Marrying Up - Part XIII
“Marrying Up” is a fictional story set in 1950s Manhattan revolving around Frances Riley, a difficult and ruthlessly ambitious young woman who moved from one social class to another—Irish immigrant off the boat to high WASP— when she married into the aristocratic Woolsey family.
THIS IS PART 13 of a FOURTEEN-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14
Image: Kelly I (Pexels)
A month after Kip's death, a lawyer in a cheap brown suit came to the apartment and laid a stack of papers on the coffee table. It was about two weeks before Christmas; the children had been sent to the movies, and Jack had summoned Peg who positioned herself beside Frances on the couch, sweetly taking her sister's hand and peering into the vacant face as someone might peer at the sky for signs of rain or bad weather. Jack sat in a chair across from them, frowning and smoking cigarettes. No one had ever met this lawyer, who placed glasses on the end of his nose and began to read the will in a singsong Brooklyn accent. Before he was halfway through, Frances's face suddenly unfroze and filled with anxiety. "Who the hell are you?" she whispered.
"Your father's lawyer."
"I know that, but where'd he find you?"
"Oh, we go way back."
"Well, you didn't help him much, did you?"
"Jesus, Frances. Let him finish," Jack said. He sounded stern, but it was clear from the way he blew out smoke and stared thoughtfully at Frances that he was pleased something, even a scumbag lawyer, had finally sparked her to life.
The lawyer droned on and Frances fidgeted and took loud sips of coffee and crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her whole body seemed to be swelling with anger, a thundercloud about to burst. "Did he leave money to Dolores-what's-her-name, his lady friend?" she suddenly interjected.
"No."
"Well, then how much is he worth?" Her eyes drilled into the lawyer malevolently, red-rimmed and pale after a month of grieving.
"Well, I'd have to…”
"How much?" Frances persisted.
"Ballpark twenty thousand. That's after his debts are paid off and the house is sold."
For a moment there was utter, shocked silence. Then the storm cloud burst, the typhoon blew, the water surged over the dam. Frances threw her coffee cup at the lawyer and screamed: "My father was brilliant and wealthy! You screwed him! You stole his money and we're gonna get you! Hear that? We're gonna sue the fuckin' pants off you!"
The cup banged into the lawyer's knee. Coffee splashed over his pants and shoes. As he flung out his hands to protect himself, Frances exploded into tears that were hotter and grimmer and far more miserable than those she had cried when she first learned of her father's death. Beside her, Peg cowered and began to weep too. "Yeah, we're gonna sue you," she whimpered, the palest imitation of her sister. Jack calmly reached for the papers. "Why don't you let us have a quiet look at these? We'll get back to you in a few days. "
Cover Image: Andrea Piacquadio