"And that concludes the reading of the will of Ralph L. Mazell. Thank you for your attendance."
The silence in the room was deafening, as they say. I could sense the angry looks from several cousins behind me, as if I had any control over what my Granduncle left to whom. They whispered among themselves, speculating about how I had manipulated a sick old man on his deathbed at the eleventh hour so I would inherit nearly all of whatever awaited in a safety deposit box in a bank across town.
Not even close. If they only knew what had really happened, they would have shit their discount store underwear.
1
My name is Myra Watts. I'm not crazy about my name, and usually go by 'MJ' when not with family. On the surface, I'm a typical, mid-forties housewife now, two divorces, adult sons, SUV and all. But one can never tell what dark secrets lurk beneath the surface, even in an affluent suburb.
Looking back, I was a spoiled only child. I had a rather privileged upbringing, as my maternal grandfather was a state senator, and even ran in the primaries for attorney general a couple times. My mother did all she could to keep up country club appearances, despite her erratic marriage. My non-monogamous, alcoholic parents eventually lived apart but didn't actually divorce. My dad was an army officer, and a few times a year Mom went to visit him for a couple weeks or so wherever he was stationed. That arrangement was a lot more peaceful than the constant bickering and booze-fueled, violent altercations that occurred when they lived together.
Late in the summer after my June '92 high school graduation, Mom planned to fly to Germany for a few weeks. I was looking forward to having the house to myself as an eighteen year-old 'official adult' and all the privileges and benefits thereby bestowed upon me. Prior to this summer during my mom's absences, I was made to stay at my grandparents', which despite its semi-rural location, wasn't really a bad deal since I had my own room, cable, phone line, a pool and my little BMW.
Good thing, because my solo summer at home never materialized. Disaster struck in the form of a rotted third floor balcony railing at a crowded party. Down goes drunk Myra headfirst, and snap crackle pop go both arms. I had luckily hit the grass and passed out, as I was told the pain of the several breaks and two dislocations would have been horrific. So even before Mom went to Europe, back to Grammy and Grampa's I went, with an angled white cast and metal external frame on each arm; one shoulder was nearly immobile, as was one wrist. Several fingers had aluminum splints taped to them.
I settled in at their house, a large brick 'mid-century modern' brick ranch that had changed very little since it was built in the mid-fifties. Unable to do a whole lot without help, I couldn't even reach my mouth except with a straw or utensil, so I was helped by Grammy or her part-time housekeeper. Luckily I could reach my crotch sufficiently with my left hand so I could wipe everything, although it was slow going. Getting dressed was of course a nightmare. Sleeveless clothes and elastic became my friends. Summer casual dresses, more easily slipped over the casts and more conducive to bathroom trips, were my main wardrobe.
A couple weeks later, drunken disaster reared its ugly head once more, but this time it didn't befall me. A very early Sunday phone call relayed the terrible news that second cousins on my Grampa's side from across the state had been in a bad car wreck. There were injuries, fatalities and DUI charges. As the family attorney, Grampa had to get involved immediately, and Grammy as well, sadly, to help make funeral arrangements. Of course dragging half-dressed, zombie-walk Myra around to hospitals and funeral homes was out of the question, so who to call to 'assist' me? My mom was in Europe somewhere and their housekeeper was in Florida until later in the week. I partially overheard them debating on their choice of last resort, and phrases like 'that was a long time ago' , 'he's an old man now' and 'it's just for a few days' were used. I was curious as to what type of monster they were going to unleash on me.
2
That afternoon, the 'monster' exited his car, a quarter century-old convertible Ford. My Grand Uncle Ralph, a slightly overweight man of about sixty, was dressed in light-colored suit with a bow tie and a straw hat. This seeming relic from a 1930's movie hugged his big sister, my grandmother, as I watched out the window, sipping my ever-present Diet Coke through a straw. Looking less like a monster and more like a refugee from a barbershop quartet, Ralph bowed to me and spoke as he stepped into the foyer, the sweeping, theatrical removal of his hat revealing his thin, dark but graying hair. His regional Southern accent and diction were quite traditional as well, for this part of the state.
"Well, well, Miss Myra June!" he exclaimed, using my proper name. He gently kissed the knuckles of my left hand; only the two outside fingers were available, the others shrouded by white tape. "Look at you, all grown up now! I was sorry to hear of your accident, but relieved you're going to be okay. I'm glad I'm able to help any way I can!"
Grown up I was, at least physically. Genetics had been kind to me. I was not quite full-figured, but a narrow upper torso and a pair of obnoxious breasts that refused to stay still drew attention from what I considered an above average face, aside from a bit of acne, and sky-blue eyes. When my hair was short, I had been compared to the actress who was slashed up in the motel shower in that old black and white movie. I had kept my mousy brown, unruly 'mop' of hair lightened to a yellow blonde, but that was neglected during my recuperation, yielding long, dark roots at the top.
"Oh, it's so good to see you! Thank you so much for coming on such short notice!" I said, remembering my manners and that it really
was
very nice of him to accept the drudgery of cooking and waiting on me. I waved goodbye with my unbroken, un-sprained fingers as Grammy and Grampa drove away to their miserable tasks.
Many families have a member that never marries and lives alone. That was Ralph. I knew he had been in the Marines in Korea, and now was a retired magazine photographer, but everyone spoke guardedly about him, as if they were afraid of revealing some terrible secret.
Big scandal or not, he was very nice to me, and able to converse about any topic except maybe contemporary pop music. One activity I was able to manage was playing cards. I could hold a poker hand by tucking them into the edges of my cast. I had taken my uncle for about seventy-five dollars, mostly by bluffing, when dinnertime arrived. I felt we had hit it off, and that feeling was magnified when he consented to take me 'anywhere I wanted for supper.'
While I appreciated what my Grammy had done for me over the years, the woman ate like a bird and insisted I should also. Snacking was 'improper for young ladies', she believed, so I nearly starved this few weeks. Cottage cheese and peach slices were getting old fast.
After a windy drive in his big, classic convertible a while later, I was in heaven back in Grammy's kitchen as dear Ralph was spooning a cut-up chilidog into my mouth and holding up an ice cold can of beer for me to suck through a straw. I was supposed to keep travel limited to doctor visits only, and not mix alcohol with my pain meds. This breaking of the rules, as it was, endeared him to me even more. I could even see us keeping in touch after this ordeal, maybe visiting a museum or hearing an orchestra concert together. I was going to miss my first semester at Radford anyway, and most of my shallow, asshole 'friends' disappeared after I turned into a plaster golem with no makeup, dirty hair, smelly armpits, transformer-robot albino lobster arms and no parent-free house at which to have keg parties.
"I warned you I was disgusting," I said as Ralph, his blue eyes a contrast to his salt and pepper hair, used a bunch of napkins to mop a spoonful of hotdog, chili, cheese and onions off the front of my sundress near my cleavage. A little drunk just from a beer and the Darvocet, a poorly-timed sneeze had propelled the approaching spoon's contents out over my chest.
"Sorry, I'm getting kind of personal here," he said as the wad of paper bounced on and off the upper slope of my breasts.
"It's okay, sweetie, You've got to help me change out of this anyway." I grinned.
"Oh, um, well..." the normally articulate man stuttered for the first time. His complexion reddened.
"Not to be ungrateful, but I don't want to smell chili and onions the rest of the night. They didn't tell you there's a strip show included in your ticket price?" I said, kidding as I arose from the table and swiveled my hips. "Woo hoo! It's okay, Ralph. Just the dress. I'll face away. Just pretend you're at the beach."
After our arrival in my room, I had him pull a similar sundress from the closet, and then pointed to a pair of men's boxer shorts, hanging on the bed knob. The male underwear was an aberration to my Grammy, but easier to get on and off. "I'll have to step into'em as you pull'em up. Unless you wanna see my lily white ass," I kidded.
