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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781610880084 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bancroft Press |
| Publication date: | 11/11/2010 |
| Pages: | 223 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.80(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.60(d) |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
Read an Excerpt
Thanksgiving at the Inn
By Tim Whitney
Bancroft Press
Copyright © 2009 Tim WhitneyAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-890862-64-0
Chapter One
Where There's A WILL, THERE'S A WAY
"Are you coming down for breakfast or sleeping away the whole damn day?" Dad barked from the bottom of the stairs. The echo of his hard voice ricocheted off the condo walls like a basketball in an empty school gymnasium, and with such force it should have cracked the plaster.
Rolling over in his stiff bed, Heath groaned. Yeah, Dad, that's my plan, he thought. Sleep away the whole damn day. Good morning to you, too.
Heath was almost surprised to see "6:00" on the watch on his night table. He shouldn't have been. Dad woke him daily at 6 a.m.—it didn't matter if it was a holiday, a weekend, or even summer break.
And apparently, it also didn't matter if your grandfather had just died.
Yesterday had been, by any measure, a long and upsetting day. Although Heath had dozed during most of the four-hour trek from New Jersey to Dad's boyhood home in Massachusetts, missing out on most of the beautiful October day and the fiery orange trees along the highway, it was still exhausting, traveling a long way for an inheritance that didn't come—at least not the way either Heath or Dad had expected.
Dreams of a new family lifestyle had played in Heath's mind for days. Maybe now Dad would buy him the iPod he'd been wanting for so long. Maybe they could finally get rid of Dad's beat-up Volvo wagon and get something better, maybe a BMW like Mike's dad had, or something with a Hemi.
Heath shivered as a small wave of guilt washed over him. Someone had died—his grandfather, who even had his same name. Heath didn't really know him, so it was hard to miss him, but something seemed wrong about counting on his fortune—seeing the death of his grandfather, the man everyone called "Senior," as an opportunity and not a tragedy.
Now, today, Heath knew from the tone of Dad's wake-up call that he'd be on his case all week. Dad had taken the week off from his job to attend the funeral, but it was a few days away, and Heath had no idea if Dad was planning a pre- funeral trip. If not, that would mean four days of chores, four days of listening to his father's relentless nagging and complaining, maybe as a matter of course, or maybe as punishment for Heath's recent suspension from school. And that, in turn, meant Heath had to be silent—the best response to Dad's baiting.
As Heath reluctantly headed downstairs, though, he had to admit he understood Dad's frustration.
The day before, Heath had struggled to remain still as the warped wooden slat of a very uncomfortable chair periodically jabbed his lower back, keeping him from drifting off in the attorney's tired-looking conference room. Though only three days had passed since his grandfather had fallen from his roof and died, Heath hadn't seen Senior for seven or eight years, and it was strange to think those seven or eight years would now become forever. It was yet another part of their lousy life to blame his father for—when Senior didn't give his son a dime after selling the factory, Dad had stayed away for good.
It was a struggle for Heath even to remember what Senior had looked like. The last crisp memory he had was of the final Christmas they'd enjoyed as a family, at his big Whately, Massachusetts farmhouse.
And now the only thing left was the will, read by a short, bald lawyer named Lloyd Pierce.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Lloyd had said in a voice that sounded like he began each day gargling with gravel. Lloyd was the friend of his grandfather who'd called them from the hospital to let them know of Senior's death.
When Dad had stood to shake Lloyd's hand, the top of the lawyer's bald head barely reached Dad's shoulder.
Though Heath's dad sometimes spoke about the importance of hiring a short lawyer, Heath could never remember the connection between skill and size. Lloyd's height made him wonder if it was coincidence, or if his grandfather had also been privy to this supposed tidbit of practical wisdom.
Lloyd shook Heath's hand with a firm squeeze and said, "Shall we get right to the reading?"
"Yes, please, Lloyd," Dad replied.
Heath watched the dust kick up as Dad plopped back down in his chair—he had very little patience these days.
Reading Senior's own words, Lloyd cleared his throat and began. "I, Heath Wellington, Sr.," read Lloyd, "being of sound mind—well, as sound as one may expect at my age—have spent the last several years reflecting ... and contemplating the legacy I will leave my son Heath Wellington, Jr. I have recently come to the unpleasant realization that I squandered the majority of my life in the pursuit of material wealth. This lapse of judgment is something I deeply regret."
That's when Heath had begun to suspect that the terms of the will wouldn't be quite what they'd expected.
Heath wished he could press the reset button on the last week, going back to before Senior's death, and before the suspension he didn't even deserve, for cheating on a history test he hadn't really cheated on, not that Dad would understand. No wonder Dad was on edge—Heath was in a lousy mood himself. Usually this happened when there were weekend chores to get through or late-night homework assignments to finish, but now that he was suspended for the next week, the schoolwork wasn't an excuse. He was just drained.
At the bottom of the steps, Heath looked left and right, as if his dad was a monster to be avoided. He tried to savor these last few moments before he was berated, or put to work, or whatever else his dad had planned. He tried to remember the look on Dad's face when Lloyd had read the will.
"Just how much pain I have caused has become more evident over the last few years," Senior wrote, "when I tried time and time again, unsuccessfully, to reconcile with Junior." Heath's grandfather had gone by the shorthand of Senior, and his dad had always been Junior, with Heath, and Heath alone, called by the name they all shared. "I've written letters asking him to bring my grandson to my house for the holidays," Senior's will continued. "I've sent cards, presents, and even money in hopes that he would visit and find it in his heart to begin to forgive me."
Heath had stared at Dad then, wondering why Heath had never received any of the cards and gifts. He could understand why Dad would keep the money, but why would he keep gifts and letters? He pictured a shoebox full of Hallmark cards shoved under the bed or hidden in the back of a closet.
It was a shock, for sure, but not as big as the one Dad got a moment later when Lloyd read that Dad would receive his father's estate if, and only if, he took "a new direction in life"—by successfully managing Senior's bed and breakfast, with Heath, for the next three months.
"Ech-em," Dad had said. "Help me here, Lloyd. Bed and breakfast?"
Lloyd nodded. "That," he replied, "would be your family homestead on Cheshire Lane. I believe it's been in the family since 1862 and, if I am not mistaken, it's where you grew up. Senior began renovating it three years ago, with a man named Winsted. They turned the old place into a modest bed and breakfast. It's been catering to mostly unfortunate souls ever since. At present, there are three tenants, plus Winsted, living there."
"Oh ... just what I need—a house full of strays." Dad's chair screeched on the wooden floor as he pushed it back and began pacing the office. With each turn, the scowl on his face became more severe, the furrows of his brow deeper.
Lloyd then asked Dad if he wanted something to drink, which was a loaded question, but Dad, fortunately, asked only for water. So did Heath.
Shortly thereafter, cracking the cap on his water bottle and swallowing noisily, Dad had said, "All right, what other nonsense did the old bastard line up for me?"
The "other nonsense," Heath remembered, was a laundry list of stipulations. Dad couldn't sell the place—if he did, the entire inheritance would go into a trust. He couldn't be rude, inconsiderate, or nasty to the current tenants—indeed, if the four, and only four, tenants were unsatisfied, the inheritance, again, would be lost.
Dad had started pacing then. "Lloyd, you've got to be kidding," he said, running his fingers through his blond hair, tugging at it in frustration. "Is this some kind of sick joke my father is playing on me from beyond the grave? One final slap in the face?"
"I assure you, this is your father's will, just as he intended. I was by his side when he drafted it." He paused. "While I'll admit it is a tad unorthodox, this is truly his final legacy. During the last few months, he spoke more and more of his desire to reconcile with you."
Without thinking, Heath blurted out, "What was Senior like?"
Dad glared, but Lloyd smiled.
"He was tough as aged hardwood," said Lloyd, "and driven by a single purpose: to retire a rich man. His own father had died a pauper. While he had just a third-grade education, your grandfather reached his goal: He became a savvy businessman and a millionaire many times—"
"Can you skip the history lesson?" Dad said. "We have to get back on the road in order to make Jersey by this evening."
Heath had sunk into his seat then. It was like Dad was keeping Senior from him in death as much as in life. And you called him an old bastard? Heath thought. Look who's talking. You kept gifts and cards from your own son.
Lloyd ran through the rest of the will quickly—the weekly $250 stipend to provide breakfast, pay expenses, and supply Heath a suitable allowance. The $200 weekly rent paid by all four tenants combined. And the requirement that all chores and everyday tasks be completed by Junior and Heath, and no one else.
And, finally, Lloyd had withdrawn a lime green envelope from a pile of papers, tapped it twice, and slid it across the table to Dad. "He also wrote you an apology."
Dad had snatched up the letter, grimacing at something written on the envelope, and placed it into a side jacket pocket, shaking his head.
Within minutes of departing the attorney's office, Dad had decided to return to New Jersey, determined never to set foot in that inn. Forever a creature of habit, he'd chosen to drive late into the night rather than sleep at the nearby Whately Hotel. They left town, pulling off the highway briefly to grab dinner at a Cracker Barrel restaurant. Heath had a hard time enjoying the first real food he'd had in months—his father kept pushing him to finish.
Back on the road, Heath crashed hard into a dreamless sleep.
But now, forced awake and in the kitchen, Heath spotted Dad arranging several travel-weary banana boxes lining the kitchen counter like used books on a shelf. Heath yawned as he pulled the milk from the fridge and sniffed it to be sure it hadn't soured.
"Putting some stuff in storage?" Heath asked.
"Not quite," said Dad. And what came next, Heath would never have expected—not after his dad had so clearly, and so angrily, made up his mind.
"Get your things," said Dad. "We're moving out."
Chapter Two
No Place LIKE HOME
"What?!" said Heath.
"You heard me. We both need a change of scenery," said Dad. "As much as I hate to think my father can still influence my decisions, we could use a break. Now that you're out of school, nothing's keeping us here."
Out of school. Heath didn't miss the slam. Lately, Dad blamed him for all the things that were wrong in their lives—which was, basically, everything. So of course he believed the teacher when she accused Heath of cheating. He wondered if Dad's change of heart, his decision to head up to his father's inn, was driven by greed, guilt, or personal failure. His literary agent had stopped returning his calls months ago. Rejection letters, sent by unimpressed publishers, were piling up higher than the bills.
"How about grabbing a quick bowl of cereal and packing some clothes?" said Dad. "We'll need enough for about two weeks, I figure, until I know if we're going to stay permanently."
"You're kidding, right?" Heath asked without thinking. Not that it mattered, but he didn't own enough clothes to last more than two weeks anyhow.
"No, Heath. We need Senior's money a lot more than I'd like to admit. I need a couple of days to read through the will and figure out some way to sell the old house. If I can cash that out, I can pay our bills and finally focus on my writing."
Heath nodded. With Dad working construction, and occasionally picking up some extra cash as an English tutor, Heath knew their reserves had dried up like an out-of-luck fly in a spider's web. He also knew the fly stood a better chance of escaping the web than Dad did their bills. With an uncertain heart, Heath grabbed a granola bar and headed upstairs.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from his room in sweats and his favorite Yankees cap. It's not that Heath was a fan—he wasn't, really. But his dad loved the Red Sox, so the cap from their arch-rivals, the Yankees, just felt right.
His lumpy duffle bag thumped every step of the way downstairs. Slung over his right shoulder, a frayed red knapsack held his Game Boy collection, a bunch of clunky CDs, and the two books he was behind on reading for English Lit—The Hobbit and The Call of the Wild.
Apparently eager to leave, Dad had already loaded all the boxes into the back of the beat-up Volvo. They passed each other on the stairs.
"Take it off," Dad said.
"Take what off?" said Heath.
"You know what. We're going to Sox territory. It's not a good idea."
"They'll deal," said Heath. But Heath, facing away from Dad, shut his eyes as soon as he said it. The best way to deal with Dad was silence, and his reply, he knew instantly, had been two words too many.
Heath didn't move, and he didn't look back, but he could sense his dad frozen on the steps.
And then, in an instant, he felt the Yankees cap ripped off his head. "Hey!" Heath protested, but Dad pushed past him down the steps, squeezing the hat between his hands. As Heath followed, he saw his dad open the cabinet beneath the sink, force the hat into the trash can, and drop in some crumpled-up napkins and coffee grounds, just to make sure it was unsalvageable.
As he passed Heath on the way back, Dad grumbled, "Go ahead and throw your gear in the car. I'll be down in a minute."
Heath wondered if he was grabbing a bottle for the road. He thought it best not to wonder aloud.
As he pried open the dented door to the backseat, he listened to the familiar earsplitting metallic shriek. The wagon was pock-marked with rust, which had spread on the old car like cancer. The whole thing was a joke, but Dad couldn't make enough money to get anything cooler.
Heath tossed his duffle bag inside the car and gazed up at their condo. He didn't feel the slightest tinge of remorse about leaving. They'd lived there for three years, but it'd never really been a place he'd called home.
The whole of Morristown didn't feel like home—just a place to stay while Dad tried to figure out something better. Heath got along okay with the kids at school, but never saw them outside. With all the chores Dad made him do, he never had the time.
And now, here they were, journeying from a place that wasn't home to a house where many generations before him had grown up, and yet no one in his tiny family claimed it. His grandmother had died when Dad was just a kid, and he was the only son they'd had.
Sliding into the backseat, he put his headphones on—he'd listen to his CD player, even though an iPod would be way more convenient—and closed his eyes. Sleep locked him away before the first song finished.
It wasn't until several hours later that the car door slammed, jostling Heath awake. He looked out the window and realized they were parked in the parking lot of a crisp and clean supermarket. The big sign up front said "Big Y." Dad rapped his knuckles on the window.
"You coming?"
Opening the door, Heath realized, painfully, that his left leg was asleep. As needles jammed into his thigh, he followed Dad into the store, grabbing a pushcart on the way. Dad waited impatiently for him at the entrance.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Thanksgiving at the Inn by Tim Whitney Copyright © 2009 by Tim Whitney. Excerpted by permission of Bancroft Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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