The Nature of My Inheritance Read Online Free Page B

What’s all this mean?”
I asked and, ashamed as I am to admit it, began
crying.
    Toggle life back to summer. Hot as skeet, sky the
color of a tin can, the air murky as math. My father and I together in the wagon with its fake
wood panels and shocks so spongy every pothole
made us heave and bounce like a rowboat
on rolling waves. We were headed over to the
church with some hymnals another ministry
was kind enough to donate, or re-donate, to the
First Methodist church. Brotherly-love sort of
gesture in the “Give and it shall be given unto
you” tradition. It was pretty nice of them, since
our church, whose lower middle-class congregation
was strong in faith but feeble when the
collection plate was passed around, had nearly
run out of hymnals. Guess some people wanted
to take them home so they could sing all the
verses of “The Old Rugged Cross” in the comfort
of their bathrooms.
    I helped the reverend, who was in an off
mood that late August day, take the boxes of
chunky hymnaries out of the car and into the
church, where he had me unpack and tuck them
into the book racks behind each pew while he
went downstairs to his office. Off, too, was that
he palmed me two dollars and told me to head
over to the bodega a few blocks away and get
myself a soda or candy or whatever I wanted.
Hang on, I thought. Wasn’t he always on my
case, telling me not to drink soda or eat candy?
I didn’t really want soda or candy anyway, but dutifully tramped off into the sweltering heat,
wondering why he wanted me to amscray like
that, for no real rhyme or reason. Besides, it was
a lot cooler in the sanctuary than it was outside
under a sun hotter than the Eye of Sauron.
    When I returned, I noticed there were two
other cars parked in front of and behind our
shabby vehicle, cars with far finer pedigrees than
ours. One was a Benz, black as venal sin, and the
other a most excellent vintage white bathtub
Porsche. For whatever reason, I was alarmed by
them, girdling our jalopy the way they did.
There was plenty of room to park up and down
the street, so why make it impossible for us to
squeeze out of our spot? Just seemed sinister to
me.
    Inside the church all was hushed other than
men’s voices coming from the basement office,
softly distant as if they were murmuring in a
mine shaft. Following my instincts, I sat on one
of the wooden pews far off to the side and continued
to work on my half-melted chocolate bar
while waiting to see what there was to see.
    I didn’t have to wait long. A fellow in a tailored
suit soon emerged from the doorway that
led to the stairs down at the end of the nave,
thickish leather briefcase in hand, and strode
with presidential purpose along the far aisle toward the front door. I didn’t stir or say a peep,
and he didn’t notice me as he passed by, his face
an unreadable blank, just a man walking along
minding his own. When he exited, a shaft of
brutal silver daylight invaded the dark interior
of the church long enough for the large oak
door to open and close. Right after that, my father
and another man I no more recognized
than the suit that had just come up from the catacombs,
in part because he averted his face, were
talking about things that, try as hard as I could
to understand, I couldn’t make hide nor hair
about. I do remember the man saying “Milton.”
But that was only because there was a skinny kid
at school with that name, Miltie Milquetoast
was his uninspired nickname, and he was always
catching flak because of it. And as they walked
down the aisle toward the door, their footsteps
on the stone floor echoing more audibly than
their voices, I swore I heard my father say,
“…generous margins.” Generous margins? Clueless
as to what they were talking about and feeling
a little weird that they were so close to me
but thought they were all by themselves, I
cleared my throat.
    “Hi there, Liam,” the reverend said in a very
different, louder, more carefree tone of voice.
“Give me a minute here,