After years of living apart, two brothers are forced together by an inconvenient event. His father's funeral.
"When was the last time?" They both spoke at the same time, still in shock as they contemplated the marks left by the passage of time. They felt that it was since their childhood that they had not seen each other—in the late 70's when they wore Star Wars t-shirts, no matter who, they exchanged clothes back then. The older brother, now a successful financier, wore an impeccable linen suit, a heavy Swiss watch and a smartphone that seemed to be stuck to his hand. The younger brother, a renowned acupuncturist and alternative medicine healer, environmentalist and social media activist wore a flannel suit, a Buddhist rosary, long unkempt hair and worn leather sandals.
The line was long to give condolences to both mourners.
That endless night they both lamented and complained about their father's death. They remembered the wonderful years they had together and grieved again until the tears ran out, the coffee grew cold, and the cigarettes turned to ashes.
The two devoted sons carried the coffin on their shoulders and gave an emotional farewell speech to their beloved father.
A short, plump man with a twisted mustache intercepted the brothers after the funeral. He introduced himself in a booming voice as “Mr. Adolf Griffith, attorney for the deceased.” He invited them to visit his office the next day to keep them up to date with their father's affairs. The intrigued brothers looked at each other, forgetting that the problems of the deceased end 2 meters underground, but for the relatives, they are far from being resolved. Mr. Griffith wiped the sweat from his bald forehead, extended his business card along with his condolences, and disappeared before the brothers could say a word.
The brothers were now strangers in their hometown, and like most people who leave their birthplace to pursue success, they hated that place and had no plans to stay any longer. However, with the news they had received—and being devoted sons—they both agreed to stay at their father's house and visit Mr. Griffith the next morning to resolve any remaining problems before leaving.
They arrived at 1144 Berkeley Street. The house felt smaller than they remembered, but their father had done a splendid job preserving it, so for both of them it was like a trip back in time. The eldest son was proud to see his diplomas hanging in the hallways. The youngest son was surprised that his father kept all his paintings and drawings in his bedroom.
They shared the table as when they were children, with a glass of milk and a slice of fruit cake cooked by old Mrs. Wellington, wondering how old she was. “She is probably more than a hundred years old,” pointed out the younger brother, remembering that she was already an old woman during her childhood. But the cake was the same.
After dinner, they went up to their respective rooms and found them identical to how they left them the last time. As if the door had been closed after leaving and had never been opened until this moment. It was surprising, it was magical.
During the night they could not sleep digging for lost memories among the closets that slowly changed the perspective they had about the house. “Maybe it's not so bad after all, come to think of it, it's great to be here,” the brothers realized. The fatigue accumulated during the early morning and they slept.
“I regret to inform you,” Mr. Griffith said, twirling his mustache. “We are not sure about the whereabouts of your father's will and it will take me about a week to search for it.” He pointed to the vast, disorganized bookshelves that seemed to contain the annals of all of man's history.
The brothers took this news lightly, after all, they were having a good time at the house and they both deserved a proper vacation, so this represented the perfect opportunity. They made arrangements by calling work to postpone appointments and by calling their families.
As the days passed, the joyful vacation they had planned at home became anything but peaceful. After so many years of not seeing each other and with different customs, they soon began to argue. First by making coffee instead of green tea, washing the dishes and buying organic vegetables at the store instead of those sprayed with pesticides. Then a hot debate between smoking marijuana instead of cigarettes. And finally for listening to Pink Floyd instead of Queen and U2. They realized that they couldn't live together, but didn't think much of it since the next day, Mr. Griffith would announce who would inherit the house—to which they were both already attached.
“I regret to inform you,” Mr. Griffith said, twirling his mustache. “That your father died intestate and we need to file an administrative letter and choose an executor, hold a probate trial so that the property comes to you… blah, blah, blah.” The two brothers looked speechless. “Well, I'll call you when I have the paperwork ready,” Mr. Griffith said.
The brothers returned home in an awkward silence that remained until nightfall. Both were thinking about the best way to proceed in the face of this setback, but neither dared to express them.
That night, they both went to bed, and in the moment between sleep and wakefulness they received a visit from an unexpected visitor.
“Last night,” the older brother said, picking up a piece of omelet with his fork. #my father came to visit me.”
“I dreamed about him too.” The younger brother responded, taking a spoonful of his oatmeal. “Strange right?”
“He came to apologize for not leaving his will, but he told me that his last wish was that I should inherit the house and that you would understand and abide by his wish.” The older brother said, avoiding his brother's gaze.
“Well,” the younger brother cleared his throat. “He said the same thing to me, since after all, I was the one who helped him build the shed.” He said almost hanging a medal on his chest. “so I am the rightful heir of the house.”
"Shed? "Are you referring to the wooden shed that looks like a latrine and is only used to store tools?" The older brother said ironically. “But instead, I helped him repair the porch, I am the legitimate heir of the house.”
“The porch?” The older brother laughed. “You mean the giant sewer with holes the size of golf balls? I’ll have to spend a fortune repairing the porch when I inherit the house, just because YOU don’t do anything right.”
“I don't think your miserable salary selling incense allows you to pay for it, you can't even pay for a pair of shoes and you come to tell me that I don't do anything right? “At least I finished school.”
“You and your overflowing ego,” said the younger brother. “Instead of the porch you should have built a sign inviting guided tours to admire the walls full of your grandeur.” HIS arm reached towards the sky.
The older brother stood up, hitting the table with both hands. “And you should have worked instead of pursuing your artistic dreams by spending my father's money!”
“Oh!” The younger brother throws the spoon on the table and stands up. “And what about the money wasted when you crashed Dad's car while drunk?”
The two looked at each other with their hearts racing and a lump in their throat remembering the unpleasant memories they had resurrected.
“I'm going to do what my father didn't do when he had the chance.” The older brother said, leaving the kitchen and running up the stairs to his father's room while his brother remains still listening to his footsteps. The older brother opened the window and threw the framed paintings and drawings that landed on the patio, and the grass did not cushion the fall.
Drowned in anger, the younger brother walked through the corridors throwing the diplomas on the ground and when he had finished, he took a hammer and left the house to hit the porch.
The older brother raced down the stairs to the kitchen where he emptied the cupboards until he found a gallon of fuel and headed out to the yard to douse the wooden shed and light a fire hotter than hell. He then returned to the kitchen where he found his brother waving a baseball bat.
"I am going to kill you!" the brother shouted before charging. The older brother dodged the blow and knocked him down and they struggled on the ground.
“No, I'm going to kill you!” the older brother shouted as he choked him. “Buddhists can't kill, remember?”
The younger brother manages to free himself from the hold and hit him.
The two fought fiercely for minutes, destroying everything in their path until the phone rang. After several long rings they separated and finally the older brother answered breathlessly. “Say?”
“Oh, this is Mr. Griffith, I called you because I regret to inform you,” the brothers pressed their ears against the speaker listening to the twitching of the mustache. “Mr. Lee came and brought me the purchase and sale contract that his father made for the house along with the copy of the bank transfer of the payment, so I regret to inform you that the legitimate heir is now Mr. Lee.”
The phone remained dead so Mr. Griffith continued. “Mr. Lee apologizes for the late notification, but did not want to be intrusive about these matters during his mourning.”
There was no answer on the phone from the brothers. “Well, Mr. Lee wants you to vacate the house by Friday.”
The brothers hung up the phone.
"What did they say?" A worried Mr. Lee asked, reading the expression on Mr. Griffith's face.
“Don't worry about anything,” Mr. Griffith said, wiping the sweat from his bald forehead. “You know what these youth are like, they feel like they own the world.” He hit Mr. Lee's back. “We will get the house back… someday, but we will get it.”
M. Ch. Landa
