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You Can't Take It With You
Winter was worst time of year, and Christin considered Christmas the worstest. It was supposed to be a time of happiness when everybody got together and celebrated what made his family special, but over the last few years, it had turned into more of a time for funerals and mourning. This morning’s trip was not helping.
There was only so long that Christin could sulk in the passenger seat of the car while his mother drove, even with sunglasses to deal with the low angle of the sun in the early morning. The last thing he was going to do was bug her with a long series of ‘Are we there yet’ or ‘Can we stop for a break’ like he did when he was younger. Fourteen years old this morning, and instead of spending his birthday at home, trying to bring some sense of normality back to their smaller family, they had to drive halfway across the country. He wanted to be petulant and crabby about the trip, but his mother had been planning this for some time, even before his father passed away. It was just the two of them in the house now, widowed mother and ‘Whoops’ baby while the rest of his brothers and his sister had passed to college and onto families of their own.
Stand up. Be a man. Be strong. You’re the man of the house now. Dad would have wanted you to take care of your mother.
He ran a hand across his beardless chin and scowled, settling instead for staring listlessly out of the car window through dark sunglasses. Brightly-lit houses and business streamed by, all waiting for this evening when an inflatable Santa Claus would visit or the little Jesus would be born into their plastic stables. The season used to be such fun until he realized how having his birthday so close to Christmas made the total number of presents received over the year fewer than any of his siblings. It only added to the depression of being the baby of the family, particularly when his sister was talking so happily about starting a family while all he had to look forward to was military school this next fall.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Christin’s mother was still was driving with all of her attention out the windshield at the thready traffic, but she never needed to look in his direction to know what he was up to. He reclined the seat further and grunted back, which was about as much as he felt like saying at the moment.
“Look.” His mother took a deep breath and tapped the cruise control, which indicated the seriousness of whatever lesson she was planning on attempting to teach. Missus Devonshire, the one hundred percent concentrating, no holds barred lawyer, Queen of the Casual Gesture took to child rearing much the same way as she handled her work, which made his upcoming stint in military school seem not quite so bad. Still, his mother had never hesitated after an introductory phrase like that, which was a little unnerving.
“What?” he managed to ask without sounding interested. “Did we forget something and have to go back home?”
“No, I’ve got everything we need in back. Polish, rags, even an extra winter coat, even if we’re not going to need it.”
Mom glanced out the driver’s side window away from Christin as if the dry Massachusetts landscape was somehow less preferable than looking at her own flesh and blood child. A good, thick blanket of dirty white snow would be more in tune with the season and his memories of birthdays past, but Christin was glad the weather was unseasonably warm for their upcoming task rather than slogging through a blizzard.
“I wish we didn’t have to go the cemetery,” he grumbled almost under his breath.
“It’s tradition,” she echoed almost automatically. “More than that, it’s required.”
“I know, I know,” he growled. “Every Devonshire at the age of fourteen goes to Great-Great-Grandfather Devonshire’s grave. And if we don’t, no access to the trust fund, no scholarships for college, and the family business won’t hire me even if I had a coating of peanut butter on my back and could dance Swan Lake.” He folded his arms and resumed looking out the side window. “That doesn't mean I have to like it.”
“I was with each of your brothers when they made the trip,” said his mother. “Don’t think this conversation hasn’t been had before. Your sister threatened to move out with Aunt Joyce if I didn’t stop the car, right now and go back to the party she had planned. She screamed and wailed like your father was pulling teeth. But she went.” Mom’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I wish your father were here. I wish you didn’t have to dance to the tune of a bitter man dead over a century ago and still determined to pass his bile and spite on to his descendents. I fought with your father just as much as your sister did, but when we got to the gravesite, I realized just how important this is.”
“You make it sound like Grandpa Devonshire was some sort of vampire,” grumbled Christin before perking up. “He isn’t, is he?”
“No!” Mom returned to her single-minded concentration on the road, although after a few minutes, she relaxed slightly. “Vampire. If only. Then we could stake him and it would be all over. No, it’s worse. He was a lawyer.”
Christin regarded his lawyer mother rather skeptically. “I thought you said ninety-nine percent of lawyers gave the rest of them their bad reputation?”
“What do you call one dead lawyer in a grave?” asked his mother. “A good start. Yes, there’s some truth in that, and your great-great-grandfather seemed dead-set on proving it from the tomb.” She reached out toward the cigarette lighter, then put her hand back on the steering wheel with a grimace. Mom had quit smoking when Dad died, but the old habits were still there right under the skin.
“I know Grandfather wasn’t the nicest person,” said Christin, “but he started our family fortune and set up the foundation.”
“His sons set up the foundation,” corrected Mom. “How much do you know about the old reprobate?”
Christin shrugged. “A little. Dad never talked about him much.”
“For good reason.” Mom picked up her purse and placed it in the back seat, with the included pack of cigarettes that much further away from temptation. “I didn’t understand Ezekiel Devonshire much when I married your father, and I didn’t think much of dragging your sister Daisy up to Boston to look at a grave either. I learned more later, so I suppose it would make more sense to you if I explained a little bit about him.”
“Ya think?” Christin dropped his sunglasses back in front of his eyes and slumped back in the car seat. “All I know is he was some rich jerk back around the eighteen hundreds. Something about investment banking and running a law firm. He left a ton of cash behind and a couple of sons, who built and diversified across the whole country and overseas later.”
“Ezekiel was a little more than that.” His mother unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into her mouth in an obvious attempt to stop thinking about the cigarettes in the back seat. “He started his business back in an age where only the ruthless survived. The family tree ends with him. Nobody knows who his parents were, or any other relatives. Some rumors say he killed a man in Ireland and fled here to keep from being hanged. There were at least three people who died under… let’s just say less than fully understood circumstances around him.”
“Whoa.” Christin sat up and pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead. “I have a mobster in the family tree.”
“He wasn’t a criminal. For all intents and purposes, the family business started down that path, but not anymore. I understand we had a brush with prohibition back in the thirties, but the administrators kept their noses clean and out of trouble.” Mom was in full lecture mode now, much the same as when Christin would watch her practice a final summation for the jury. One hand stayed locked to the steering wheel, but the other would gesture and punctuate as she talked. “Railroads, industries, mechanization and the like, from the Civil War to the present. Our family helps the country grow and prosper. From barges bringing grain down the river to the machines that harvest it, electronics, hydraulics, petroleum.”
At this, she hesitated. It had only been two years since Christin’s father had died, and it still hit her hard at times.
“I know, Mom.” Christin hesitated himself, but reached out and took his mother’s hand, putting it back on the steering wheel after a brief squeeze. “I wish he had never gone to that godforsaken chunk of jungle.”
“He was doing what he wanted to do,” said his mother. “There were a lot of poor people in the area who would have been helped by the money an oil well would have brought in.”
Christin bit his bottom lip so hard he could taste blood, but he still could not help but say the words. “If they would have been helped so much, they wouldn't have blown him up.”
“Criminals set the bomb,” countered his mother. “They didn’t care who they hurt or what they damaged, as long as the people remained afraid of them, and they could move their filthy drugs. They wanted the people to be helpless and terrified so they would not stand up on their own.”
Mom fairly clenched the steering wheel for a time after that, with white knuckles and an intent focus on the road ahead. It took until they were approaching the Boston suburbs until she calmed down enough to talk again, and then only to say, “They were just like your grandfather.”
Christin was startled up from reading on his phone, and put it carefully back onto the charger. He waited for a while for his mother to continue before gently prompting her. “I thought you said my Grandfather Ezekiel wasn’t a criminal.”
“A criminal? No, not in that era.” Mom sucked in a deep breath through her teeth and blew it out again. “He didn’t have friends. He made enemies. Powerful enemies. The kind who hire other people to make ‘accidents’ happen. The kind of people you have to pay a special kind of attention, and never let them get behind you with a knife. He survived into a bitter, spiteful old man because of his precautions, and he wanted to make sure his family survived too, because they were all he had. He plotted and schemed to make certain his enemies would all fear him, and he boiled and condensed that evil, vile brew into a list. People never to trust. People who had attempted to hurt him. How to deal with them. Grudges he carried beyond the grave and impressed upon his children to carry when he was gone. You see, he had this idea that if he could pass this legacy of hatred and bile onto his descendents, they could be just as ruthlessly successful as he was. He made it a requirement in his will that any descendent who was to have any claim at all upon the family money had to read that vile list, every single word, and keep it in their heart afterwards.”
It was a weighty lump to swallow in one bite, but Christin thought about it while his mother changed lanes and left the turnpike, slowing as they drove alongside the river for a time. It was a familiar road, since it led past the Harvard campus where his brother had attended, but it really did not explain what they were doing there.
“If there’s just a list of stuff I have to memorize, why come here?” asked Christin. “You could have just printed it off and I could have memorized it at home.”
“Not quite. It will make more sense once we get there.” She gestured with several fingers at the buildings of Harvard while they drove. “Maybe you’ll even want to follow in your brother’s footsteps and get a business degree.”
“Is that why you enrolled me in military school?” he grumbled.
“Not quite.” His mother changed lanes and began signaling for a turn. “Your father and I discussed things several years ago. Ezekiel Devonshire set up the restrictions on his estate to include a period of military service, since each of his children and grandchildren served in the military, but the estate has moderated the conditions to include military school. Two years and you qualify. Your father was in the Army for ten because he was considering it as a career, as his father before him did. We thought this way you would be able to graduate from high school with all of your options open. It was supposed to be a gift to you.”
“Merry Christmas to me.” He stared out the window while the car traveled across the bridge. “So all I have to do here is memorize a list. Shouldn’t be that tough.”
His mother pretended she did not hear while she maneuvered the car through the skimpy Christmas Eve traffic and into the Mount Auburn cemetery. It seemed cold and empty, with no live flowers or trees, just rows of bare stones under the bare trees, without the cheery Christmas decorations scattered across the rest of town. Their absence was actually a little comforting, because Christin could think of few things more unnerving than a tomb decorated for the holidays. He was just starting to be comfortable with his surroundings, making it almost a shock when his mother pulled the car up in front of a stone structure just large enough to hold a few caskets.
“The Devonshire family mausoleum.” Christin’s mother got out of the car and walked up to the intimidating stone door in front of the structure. “The family mailed me the key a few weeks ago. Bring the box, please.”
The plain cardboard box in the back of the car inexplicably held several bottles of metal polish and a large number of rags, which Christin obediently brought over to his mother. She had finished unlocking the door to the mausoleum, but was still standing in front of it with an inscrutable expression.
“They say you can’t take it with you, but Ezekiel Devonshire tried his best to prove them wrong. He had the list I told you about before cast in bronze and fixed to the inside wall right by his casket, and every member of the family studied it and kept it polished, just as he ordered. His sons fought over the privilege, but they obeyed his wishes, and made certain their sons and daughters followed the same rules. And so it has been ever since, year after year. Now it’s your turn, Christin. Go on in.”
She swung the heavy door open, revealing a small, somewhat dusty room with light pouring in through the small stone windows to the side. There was no mistaking Ezekiel Devonshire’s final resting place in the mausoleum, due to the prominence of his sealed casket, but the thick bronze plate on the back wall was what drew Christin’s attention.
It was huge, extending up almost as far as a man could reach and edged with little scrollwork. As his mother had said, the buttery yellow of the bronze was well-polished with only a little hint of corrosion in places where generations of Devonshires had not applied quite enough pressure.
It was also blank except for his own wavering reflection.
Christin’s stunned observation was interrupted by the strong voice of his mother behind him, speaking slowly and deliberately, much as if she were putting the final statements into a criminal deposition. “His sons hated each other, and nearly killed themselves trying to compete with the old man. It wasn’t until they were quite old and their own grandchildren started to work together, making friends with each other and helping one another out before they realized something was wrong. They traveled here together, because they did not trust each other individually, and saw what you see now. At first, they were going to have a new bronze slab cast, but after talking for a while, they realized just how much of their lives they had wasted hating each other the way their father hated everybody instead of working together, like their grandchildren.”
“So everybody in the family comes here and sees… this.” Christin walked up to the thick slab of bronze and laid a hand on it as his reflection did likewise. “We see ourselves, instead of the grudges Grandfather Ezekiel wanted to last beyond his death.”
“The old man wanted a legacy.” Christin’s mother walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “He wanted vengeance, retaliation, and hatred.”
“And he got us.” Christin smiled and looked at his indistinct reflection. An hour or two with the metal polish and all of the tarnish would be gone, just the same way as his father had polished this slab of bronze, and his father before him. “I guess the old saying isn’t as false as they say.”
His mother frowned and cocked her head slightly to one side. “What’s that?”
“Great-great-grandfather Ezekiel worked all his life to create a legacy.” He reached out and patted the dusty casket. “And he took it with him.”
There was only so long that Christin could sulk in the passenger seat of the car while his mother drove, even with sunglasses to deal with the low angle of the sun in the early morning. The last thing he was going to do was bug her with a long series of ‘Are we there yet’ or ‘Can we stop for a break’ like he did when he was younger. Fourteen years old this morning, and instead of spending his birthday at home, trying to bring some sense of normality back to their smaller family, they had to drive halfway across the country. He wanted to be petulant and crabby about the trip, but his mother had been planning this for some time, even before his father passed away. It was just the two of them in the house now, widowed mother and ‘Whoops’ baby while the rest of his brothers and his sister had passed to college and onto families of their own.
Stand up. Be a man. Be strong. You’re the man of the house now. Dad would have wanted you to take care of your mother.
He ran a hand across his beardless chin and scowled, settling instead for staring listlessly out of the car window through dark sunglasses. Brightly-lit houses and business streamed by, all waiting for this evening when an inflatable Santa Claus would visit or the little Jesus would be born into their plastic stables. The season used to be such fun until he realized how having his birthday so close to Christmas made the total number of presents received over the year fewer than any of his siblings. It only added to the depression of being the baby of the family, particularly when his sister was talking so happily about starting a family while all he had to look forward to was military school this next fall.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Christin’s mother was still was driving with all of her attention out the windshield at the thready traffic, but she never needed to look in his direction to know what he was up to. He reclined the seat further and grunted back, which was about as much as he felt like saying at the moment.
“Look.” His mother took a deep breath and tapped the cruise control, which indicated the seriousness of whatever lesson she was planning on attempting to teach. Missus Devonshire, the one hundred percent concentrating, no holds barred lawyer, Queen of the Casual Gesture took to child rearing much the same way as she handled her work, which made his upcoming stint in military school seem not quite so bad. Still, his mother had never hesitated after an introductory phrase like that, which was a little unnerving.
“What?” he managed to ask without sounding interested. “Did we forget something and have to go back home?”
“No, I’ve got everything we need in back. Polish, rags, even an extra winter coat, even if we’re not going to need it.”
Mom glanced out the driver’s side window away from Christin as if the dry Massachusetts landscape was somehow less preferable than looking at her own flesh and blood child. A good, thick blanket of dirty white snow would be more in tune with the season and his memories of birthdays past, but Christin was glad the weather was unseasonably warm for their upcoming task rather than slogging through a blizzard.
“I wish we didn’t have to go the cemetery,” he grumbled almost under his breath.
“It’s tradition,” she echoed almost automatically. “More than that, it’s required.”
“I know, I know,” he growled. “Every Devonshire at the age of fourteen goes to Great-Great-Grandfather Devonshire’s grave. And if we don’t, no access to the trust fund, no scholarships for college, and the family business won’t hire me even if I had a coating of peanut butter on my back and could dance Swan Lake.” He folded his arms and resumed looking out the side window. “That doesn't mean I have to like it.”
“I was with each of your brothers when they made the trip,” said his mother. “Don’t think this conversation hasn’t been had before. Your sister threatened to move out with Aunt Joyce if I didn’t stop the car, right now and go back to the party she had planned. She screamed and wailed like your father was pulling teeth. But she went.” Mom’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I wish your father were here. I wish you didn’t have to dance to the tune of a bitter man dead over a century ago and still determined to pass his bile and spite on to his descendents. I fought with your father just as much as your sister did, but when we got to the gravesite, I realized just how important this is.”
“You make it sound like Grandpa Devonshire was some sort of vampire,” grumbled Christin before perking up. “He isn’t, is he?”
“No!” Mom returned to her single-minded concentration on the road, although after a few minutes, she relaxed slightly. “Vampire. If only. Then we could stake him and it would be all over. No, it’s worse. He was a lawyer.”
Christin regarded his lawyer mother rather skeptically. “I thought you said ninety-nine percent of lawyers gave the rest of them their bad reputation?”
“What do you call one dead lawyer in a grave?” asked his mother. “A good start. Yes, there’s some truth in that, and your great-great-grandfather seemed dead-set on proving it from the tomb.” She reached out toward the cigarette lighter, then put her hand back on the steering wheel with a grimace. Mom had quit smoking when Dad died, but the old habits were still there right under the skin.
“I know Grandfather wasn’t the nicest person,” said Christin, “but he started our family fortune and set up the foundation.”
“His sons set up the foundation,” corrected Mom. “How much do you know about the old reprobate?”
Christin shrugged. “A little. Dad never talked about him much.”
“For good reason.” Mom picked up her purse and placed it in the back seat, with the included pack of cigarettes that much further away from temptation. “I didn’t understand Ezekiel Devonshire much when I married your father, and I didn’t think much of dragging your sister Daisy up to Boston to look at a grave either. I learned more later, so I suppose it would make more sense to you if I explained a little bit about him.”
“Ya think?” Christin dropped his sunglasses back in front of his eyes and slumped back in the car seat. “All I know is he was some rich jerk back around the eighteen hundreds. Something about investment banking and running a law firm. He left a ton of cash behind and a couple of sons, who built and diversified across the whole country and overseas later.”
“Ezekiel was a little more than that.” His mother unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into her mouth in an obvious attempt to stop thinking about the cigarettes in the back seat. “He started his business back in an age where only the ruthless survived. The family tree ends with him. Nobody knows who his parents were, or any other relatives. Some rumors say he killed a man in Ireland and fled here to keep from being hanged. There were at least three people who died under… let’s just say less than fully understood circumstances around him.”
“Whoa.” Christin sat up and pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead. “I have a mobster in the family tree.”
“He wasn’t a criminal. For all intents and purposes, the family business started down that path, but not anymore. I understand we had a brush with prohibition back in the thirties, but the administrators kept their noses clean and out of trouble.” Mom was in full lecture mode now, much the same as when Christin would watch her practice a final summation for the jury. One hand stayed locked to the steering wheel, but the other would gesture and punctuate as she talked. “Railroads, industries, mechanization and the like, from the Civil War to the present. Our family helps the country grow and prosper. From barges bringing grain down the river to the machines that harvest it, electronics, hydraulics, petroleum.”
At this, she hesitated. It had only been two years since Christin’s father had died, and it still hit her hard at times.
“I know, Mom.” Christin hesitated himself, but reached out and took his mother’s hand, putting it back on the steering wheel after a brief squeeze. “I wish he had never gone to that godforsaken chunk of jungle.”
“He was doing what he wanted to do,” said his mother. “There were a lot of poor people in the area who would have been helped by the money an oil well would have brought in.”
Christin bit his bottom lip so hard he could taste blood, but he still could not help but say the words. “If they would have been helped so much, they wouldn't have blown him up.”
“Criminals set the bomb,” countered his mother. “They didn’t care who they hurt or what they damaged, as long as the people remained afraid of them, and they could move their filthy drugs. They wanted the people to be helpless and terrified so they would not stand up on their own.”
Mom fairly clenched the steering wheel for a time after that, with white knuckles and an intent focus on the road ahead. It took until they were approaching the Boston suburbs until she calmed down enough to talk again, and then only to say, “They were just like your grandfather.”
Christin was startled up from reading on his phone, and put it carefully back onto the charger. He waited for a while for his mother to continue before gently prompting her. “I thought you said my Grandfather Ezekiel wasn’t a criminal.”
“A criminal? No, not in that era.” Mom sucked in a deep breath through her teeth and blew it out again. “He didn’t have friends. He made enemies. Powerful enemies. The kind who hire other people to make ‘accidents’ happen. The kind of people you have to pay a special kind of attention, and never let them get behind you with a knife. He survived into a bitter, spiteful old man because of his precautions, and he wanted to make sure his family survived too, because they were all he had. He plotted and schemed to make certain his enemies would all fear him, and he boiled and condensed that evil, vile brew into a list. People never to trust. People who had attempted to hurt him. How to deal with them. Grudges he carried beyond the grave and impressed upon his children to carry when he was gone. You see, he had this idea that if he could pass this legacy of hatred and bile onto his descendents, they could be just as ruthlessly successful as he was. He made it a requirement in his will that any descendent who was to have any claim at all upon the family money had to read that vile list, every single word, and keep it in their heart afterwards.”
It was a weighty lump to swallow in one bite, but Christin thought about it while his mother changed lanes and left the turnpike, slowing as they drove alongside the river for a time. It was a familiar road, since it led past the Harvard campus where his brother had attended, but it really did not explain what they were doing there.
“If there’s just a list of stuff I have to memorize, why come here?” asked Christin. “You could have just printed it off and I could have memorized it at home.”
“Not quite. It will make more sense once we get there.” She gestured with several fingers at the buildings of Harvard while they drove. “Maybe you’ll even want to follow in your brother’s footsteps and get a business degree.”
“Is that why you enrolled me in military school?” he grumbled.
“Not quite.” His mother changed lanes and began signaling for a turn. “Your father and I discussed things several years ago. Ezekiel Devonshire set up the restrictions on his estate to include a period of military service, since each of his children and grandchildren served in the military, but the estate has moderated the conditions to include military school. Two years and you qualify. Your father was in the Army for ten because he was considering it as a career, as his father before him did. We thought this way you would be able to graduate from high school with all of your options open. It was supposed to be a gift to you.”
“Merry Christmas to me.” He stared out the window while the car traveled across the bridge. “So all I have to do here is memorize a list. Shouldn’t be that tough.”
His mother pretended she did not hear while she maneuvered the car through the skimpy Christmas Eve traffic and into the Mount Auburn cemetery. It seemed cold and empty, with no live flowers or trees, just rows of bare stones under the bare trees, without the cheery Christmas decorations scattered across the rest of town. Their absence was actually a little comforting, because Christin could think of few things more unnerving than a tomb decorated for the holidays. He was just starting to be comfortable with his surroundings, making it almost a shock when his mother pulled the car up in front of a stone structure just large enough to hold a few caskets.
“The Devonshire family mausoleum.” Christin’s mother got out of the car and walked up to the intimidating stone door in front of the structure. “The family mailed me the key a few weeks ago. Bring the box, please.”
The plain cardboard box in the back of the car inexplicably held several bottles of metal polish and a large number of rags, which Christin obediently brought over to his mother. She had finished unlocking the door to the mausoleum, but was still standing in front of it with an inscrutable expression.
“They say you can’t take it with you, but Ezekiel Devonshire tried his best to prove them wrong. He had the list I told you about before cast in bronze and fixed to the inside wall right by his casket, and every member of the family studied it and kept it polished, just as he ordered. His sons fought over the privilege, but they obeyed his wishes, and made certain their sons and daughters followed the same rules. And so it has been ever since, year after year. Now it’s your turn, Christin. Go on in.”
She swung the heavy door open, revealing a small, somewhat dusty room with light pouring in through the small stone windows to the side. There was no mistaking Ezekiel Devonshire’s final resting place in the mausoleum, due to the prominence of his sealed casket, but the thick bronze plate on the back wall was what drew Christin’s attention.
It was huge, extending up almost as far as a man could reach and edged with little scrollwork. As his mother had said, the buttery yellow of the bronze was well-polished with only a little hint of corrosion in places where generations of Devonshires had not applied quite enough pressure.
It was also blank except for his own wavering reflection.
Christin’s stunned observation was interrupted by the strong voice of his mother behind him, speaking slowly and deliberately, much as if she were putting the final statements into a criminal deposition. “His sons hated each other, and nearly killed themselves trying to compete with the old man. It wasn’t until they were quite old and their own grandchildren started to work together, making friends with each other and helping one another out before they realized something was wrong. They traveled here together, because they did not trust each other individually, and saw what you see now. At first, they were going to have a new bronze slab cast, but after talking for a while, they realized just how much of their lives they had wasted hating each other the way their father hated everybody instead of working together, like their grandchildren.”
“So everybody in the family comes here and sees… this.” Christin walked up to the thick slab of bronze and laid a hand on it as his reflection did likewise. “We see ourselves, instead of the grudges Grandfather Ezekiel wanted to last beyond his death.”
“The old man wanted a legacy.” Christin’s mother walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “He wanted vengeance, retaliation, and hatred.”
“And he got us.” Christin smiled and looked at his indistinct reflection. An hour or two with the metal polish and all of the tarnish would be gone, just the same way as his father had polished this slab of bronze, and his father before him. “I guess the old saying isn’t as false as they say.”
His mother frowned and cocked her head slightly to one side. “What’s that?”
“Great-great-grandfather Ezekiel worked all his life to create a legacy.” He reached out and patted the dusty casket. “And he took it with him.”
I liked this one. You did a really great job weaving in the backstory with every sentence until by the end I felt like I understood everything that was happening.
A nice, solid, slice-of-life piece. Good job.
A nice, solid, slice-of-life piece. Good job.
I feel like this story falls just short at the finish line. I had to think about it a long time and talk with someone else briefly to really feel certain about the ending, which I don't think is the author's intention.
What actually happened is something along these lines, right?: Ezekiel cast the list with all his grudges for the tomb. Then his sons fought over the privilege to keep it polished (and weren't necessarily nice people themselves) but in essence polished the words right off the slab. Finally, the grandkids, who had begun to work together and be reasonable human beings, realized what had happened, but also realized that it was better to leave those things gone. And now it serves as an object lesson for the family.
It's a difficult thing to present this backstory in an incremental way while remaining compelling, but I think you're just slightly too subtle for me in sections of that. Not everything seems to be pulling in the same direction thematically as well - in particular the reference to the father struck me as really distracting. He's a rich guy trying to bring an oil well to a poor, developing country to 'help the people,' but is blown up by 'criminals'? That seems... really complicated, if not outright problematic, and immediately caused me to start seeing the main characters' implicit acceptance of such a simple narrative to indicate a certain kind of privilege or obliviousness that the rest of the moral is trying to undercut. It just feels a little too complicated to all fit in.
I think you've got some interesting thoughts here, and a compelling central device as a parable, but this if anything suffers from being too long, with a lot of scene-setting and less important elements that muddy the main thrust of the message.
What actually happened is something along these lines, right?: Ezekiel cast the list with all his grudges for the tomb. Then his sons fought over the privilege to keep it polished (and weren't necessarily nice people themselves) but in essence polished the words right off the slab. Finally, the grandkids, who had begun to work together and be reasonable human beings, realized what had happened, but also realized that it was better to leave those things gone. And now it serves as an object lesson for the family.
It's a difficult thing to present this backstory in an incremental way while remaining compelling, but I think you're just slightly too subtle for me in sections of that. Not everything seems to be pulling in the same direction thematically as well - in particular the reference to the father struck me as really distracting. He's a rich guy trying to bring an oil well to a poor, developing country to 'help the people,' but is blown up by 'criminals'? That seems... really complicated, if not outright problematic, and immediately caused me to start seeing the main characters' implicit acceptance of such a simple narrative to indicate a certain kind of privilege or obliviousness that the rest of the moral is trying to undercut. It just feels a little too complicated to all fit in.
I think you've got some interesting thoughts here, and a compelling central device as a parable, but this if anything suffers from being too long, with a lot of scene-setting and less important elements that muddy the main thrust of the message.
I had similar issues with figuring out the ending also. I eventually came to more or less what Ferd Threstle described, but it took me a decent amount of time to realize that the list had been completely polished off of the original slab (I actually wasn't entirely sure if it was even feasible for that to happen, I was going to do some quick google checks to make sure that was viable before Ferd raised the possibility).
If that is the intended reading, I think it needs to be explicitly stated in the text. Not catching on to that makes it difficult to parse what I'm supposed to be realizing. When I initially read this, I'd thought that Ezekiel had purposefully left the slab blank and that the setup about him being bitter and obsessed with enemies was a misdirect. Then, the repeated mentions of Christin's reflection had me thinking that another possibility was that the only real enemy to look out for was yourself, or something like that.
The last few lines didn't work for me either... no one says that "You can't take it with you" is false, do they? This is another one that tripped me up, I'm not sure if it's just a typo or that I'm missing something again.
The other thing that really jumped out at me is Christin's muted reaction to finding out why he's being sent to military school (I'm assuming that he's too young to know that the rest of the siblings did the same thing). Finding out that it's another hoop he has to jump through instead of something his mother chose to punish him with for unknown reasons seems like it should have more of a response. Even if he is a sullen teenager, I'd expect at least some kind of internal thoughts about it, especially since it was brought up as something that was bothering him earlier.
If that is the intended reading, I think it needs to be explicitly stated in the text. Not catching on to that makes it difficult to parse what I'm supposed to be realizing. When I initially read this, I'd thought that Ezekiel had purposefully left the slab blank and that the setup about him being bitter and obsessed with enemies was a misdirect. Then, the repeated mentions of Christin's reflection had me thinking that another possibility was that the only real enemy to look out for was yourself, or something like that.
The last few lines didn't work for me either... no one says that "You can't take it with you" is false, do they? This is another one that tripped me up, I'm not sure if it's just a typo or that I'm missing something again.
The other thing that really jumped out at me is Christin's muted reaction to finding out why he's being sent to military school (I'm assuming that he's too young to know that the rest of the siblings did the same thing). Finding out that it's another hoop he has to jump through instead of something his mother chose to punish him with for unknown reasons seems like it should have more of a response. Even if he is a sullen teenager, I'd expect at least some kind of internal thoughts about it, especially since it was brought up as something that was bothering him earlier.
Man, I was super confused about the ending as well, and I think I see what's going on. It's this part, right here:
The start of the paragraph has 'they' being the first generation. But then it brings in the grandchildren, before using 'they' again, which had me thinking 'they' was the grandchildren now, who had come together and gone to the tomb. But that's not right; 'they' means the first generation all the way through.
So, like, first generation polishes a bunch and fights.
Second generation fights and polishes, polishing it right off.
Third generation sees the mirror and starts cooperating.
First generation realizes something has changed, discovers the mirror, and realizes friendship is magic, tweaks the trust foundation, yadda yadda.
Read like this, it makes a fair amount of sense to me, although it also makes me wonder why no-one in the second generation caught on? Why whoever polished out the last of the words never brought it to someone's attention?
That's not really my biggest gripe with this story, though it's a fairly large one. What really got to me here was that I could never pin down why the characters were feeling the way they did. The MC is angsting about something in the car, but when he actually gets talking with his mom, I can't tell what he was mad about or why; he seems to be pretty much over it, whatever it was, and it doesn't seem to affect things, which... makes me wonder why it was brought up in the first place.
Secondly, the mother. She has this great object lesson, but she seems all conflicted? Why was she so wishy-washy about telling him things, about bringing him here, about explaining why he's in military school? It just doesn't make any sense to me.
The conceit is, I think, clever, and with a bit more justification might have seemed more powerful to me. However, I'm not sure I really grok your character motivations on the level I'd like to in order to find them compelling and interesting. Which is too bad, because I do think they have the potential to be very good characters.
Interesting and nuanced, but a bit too confused to really hit home.
It wasn’t until they were quite old and their own grandchildren started to work together, making friends with each other and helping one another out before they realized something was wrong. They traveled here together, because they did not trust each other individually, and saw what you see now.
The start of the paragraph has 'they' being the first generation. But then it brings in the grandchildren, before using 'they' again, which had me thinking 'they' was the grandchildren now, who had come together and gone to the tomb. But that's not right; 'they' means the first generation all the way through.
So, like, first generation polishes a bunch and fights.
Second generation fights and polishes, polishing it right off.
Third generation sees the mirror and starts cooperating.
First generation realizes something has changed, discovers the mirror, and realizes friendship is magic, tweaks the trust foundation, yadda yadda.
Read like this, it makes a fair amount of sense to me, although it also makes me wonder why no-one in the second generation caught on? Why whoever polished out the last of the words never brought it to someone's attention?
That's not really my biggest gripe with this story, though it's a fairly large one. What really got to me here was that I could never pin down why the characters were feeling the way they did. The MC is angsting about something in the car, but when he actually gets talking with his mom, I can't tell what he was mad about or why; he seems to be pretty much over it, whatever it was, and it doesn't seem to affect things, which... makes me wonder why it was brought up in the first place.
Secondly, the mother. She has this great object lesson, but she seems all conflicted? Why was she so wishy-washy about telling him things, about bringing him here, about explaining why he's in military school? It just doesn't make any sense to me.
The conceit is, I think, clever, and with a bit more justification might have seemed more powerful to me. However, I'm not sure I really grok your character motivations on the level I'd like to in order to find them compelling and interesting. Which is too bad, because I do think they have the potential to be very good characters.
Interesting and nuanced, but a bit too confused to really hit home.
Several times the logic and/or construction tripped me up, for example right at the beginning was the (paraphrased)‘he could only sulk for so long, even with sunglasses to cut the glare’ bit. This didn’t work for me, because in my experience ‘even with’ would describe something that made the situation worse, but it described something that made it better.
Initially, he came across as rather sympathetic, having lost his father and with the whole ‘be strong, man of the house’ bit, but then it got harder to empathize with him once you find out he has a big ‘ol trust fund waiting. Is a visit to grandpappy’s tomb really such an ordeal for that kind of reward? It comes across more as teenage petulance, in that context. It’s also hard to see how his mom would need him to take care of him.
Occasionally wordy, the one that jumped out at me was: ‘the total number of resents received over the year fewer than any of his siblings’
It starts out slow, but gradually picks up speed. Characterization and description were serviceable. I was intrigued as more details of the past were revealed and this mysterious list came to prominence. And then it’s revealed, and I didn’t really get the meaning.
This story was a mixed bag for me. For the most part it was well constructed and engaging as the details were revealed. There were a few grammatical hitches; some that threw me more than other stories I’ve read, but far from a deal breaker. I think the real meat of the story was the philosophical message, The main hurdle I think it needs to overcome is clarifying it, because, unfortunately, I didn’t get it.
After reading some of the comments, the consensus seems to be that the list got polished out. I probably wouldn’t have guessed it, as that seems like some awfully aggressive polishing. Still, an interesting interpretation.
Initially, he came across as rather sympathetic, having lost his father and with the whole ‘be strong, man of the house’ bit, but then it got harder to empathize with him once you find out he has a big ‘ol trust fund waiting. Is a visit to grandpappy’s tomb really such an ordeal for that kind of reward? It comes across more as teenage petulance, in that context. It’s also hard to see how his mom would need him to take care of him.
Occasionally wordy, the one that jumped out at me was: ‘the total number of resents received over the year fewer than any of his siblings’
It starts out slow, but gradually picks up speed. Characterization and description were serviceable. I was intrigued as more details of the past were revealed and this mysterious list came to prominence. And then it’s revealed, and I didn’t really get the meaning.
This story was a mixed bag for me. For the most part it was well constructed and engaging as the details were revealed. There were a few grammatical hitches; some that threw me more than other stories I’ve read, but far from a deal breaker. I think the real meat of the story was the philosophical message, The main hurdle I think it needs to overcome is clarifying it, because, unfortunately, I didn’t get it.
After reading some of the comments, the consensus seems to be that the list got polished out. I probably wouldn’t have guessed it, as that seems like some awfully aggressive polishing. Still, an interesting interpretation.
So yeah, the grandchildren of the sons wiped the names out. And those names were the names of the guy’s sons (their grandfathers).
So when the guy’s sons came in after the slab was polished, they still saw them in the mirror, as it was legit they did (they were themselves their best enemies). But then when they died in turn, the whole shebang was ditched but for the ritual, so that the lesson would not be forgotten.
Clever.
So the takeaway is: fuck old coots, even if they are rich and your ancestors. If I were the guy, I wouldn't have accepted two years in military school.
The story itself is a bit telly, and info dumpy, but you had little leeway. It is also very American specific. We don’t get that sort of crazy estate conditions here in Europe; well, fact is, we may, but I’m unaware of.
Finally, the story is not very prompt related except for the vague Christmas decor you hastily plant.
Wrapping up, interesting take on the legacy of an old shyster. And despite my gripes, I’m still ranking it high.
---
Slate done!
So when the guy’s sons came in after the slab was polished, they still saw them in the mirror, as it was legit they did (they were themselves their best enemies). But then when they died in turn, the whole shebang was ditched but for the ritual, so that the lesson would not be forgotten.
Clever.
So the takeaway is: fuck old coots, even if they are rich and your ancestors. If I were the guy, I wouldn't have accepted two years in military school.
The story itself is a bit telly, and info dumpy, but you had little leeway. It is also very American specific. We don’t get that sort of crazy estate conditions here in Europe; well, fact is, we may, but I’m unaware of.
Finally, the story is not very prompt related except for the vague Christmas decor you hastily plant.
Wrapping up, interesting take on the legacy of an old shyster. And despite my gripes, I’m still ranking it high.
---
Slate done!
Brief review since this has six already: This more or less held together well, though I felt like it took its time getting there. Agree with the discussion of the ending's problems. The fact that the family legacy is so secret may cause some pacing problems on a rewrite; I think fixing the polished-bronze thing may require adding some foreshadowing/exposition which your premise doesn't allow. The better alternative may be to aggressively trim the story's first half.
To quote some sages upthread: Wow. :trixieshiftleft:
Tier: Almost There
Christin regarded his lawyer mother rather skeptically. “I thought you said ninety-nine percent of lawyers gave the rest of them their bad reputation?”
“What do you call one dead lawyer in a grave?” asked his mother. “A good start."
To quote some sages upthread: Wow. :trixieshiftleft:
Tier: Almost There
The beginning of this story was actually really strong. The idea of a rich family keeping a strange tradition at the behest of a long-dead ancestor was interesting, and I think the story kept it fairly well afloat. I also liked how the son grew to appreciate his mother and deceased father more out of how they changed from the bitterness the grandfather left behind. And despite what a few others on this page are saying, I thought the dead lawyer jokes were funny. (Having worked in the legal field briefly, I can confirm that lawyers will often tell dark jokes about other lawyers. Just don't try to tell them one to their faces. Another old saying: "Everybody hates lawyers until they need one.")
That being said, I have to fall in with the rest of the crowd in saying that the ending is rather unsatisfying. It has such good build-up with how much of a bastard Ezekiel is, but then it just kind of throws in a loophole that kind of ruins the melancholic feeling of the piece. The tragedy is that Ezekiel made a lot of enemies and tried to keep his bitterness alive through is ancestors, yet the piece just sort of shrugs and goes "nah, we just forgot about it, yo". It feels like a cop out instead of trying to wonder if maybe this bitterness wasn't entirely misplaced. After all, Christin's father was just killed by some criminals; who's to say they weren't some of Ezekiel's old enemies? How much more grey would this story have become if Ezekiel may have had a point?
And given my aforementioned dabbling in the legal field, I have to say that the set-up for this story makes no sense. If going to this gravesite was a requirement specified by a legal trust, there's no way in Hell that the trust wouldn't send an attorney to make sure the action is taken. And no, the mother wouldn't count, as she has a clear conflict of interest in favor of her son; any trust this well funded and long established would've sent an objective attorney or at least witness to confirm that the actions were done as specified by the trust. I know this is real nitpicky, but I can't help but notice how this entire situation is just a set-up for a huge legal snafu.
An interesting character piece that stumbles in its ending and situation.
That being said, I have to fall in with the rest of the crowd in saying that the ending is rather unsatisfying. It has such good build-up with how much of a bastard Ezekiel is, but then it just kind of throws in a loophole that kind of ruins the melancholic feeling of the piece. The tragedy is that Ezekiel made a lot of enemies and tried to keep his bitterness alive through is ancestors, yet the piece just sort of shrugs and goes "nah, we just forgot about it, yo". It feels like a cop out instead of trying to wonder if maybe this bitterness wasn't entirely misplaced. After all, Christin's father was just killed by some criminals; who's to say they weren't some of Ezekiel's old enemies? How much more grey would this story have become if Ezekiel may have had a point?
And given my aforementioned dabbling in the legal field, I have to say that the set-up for this story makes no sense. If going to this gravesite was a requirement specified by a legal trust, there's no way in Hell that the trust wouldn't send an attorney to make sure the action is taken. And no, the mother wouldn't count, as she has a clear conflict of interest in favor of her son; any trust this well funded and long established would've sent an objective attorney or at least witness to confirm that the actions were done as specified by the trust. I know this is real nitpicky, but I can't help but notice how this entire situation is just a set-up for a huge legal snafu.
An interesting character piece that stumbles in its ending and situation.
You know, I realize I just said this in the previous review, but this is another story that doesn't quite feel like it gels, all told. The elements established at the beginning don't really carry through to the end. Essentially the end feels largely disconnected from the rest of the conflict in the story. There is no real moment of realization for Christin, or even the hint thereof.
I think this piece would benefit from reexamining exactly what the story it wants to tell is. There's a lot going on here, but much of it pulls in different directions and doesn't really feed back into the core narrative.
I think this piece would benefit from reexamining exactly what the story it wants to tell is. There's a lot going on here, but much of it pulls in different directions and doesn't really feed back into the core narrative.
“I know, I know,” he growled. “Every Devonshire at the age of fourteen goes to Great-Great-Grandfather Devonshire’s grave. And if we don’t, no access to the trust fund, no scholarships for college, and the family business won’t hire me even if I had a coating of peanut butter on my back and could dance Swan Lake.” He folded his arms and resumed looking out the side window. “That doesn't mean I have to like it.”
Quite the "As you know, Bob," moment, there.
You Can’t Take It With You is mine, but I have to credit the inspiration for a number of stories where an external device (in this case the bronze slab) triggers an inner “Oh!” moment without having any special magical or technical abilities in and of itself. One of these inspirations is from Titanium Dragon’s excellent (and writeoff) story May Those Who Step Through This Door Know What It Means To Rule.
The core behind this story is simple: Bitter old man makes it a requirement for his heirs to learn the same distrusting philosophy that made his fortune or they don’t get any of it. Unfortunately (for him), the medium on which he writes down his bile and spite is polished until all of the words eventually fade away, leaving only a mirror. So the legacy he tried to pass on to his descendents gets lost, and instead, they learn to trust in each other and themselves to make the world a better place.
Minor problem: The old maxim “Show, don’t Tell” should more properly be called “Show and Tell” unless you want people to totally miss the point. Like having the words polished off a bronze slab. So I’m adding the following before I post it in my collection:
“Where are the words?” asked Christin before the answer became obvious. He glanced back at the box of metal polish and rags before looking at the smooth bronze slab again. “Oh. His children and grandchildren followed his directions. Every generation, until eventually the words were polished away.”
Responses:
Not a Hat, Ferd Thistle, Windfox, Chinchillax>>Chinchillax >>Ferd Threstle >>Windfox >>Not_A_Hat
(See above)
Ratlab >>Ratlab
“...it got harder to empathize with him once you find out he has a big ‘ol trust fund waiting…”
True, but without the carrot, the rest of the story has nothing. “Your great-great grandfather left you this boot. Enjoy. Tell me if you find another one for the other foot.”
Monokeras >>Monokeras
Europe doesn’t have crazy estates with strange rules associated with inheritance? Really? (Resists urge to google up a few) Well, I suppose the English have the most odd ones, and I’ll leave it at that.
Horizon>>horizon
You have never heard lawyers jokes until you hear a bunch of lawyers in a room. They come in only second place to doctors, and some of their jokes are outright morbid.
Libertydude >>libertydude
I didn’t want a supervising lawyer. I wanted a back-and-forth conversation between Mom and Christin, because every character you introduce doubles the complexity of the story and I already had (effectively) three with Ezekiel. It can be very dangerous in a short to include facts not directly relevant to the plot, because of a reader’s inherent aversion to Red Herrings. (Author mentioned the gun, somebody must get shot in here) Still, the legal barrier here is less than it would seem, because he’s probably going to have to attest to the visit and answer a few questions, there must be at least a hundred or more descendents by now, and the *original* legal test probably included a written exam, which is a huge moot point now. It’s not a bequest, it’s a restriction he must pass before he’s eligible to join the family business. He’s going to have to *earn* the money.
AndrewRogue>>AndrewRogue
Yeah, my best ‘smoothing’ happens over a few months when I’m writing longer stories and go back to re-touch earlier chapters. I’m sure if you read my longer stuff that I’ve written more recently, you would notice it fairly easily. The *older* stuff was published as it was written, so it’s chunky as heck.
Cold in Gardez>>Cold in Gardez
The writer coughed politely and pointed at the text on the blackboard. “As you know, if the section in question were put into paragraph text, it would be mostly missed. Readers skip over sections of boilerplate, but they read dialogue. This allows me to make certain that the reader knows three critical points. Christin (1) has the option of chickening out at the cost of his future (2) doesn’t like it (3) but is going to go ahead and do it anyway, even though he’s doing a teenaged passive-aggressive thing of making everybody around him miserable. Hey, I had teens. I know what they do.”
The core behind this story is simple: Bitter old man makes it a requirement for his heirs to learn the same distrusting philosophy that made his fortune or they don’t get any of it. Unfortunately (for him), the medium on which he writes down his bile and spite is polished until all of the words eventually fade away, leaving only a mirror. So the legacy he tried to pass on to his descendents gets lost, and instead, they learn to trust in each other and themselves to make the world a better place.
Minor problem: The old maxim “Show, don’t Tell” should more properly be called “Show and Tell” unless you want people to totally miss the point. Like having the words polished off a bronze slab. So I’m adding the following before I post it in my collection:
“Where are the words?” asked Christin before the answer became obvious. He glanced back at the box of metal polish and rags before looking at the smooth bronze slab again. “Oh. His children and grandchildren followed his directions. Every generation, until eventually the words were polished away.”
Responses:
Not a Hat, Ferd Thistle, Windfox, Chinchillax>>Chinchillax >>Ferd Threstle >>Windfox >>Not_A_Hat
(See above)
Ratlab >>Ratlab
“...it got harder to empathize with him once you find out he has a big ‘ol trust fund waiting…”
True, but without the carrot, the rest of the story has nothing. “Your great-great grandfather left you this boot. Enjoy. Tell me if you find another one for the other foot.”
Monokeras >>Monokeras
Europe doesn’t have crazy estates with strange rules associated with inheritance? Really? (Resists urge to google up a few) Well, I suppose the English have the most odd ones, and I’ll leave it at that.
Horizon>>horizon
You have never heard lawyers jokes until you hear a bunch of lawyers in a room. They come in only second place to doctors, and some of their jokes are outright morbid.
Libertydude >>libertydude
I didn’t want a supervising lawyer. I wanted a back-and-forth conversation between Mom and Christin, because every character you introduce doubles the complexity of the story and I already had (effectively) three with Ezekiel. It can be very dangerous in a short to include facts not directly relevant to the plot, because of a reader’s inherent aversion to Red Herrings. (Author mentioned the gun, somebody must get shot in here) Still, the legal barrier here is less than it would seem, because he’s probably going to have to attest to the visit and answer a few questions, there must be at least a hundred or more descendents by now, and the *original* legal test probably included a written exam, which is a huge moot point now. It’s not a bequest, it’s a restriction he must pass before he’s eligible to join the family business. He’s going to have to *earn* the money.
AndrewRogue>>AndrewRogue
Yeah, my best ‘smoothing’ happens over a few months when I’m writing longer stories and go back to re-touch earlier chapters. I’m sure if you read my longer stuff that I’ve written more recently, you would notice it fairly easily. The *older* stuff was published as it was written, so it’s chunky as heck.
Cold in Gardez>>Cold in Gardez
The writer coughed politely and pointed at the text on the blackboard. “As you know, if the section in question were put into paragraph text, it would be mostly missed. Readers skip over sections of boilerplate, but they read dialogue. This allows me to make certain that the reader knows three critical points. Christin (1) has the option of chickening out at the cost of his future (2) doesn’t like it (3) but is going to go ahead and do it anyway, even though he’s doing a teenaged passive-aggressive thing of making everybody around him miserable. Hey, I had teens. I know what they do.”
>>georg
To a degree, that does make sense. Having more characters than needed would certainly bog the story down, and the relationship with the mother and son was pretty engaging. However, I still can't shake the feeling that the legal aspects aren't entirely up to snuff. Even going off the assumption that it'd only be a written test or something like that, there's still quite a bit of room for abuse here. Again, I probably wouldn't have brought this up if I didn't have a legal background, but it's just one of those things that bugs me when I see it. Sort of like how physics scientists can't watch space movies without pointing out what isn't entirely accurate. It's a decent story, regardless.
To a degree, that does make sense. Having more characters than needed would certainly bog the story down, and the relationship with the mother and son was pretty engaging. However, I still can't shake the feeling that the legal aspects aren't entirely up to snuff. Even going off the assumption that it'd only be a written test or something like that, there's still quite a bit of room for abuse here. Again, I probably wouldn't have brought this up if I didn't have a legal background, but it's just one of those things that bugs me when I see it. Sort of like how physics scientists can't watch space movies without pointing out what isn't entirely accurate. It's a decent story, regardless.