Nothing A Shot Of Whiskey Won’t Fix

(Previously published on Medium)
4 random prompts become a short story about what we refuse to inherit.

Prompt: Waiting for my brother

“Will you be coming in, love?” asked the polite old lady, holding the door open wide for Penelope.

“No, thanks,” Penelope muttered, unwilling to remove her scarf from her face, but hoping her eyes conveyed her smile and thanks.

“Tis awful cold out there,” the old lady told her, as if Penelope didn’t already know this. One of the great charms of her birthplace, she was reminded every time she returned, was the ability of the Irish to state the bleeding obvious about the weather. If it were an Olympic sport, the rest of the world could only battle each other for the silver and bronze.

“Gettin’ awful cold in here,” grumbled the security guard from behind his desk in the direct path of the icy blast.

Oh for goodness’ sake, thought Penelope, as usual, the fact that other people are inconvenienced by their own decisions is somehow my fault. However, she did what she’d learned over her thirty-five years to do best in such circumstances: be as gracious as she could. She slid the scarf away from her nose and mouth, smiled broadly, and articulated very carefully “Thank you so very much, but I’m waiting for my brother.”

Whether it was the smile or Penelope’s English accent that did it, the old lady abruptly stepped inside, pulled the door shut to the security guard’s relief, and left her out in the cold.

Penelope looked at her watch and hoped Liam would hurry the hell up. She knew that if she wasn’t standing outside he would circle the block twice, convince himself it was the wrong block, drive all the way home to Dublin, get himself a cuppa and finally remember to text her that he couldn’t find the place.

Not that she’d blame him. She didn’t want to be here either, but it had to be done.

“What in the name of Jaysus are ya doin’ waitin’ out here?” asked Liam.

Penelope punched him in the arm and he pretended to feel it through his thick coat, which he clearly couldn’t. Liam swept the door wide open for her and dropped into a theatrical bow, earning a laugh from his sister and his own personal glare from the security guard.

***

“Mr. Boyd will be seein’ ya now,” said the harried looking secretary, nodding over her shoulder and clearly not planning to open the door for them.

Liam did the honours, with less flourish than on the street, leaving Penelope to enter the office first. Mr. William Boyd, Esquire rose pompously from his desk, straightened his waistcoat, fixed a lawyer’s oily smile on his face and took the three steps that the size of his office allowed to reach Penelope. “Penny, lass,” he said with what was supposed to pass for sympathy.

For thirty years Penelope had called him “Mr. Boyd,” despite his grinning insistence as he had bent to her small face the first time they met that she “Call me Uncle Billy!” On that day, and evermore, she had declined. He was always “Mr. Boyd”. The formality seemed necessary. Not because he was her father’s oldest and truest friend. Not because he was owed any respect due his age or character.

But because she knew he was dangerous.

William Boyd made her scalp prickle the way her father did. She knew better than to let another one into her life, even at the tender age of five.

But today she arrested his approach by taking a hearty step towards him, grasping his proffered hand in both of hers, and saying with warmth and affection “Billy, how good of you to see us on such short notice.”

“Uh, I, yes of course, of course,” he stammered, returning behind his desk and waving them into the chairs opposite. This is was not what he’d expected from /The Chilly Little Miss/ as he and her father had called her for years behind her back. Or in front of it, when she encountered them returning from an evening in the pub.

Prompt: Nothing a shot of whiskey won’t fix

Liam said nothing and sat, following his sister’s lead. He was fortunate to have been only seven when their mother had raised her nose and smelled the subtle change in the air. The air was telling her that what was coming would come soon, and could never be undone . Without discussion, and meeting no resistance, she had packed up her newly-pubescent daughter and her young son and taken them to a new life in London.

Liam had been told of the clouds that engulfed their father, but had not seen the storms personally until he returned to Ireland to attend university. The first time they met after a dozen years he watched as his father appraised him. Was he looking for signs of intelligence in his son’s face? Echos in the hairline and colour? A hint of his ancestors in the nose?

No, he was looking at his long lost son’s arms, gauging their length and taking in the size of the hands. He was calculating not how fierce their embrace might be, but whether his boy could knock him on his backside if he chose to. Liam could, he definitely could, the older man decided, and so he had kept his distance.

That moment confirmed for Liam what his sister had always said — that they were better off without him. He should just leave, but it had been a long drive and the snow was falling thickly.

“It’s cold, Da,” he’d said.

His father had turned on his heel, lowered his head under the lintel, and replied “Nuttin’ a shot of whiskey won’t fix”.

Prompt: A letter opener with a nasty point

“So, Billy,” Penelope began, before the lawyer could settle himself and launch an offensive, “Liam and I want to thank you for your kind words yesterday at the funeral.” Liam smiled on cue.

“Your Da was a fine man,” Billy said, ponderously, as Penelope and Liam each reflexively clenched their teeth. “A fine man indeed, and t’was an honour to speak for him.”

The honour, thought Penelope, was truly all yours. No-one else had offered to say a word about him. It was still not done to speak ill of the dead around here.

The siblings had noticed how few of their relatives had attended the funeral. It was a high contrast to their mother’s, five years ago, which had been packed not only with her friends and family. Looking around that day, Penelope had spied two aunts and cousin from her father’s side. They had travelled from Ireland to London for it. But not a one of them had so much as crossed the street for their own flesh and blood’s burial yesterday.

“Well we won’t be taking your time, Billy,” said Penelope, falling into a false brogue. “We’ll just be taking the keys to Da’s house, and we’ll see ourselves out.” She had deliberately not asked for them. The Irish manner of speech suited her purpose perfectly.

“Ah, no, I don’t think so,” replied Billy confidently, “You see, as executor of your Da’s will…”

Penelope dropped the accent. “Where is the will?” she asked.

“Well, it’s complicated,” countered Billy.

“There is no will,” stated Penelope, uncomplicating it. So you won’t be the executor, or taking a fat fee, either.

“Well then,” said Billy, assuming his legal expert voice, “in situations of what is here called ‘intestate succession’ it becomes necessary to…”

“Secure Letters of Administration,” finished Penelope, “Which we have. The keys, please,” and she held out her hand.

Billy was taken aback, not expecting them to move this quickly. He counter-attacked. “Your fancy London lawyers will be sure to bugger it all to hell. Best leave it to me,” he said with his oiliest smile and a hint of menace.

“My experienced Dublin lawyers seem to have it all in hand,” said Liam, “And the property is on the market, so we must secure all sets of keys.” He nodded at Penelope’s outstretched hand.

It was all theatre, really. They’d had the locks changed yesterday, during the funeral.

Billy grunted with disgust, opened his desk drawer, and slapped the keys into Penelope’s hand.

“Oh, and that’s ours, too,” she said, before he closed the drawer.

Billy knew she meant the ornate silver letter opener. Probably worth a bit as an antique, or he liked to impress clients by flashing it. It was sharp but, as the plaster on his thumb attested.

“No,” he said gruffly, slamming the drawer shut, “your father gave that to me.”

“It wasn’t his to give. It belonged to our mother,” replied Penelope.

Prompt: An awful pun.

Billy nodded at the keys in her hand. “You got what you came for. Best be on your way, now,” and he stood to usher them out. He waited until Liam was through the door before he said “Your dear father didn’t think you’d show your face at his funeral.”

Penelope stopped, but knew better than to turn around.

“But I said a course ya would. I knew ya’d show up. Like a bad penny.”

Penelope walked out, wondering if he really thought she hadn’t heard that jab, and worse, before.

***

“What was that blarney about the letter opener?” Liam asked when they were in his car and safely heading to Dublin. “That was never Ma’s.”

“Of course,” his sister said, “but the old fool thinks he won a small victory, and might leave well enough alone”. God, I hope so. God save me from ever seeing him again. She pulled her coat around herself and shivered at the lingering evil.

She caught Liam glancing at her, concerned. “It’s cold,” was all she said.

“Nothing a shot of whiskey won’t fix,” he replied, brightly, and she laughed at how innocent, how charming, and how true it sounded, coming from his lips.