Daddy's Will: A rewrite

With little running steps in Robert’s shadow, Becky de Jong struggled to match her fiance’s pace. Her feet went tap, tap, tap at the sidewalk, like fingers at a typewriter.

I had just posted The Secret of Literary Style when I thought it would be fun to revisit a story and apply some of what I’d learned (or remembered) along the way. Then I forgot to post the story. I’m taking another look to see if there’s any change the days since might suggest, but if you’re reading this, then clearly it’s finally been published. (EDIT: I posted the rewrite but didn't email it. Today, I thought I'd change that.)

Daddy’s Will

With little running steps in Robert’s shadow, Becky de Jong struggled to match her fiance’s pace. Her feet went tap, tap, tap at the sidewalk, like fingers at a typewriter, but Robert’s legs moved like scissors—swift and cutting. She always wondered that he never winded himself. She could barely speak.

"I’ll do the talking," he said. 

Robert always did the talking, as had all the men in Becky's life. She supposed it was meant to be that way.

Still, it left her with little say for herself, and now that Daddy had died, she was alone, with only Robert to speak on her behalf. The idea left her a little nauseated. She stopped, startled by what the feeling might mean.

Robert reached the solicitor's door before looking back. "Don't worry. I can handle your brother. You deserve that money, every penny and pound."

She put her hand over her stomach and took a deep breath. Daddy never liked Robert, but as long as Daddy lived, Robert had been manageable. Daddy's death would change that; so would the money.

Though her father's estate came to a little under a million, she had never thought much about it. The idea of money sullied things so. Still, it would be hers now, or half of it, at least. That did provide for certain options. A woman of means, in London—in 1965—the opportunities were enough to make her dizzy.

The color flushed in Robert's face, the way it always did when she aggravated him. She hurried. Obediently she hurried, and Robert led her into the waiting room. 

Gregory glanced up as they entered but didn’t bother to stand. She wanted to run to him, but he was uncomfortable with the mushy, family stuff, and Robert didn't want her anywhere near him.

Gregory nodded at her from behind his magazine. She waved with the flapping of four fingers, like a toddler. That’s how Robert described it: she waved like a toddler.

"You've got nerve coming here," Robert growled—and it was a growl, like a dog. She didn’t like dogs, not the big, scary kind. She liked a lap dog that peed itself with excitement when you got home.

Robert was peeing himself with excitement now.

"I'll have more than nerve." Gregory smiled, as if it were all a joke, and maybe it was. Gregory had always been a cute child. Even now, as a grown man, he seemed little more than a child. She hoped he would stay. He’d been gone for years, and there was so much she wanted to know.

Gregory needed to stay for his own good, too. He needed to know what had happened while he was away. Daddy had moved out of the house and into a little apartment in the city. All the trappings of wealth had disappeared. Certainly, Gregory would approve. He’d denounced such things when he left.

Maybe Gregory would stay after she dealt with Robert, and she would have to deal with Robert. The nausea on the sidewalk told her that much. She deserved a life full of everything she loved, museums and galleries and little clubs where people recited poetry on stage. Oh Eden, sweet Eden. How much time had passed since she strolled through her bounty?

Robert thought it a waste of time.

Robert loathed the idea of Gregory receiving a sixpence of their inheritance. He often said (more often as the day of the reading approached) that Gregory had abandoned the family and in doing so had surrendered its spoils. Spoils. What an ugly word, and it was ugly to say Gregory had abandoned her. She liked to think of it as being abroad and forgetting to write.

A tall, pious man, like an undertaker—Mr. Bliss—stepping out of his inner sanctum, pinching his glasses upon his nose, and coughing once for their attention, welcomed them with solemn tones, each word a distant bell, tolling, deep and resonant. "Mr. and Miss De Jong, if you'll step inside, we'll discuss the details of your father's will." 

Robert tried to lead the way.

Mr. Bliss stopped him. "I'm sorry, sir. The will is specific."

"Becky needs me."

Mr. Bliss gave a practiced grin of supreme humility. "Miss De Jong must attend the reading on her own, or everything goes to her brother."

Robert paled. Becky squeezed his hand and hoped it communicated all she wanted to say: she didn’t need him to speak for her. Daddy would have it all in hand. Daddy always did. 

Robert glared as if this were her doing, as if she had conspired to keep him our of her private and personal matters, which she had never done. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps, from now on, she would. She’d carve out what little space society allowed her and not so willingly surrender all.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Robert said.

Mr. Bliss closed the door. He offered Becky and her brother the leather chairs that faced his oversized mahogany desk. 

Gregory ignored him. "Look, Sis. If the old man wrote me out, let's not put ourselves through years of legal battles. Neither of us want that. Split the money, and I'll be off."

Becky opened her mouth and found herself at a loss for words. She stared at Gregory and pictured herself in his eyes. He’d think she looked like Vermeer paining, Girl with a Pearl Earring. She felt like Girl with a Pearl Earring, enigmatic and mute, frozen in time.

Mr. Bliss came to the rescue.

"In fact, Mr. De Jong, your father left it up to the two of you how you should divide his estate. What's left of it, that is."

Those last few words arrested all life within the room. Becky scarcely dared to breath, and Gregory's eyes narrowed into thin slits of suspicion.

"‘What’s left?’ The old man was loaded!"

From atop the file cabinet, Mr. Bliss pulled out a series of papers and laid them out for the De Jongs to see. "Almost everything is gone. Real estate. Stocks. Bonds. Furniture. Even his clothing. It's all gone. Take as long as you want to study the papers. You'll need to be fully satisfied that what I'm telling you is the truth before we can address the particulars of the will."

The numbers told a simple story.

Gregory wiped his face. "That's not possible. I need that money."

"If you’d like to take the papers home..."

Gregory thumbed the stack and handed it off to Becky. "Did you know about this?"

Becky shrugged. Daddy had moved into the apartment, but she never suspected money trouble. She thought it had to do with his legs.

"It’s impossible," he protested. "The house in the country. The cars. The art. There's nothing left?"

Mr. Bliss held up a hand. "Your father has taken care of all his expenses and leaves no debts behind."

Though Becky assumed this was meant to be good news, Gregory lowered his head and mumbled. "I've debts enough of my own. Thank you."

Becky placed her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. "Is there nothing at all?"

She saw a twinkle in Mr. Bliss's eyes, and hope kindled a fresh fire. She knew Daddy had taken care of everything. He always did.

Mr. Bliss again reached atop the file cabinet and, this time, placed two framed paintings upon the desk—one, the famous and long-venerated painting of Christ with Mary and Martha. If genuine, it deserved the dignity of a museum, not the indignity of a solicitor’s file cabinet. The other painting was an interior of a church. The Christ bore the signature of Johannes Vermeer, the church, Han van Meegeren.

Becky smiled in delight that some part of her father's passion for Van Meegeren had survived. Her brother only groaned, but before he could protest, Mr. Bliss held up his hands in a grand gesture for silence.

"As I said, your father has left it up to you how you will divide his estate, and that means these two paintings. There is nothing more. The will stipulates that I am to cover the story of Van Meegeren, in case either of you failed to listen in your youth. When I am done, I will leave you with the paintings, and you will be decide between you."

He took a deep, preparatory breath.

"As an artist, Han van Meegeren found himself out of step with the art critics of the thirties. In the age of cubism, his classical leanings threatened to make him irrelevant and sink his career. Either as revenge against the critics, for money, or both, he turned to a career of forgery and specialized in creating new works in the style of the great master of the Dutch Golden Age, Johannes Vermeer. In this he proved incredibly talented and became a very rich man.

"When the Nazis rose to power, they had an insatiable appetite for art. They stole everything they could and what they could not steal, they bought. Perhaps to save national treasures from Hitler, or, perhaps, simply to increase his personal wealth, Van Meegeren traded one of his forged Vermeers to the Nazi, Goering, in exchange for two hundred paintings, most of which were genuine.

"After the war, the forged Vermeer was found among the Nazi stash and traced back to Van Meegeren. The authorities arrested him on charges of collaborating with the enemy. He could only save himself by revealing himself as a forger.

"Van Meegeren became a national hero. He had humiliated the art critics, a feat the press loved, but more importantly, he had swindled Hermann Goering, the second in command of the Third Reich. Original Van Meegeren art, the paintings he did in his own name, skyrocketed in popularity at the same time that museums hurriedly took down their fake Vermeers. Van Meegeren became such a major commodity, that his original work became a popular target of forgers. 

"Your father loved the stories, both true and mythical, that rose up around the man. He loved the art and the craft of the forgeries. The fakes, of course, are worthless to anyone, but your father loved them all, original and forgery alike. Of what was an impressive collection, all that remains are these two paintings. What you do with them is up to you. We can have them sold and split the money evenly between you, if that is what you choose."

Mr. Bliss stepped to the door. "I'll wait outside while you think it over."

With Mr. Bliss gone, the hopelessness in Gregory's eyes vanished. "Selling both paintings would be such a shame. Don't you think?"

Becky nodded in quick agreement. How could anyone expect her to sell the paintings? Still, she supposed she’d have no choice, and she wondered if she’d been too hasty in her praise of Daddy. He was supposed to have seen to everything.

Whatever happened, she had to deal with Robert. Not that she knew how to leave. She couldn’t stand that thought of hurting him. She did so hate to see people hurt.

"You hold on to yours, old girl, for Dad's sake." Gregory stood and leaned over the paintings.

Becky wrapped her arm around his. He looked at her with surprise, but she needed family.

"You've got Robert," he said. "Besides, sometimes sentimental value outweighs everything else, especially for a woman."

Becky lowered her gaze, and staring at her feet and into herself, she saw hidden things—Gregory painted and signed by Van Meegeren’s hand. She shuddered at its meaning. Was he hero or hoax? Master or manipulator? Family or fraud?

Family, Becky decided. Gregory would always be family, and she couldn’t stand to see him hurt. Daddy would have known as much.

Daddy, dear darling Daddy. His hand moved even death.

Gregory would have his way. He’d always have his way, and Daddy had known. He’d arranged his will with this truth in mind, and the voice of the dead spoke clearly to her to let it be.

She hugged Gregory, clinging to him for as long as she dared. "Go ahead. You can have whichever painting you wish."

Gregory hugged her back, before backing away. She held on still, bending towards the door.

Gregory chided her with a kind, laughing tone. "I don't have much time."

The door opened. Robert stared in desperation. Mr. Bliss stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Gregory glanced at Becky and asked Mr. Bliss. "The Van Meegeren is authentic?"

Becky covered her mouth, hiding the smile she couldn’t suppress. Gregory was so predictable. He wouldn’t ask about the Vermeer. She chose to believe that he was sparing her feelings, but she knew the truth. He feared she’d change her mind if she heard the Vermeer's beggarly price.

Mr. Bliss gave an abbreviated bow. "It is."

"Fine then," Gregory said. "Let's sign the papers. I'll take the Van Meegeren."

Mr. Bliss turned to Becky. "Is that your wish as well?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure this is fair."

Gregory put a hand on her shoulder. "You've never been one to go back on your word. For your own sake, I must hold you to our agreement."

Becky forced a brave smile.

They signed the papers, and Gregory snatched up his painting. "It's not much, but it should cover my debts." He ruffled Becky's hair as if she were a little child. "I wish I could stay, but I do need to settle some nasty business. Besides, I don't think I want to be here when Robert finds out."

"Don't worry,” she said. “I can handle Robert."

Gregory threw open the door and called back to her as he ran. "I'm sure you will!"

Robert took the chance and barged in. "Well, then? What happened? How much did we get?"

The desperation in Robert's eyes touched Becky's heart. She hoped she wouldn't have to hurt him too badly. "All Daddy left was a painting. Everything else is gone." She paused but only long enough to make up her mind. "I think you and I need to talk about our future."

Robert's face blushed an angry red. "Future? All you got was a painting, and you want to talk about our future?" He stomped away, and Becky smiled, pleased that she hadn't needed to hurt him after all.

She turned to Mr. Bliss. "I am sorry about Robert. Like Van Meegeren, he's revealed himself a bit of a fraud."

Unlike Gregory, Becky had listened growing up. She knew almost as much about Van Meegeren as her father had, and in the years to come, she’d put that knowledge to work as a consultant in the art world. The work would come as steady as she could hope for, especially since she wouldn't need the money.

Because Becky had listened, she knew that Van Meegeren never copied existing Vermeer paintings but created new ones in his style, passing them off as lost treasures. She had tried to tell Gregory. The Van Meegeren was authentic, but so was the Vermeer. Daddy must have sold everything to buy that one painting.

Poor Gregory. It seemed so unfair, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

And she did so hate to see people hurt.

— Thaddeus Thomas