically. “He’s had a conference call that ran a little long.”
“Thank you,” my mother says, an edge in her voice.
“Oh, and Mrs. Stanton,” the impossibly pretty secretary says, “I am so sorry about your husband. He was the sweetest man.”
“Thank you,” my mother says, and now her lips are pursed. I think about Dragnet actor G. D. Spradlin and his mouth tighter than a chicken’s asshole. That’s what my mother looks like right now. I stifle a giggle.
At 9:16, the impossibly pretty secretary tells us we can go in.
“Maureen, I am so sorry about the wait,” Jay L. Lamb says, getting up from behind his desk to meet my mother. He takes her hand and guides her to a chair. He has never done that with me, and I’ve been here many, many times, although it occurs to me that I never bothered to count them. No matter. I wouldn’t want Jay L. Lamb to touch me.
“Edward,” he says, nodding at me and gesturing for me to take a seat. As I sit down, he goes back behind his desk and sits in his big office chair, which looks far more comfortable than the chairs my mother and I are occupying.
“So,” he says, clapping his hands together, “we’re here to go over Ted’s estate and how it will be apportioned. Maureen, of course, you know all of this, being Ted’s wife. Edward, I’ll go over it with you, and please ask any questions if you’re unable to understand.”
“I’m developmentally disabled, Mr. Lamb. I’m not stupid.”
Jay L. Lamb looks momentarily dumbfounded, and then he smiles thinly. “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
My father is rich—really, really rich. You would be shocked if I told you just how rich, and that’s why I am going to tell you:
My father has an estimated $27.85 million in assets—that’s stock holdings, savings, pensions, and the like, as Jay L. Lamb tells it—and that doesn’t even include the house and cars and boat and cabin on Holter Lake. As Jay L. Lamb tells it, my father had a remarkable penchant for getting into and out of investments at just the right time. He left the oil business before it tanked in the early 1980s. He invested heavily in tech throughout the 1990s, and then he shifted his holdings before the bubble burst in 2001. He bought a lot of Google stock in the initial public offering and has seen that investment grow. My father, it seems, was as good a businessman as he was a politician.
Jay L. Lamb explains that, because my mother is my father’s direct survivor, the bulk of the holdings will go to her. “The money, the stocks, the house, the cars,” he says.
“I have my Mercedes,” my mother says. “I don’t need that Cadillac, too.”
“You own it, free and clear,” Jay says.
“But I don’t need it. Edward, would you like to have your father’s Cadillac?”
“Well, my Toyota Camry did get hit by a careless driver outside Rimrock Mall.”
“It’s settled, then. The Cadillac is yours.”
“If that’s how you want to do it,” Jay L. Lamb says.
“That’s how I want to do it,” my mother replies.
“OK, let’s talk about Edward,” Jay L. Lamb says. “When Ted bought the house on Clark Avenue, it was in his name and yours, Maureen. The house passes along to you. Ted’s will makes it clear that we’re now to have you and Edward sign a quit-claim deed listing Edward as a co-owner.”
“What’s a quit-claim deed?” I ask.
“It essentially says that when your mother dies, the house goes solely to you.”
“So it’s my house now?”
“Yours and your mother’s, yes.”
“It means, Edward,” my mother says, “that you can stay in that house for as long as you like.”
Jay L. Lamb also explains that my father has set up an annuity for me, with enough money behind it to ensure that my living expenses are taken care of for the rest of my life. My bills will continue to go to Jay L. Lamb’s office, and he will administer my annuity and pay my expenses.
“You’ll need to budget, of course,” Jay L. Lamb says. “But you have plenty in reserve should you occasionally go over.”
“How much in reserve?” I ask.
“Five million dollars.”
Jay L. Lamb then explains what happens to the money after my mother dies—that some will go to me, some will go to taxes, and that some should probably go to charity while my mother is still alive so that the tax burden is reduced, but I’m not listening all that closely. Five million dollars is more money than I would ever need, I think.
After Jay L. Lamb has finished going over money matters, he asks if I have any questions.
“Yes,” I say. “My mother says I can stay in the house on Clark Avenue for as long as I want. Does that mean that the memorandum of understanding is over?”
“What’s this?” my mother asks.
“I… I think…” Jay L. Lamb is stuttering, and I’ve never seen him do that before.
“Last week, the day before Father died, he made me sign a promise that I would not spend time with Donna Middleton ever again, or I would have to move out of the house on Clark Avenue and find a way to pay my own bills,” I say.
“Who is Donna Middleton?” My mother is sitting forward in her chair.
“She’s my friend. She lives on my block.”
“You made a friend on your block, Edward? That’s wonderful.”
“Yes. If I can stay in the house as long as I want, no matter what, I want to keep being friends with Donna Middleton. That’s why I’m wondering about the memorandum of understanding.”
“Jay,” my mother says, “what is this memo?”
Jay L. Lamb reaches into one of his desk drawers and pulls out a green office folder, just like the ones I use to store my letters of complaint. He thumbs through it, picks out a sheet of paper, and hands it across the desk to my mother.
My mother reads the piece of paper. A couple of times, her mouth drops open. Finally, she turns to me.
“Your father made you sign this?”
“Yes.”
“Jay,” she says, turning away from me and toward Jay L. Lamb, “what is this all about? Why would Ted make Edward sign a document like this? Even if Ted had a problem with Edward’s knowing this woman—and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why—what business is it of yours?”
“Jay sends me lots of letters,” I say.
“This isn’t the only one?”
“No.”
“Jay,” she says, “you better let me see those letters, right now.”