Page 10 of Tormented Heir

They take Papa away covered in a blanket and say they have to do a thing called a Postmortem. Mama says that he wasn’t even sick. The only thing was that he’d gotten a bite on his leg a little earlier. A spider maybe.

I’m sitting with her in the lounge now. Her face is ashen. I should be upset. Devastated. The only father I have known has died.

Instead, a strange, cold numbness has washed over me. I feel nothing.

Two days later, Mamma starts to pack up the house. She’s been crying a lot. It turns out Papa betrayed her in death too. He left everything to his distant family, and nothing to us except for a joint bank account. There is enough to get us tickets to America and to support us for about a year. After that, Mama says if she hasn’t found work, we’ll be in trouble. We will have to leave the house soon because some distant cousin of Papa’s owns it now. No, not Papa. He wasn’t my real father, and I will no longer think of him that way. Anton. That’s all he will be to me now.

Listening to the sounds of her packing up the ornaments in the living room, I sneak up to the attic to resume my hunt. I’ve been consumed with the need to find the note they were discussing. I found a locked drawer in the desk, and it’s obsessed me that I can’t get into it. I open Papa’s desk and hunt again for the key to the locked drawer. I’ve looked each day, and yet I can’t find the damn key. If I can’t find the key, I can’t open the drawer, and the note must be in there as it isn’t anywhere else.

Finally, I have had enough. Desperation gripping me, I grab a screwdriver from the small toolbox, and I pry open the locked drawer, splintering the wood in the process.

Papers and a shiny, gold pen catch my attention. I rifle through the documents and see nothing with my real father’s name. What the hell? Anton said there was a note related to Russian Papa.

I read through each piece of paper, and when I’m done, I truly hate Anton. The letters are from various women.

My jaw is clenched as I read them. They talk about Mamma. They laugh about her, say they can’t believe how cold she is. They write poems to Anton and talk about how happy they could make him, unlike his icicle wife.

I freeze as I come across one that mentions me. It asks Anton if I’m still being an “entitled little shit” and says that he should send me away to study. It says if I wasn’t here, they’d have more chances to be together. It’s signed by that bitch, the farmer’s wife.

I tuck the farmer’s wife’s letters away and burn the rest, because I don’t want Mamma to ever read them, and then I put on my boots and coat and head over the hills to the farm.

When I arrive there, the farmer is in the field with the sheep, which is lucky for me.

Or maybe not. As I walk toward him, swirling tendrils of panic clutch at my stomach. This could go wrong, and he could decide to shoot the messenger. He has a shotgun propped against the fence. He always has it with him in the field. It’s so he can shoot any predators worrying his sheep. Anton had explained when I asked about it. I wish I had a gun of my own. I don’t. The only thing I possess is courage and the determination to make his wife pay for her sins.

I approach the farmer, Tobia, and he waves at me when he glances my way.

He’s a small man. Smaller even in height than Mamma. I’m already tall, and I have the broadest shoulders of any boy my age. Russian Nonna says I take after my father, and that one day I’ll be a big, strong man. Anton would always snort when she said such things.

Tobia pushes his cap back and wipes his forehead. When I reach him, I pause, unsure what to do. I thought telling him would be the best revenge, but I keep eyeing the shotgun and decide not. Why ruin his life, anyway? Instead, I force myself to make small talk with him and tell him we are leaving soon to be with Mamma’s sister. He nods, but seems perplexed at my chattiness.

He glances back to his work.

“Can I go and say goodbye to Bettina?”

His frown deepens. “If you wish, boy. I didn’t really think you spoke to her often.”

“She gave me cakes some days,” I lie.

“Oh, that’s her. She loves baking.”

I nod. She might love baking, but she never gave me anything sweet. I bet she gave fake Papa plenty of sugar, though.

“Thank you. Have a good life.” I grin.

He shakes his head as if I’m strange and goes back to his sheep. I resist the urge to grab the shotgun and blow Bettina’s brains out in the kitchen. If I did, I’d get arrested and never see America. Now that the idea of leaving is sinking in, I’m excited to have a new start. I won’t risk it for someone as pathetic as the red-cheeked farmer’s wife.

When I push open the partially ajar kitchen door, I see Bettina elbow deep in a mixing bowl. She really does like to bake. Her skin is pale like the dough, except for the redness of her face. Her arms and lower legs are pale and stout. She’s a plain woman, I think. Not like Mamma. Mamma is a true beauty. Everyone says so.

Why did Anton prefer Bettina?

Something happens to me in that moment. A bone deep conviction that I will never be like Anton. I make a vow. I’ll never marry someone if it leads to being like him. I once heard Russian Nonna tell Mamma that all men were the same. Pigs, she had said. So, if one day I’ll be the same, then I won’t make false marriage promises.

“Oh, Dimitri.” Bettina finally sees me in the doorway. Her brows raise. “Um, are you okay? Do you need something?”

“I have some news.”

“I already know. About your papa.” She plucks her hands from the bowl and wipes flour from them. Walking over to me, she takes a seat and indicates for me to do the same.

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