Velka
by ANTONIA RINGLE
Velka drew back her napkin and dabbed her face with it. He was still talking.
"It's fortuitous to find you in such a state."
She told him to be careful.
"I only meant this: it would have been a shame if the trust had passed on to one who either would not benefit from it, or was too young to manage it themselves."
"You know I'm of age."
"No one could question that."
"Do you have any daughters?" He shook his head. "Sons?"
"No."
"Suppose you did have one. Would you leave them anything?"
He leaned back and tapped the top of his glass. The clear liquid beneath, either vodka or water and each was as likely, fractured as it ejected.
"It would depend on how they had behaved towards me."
"My father was the exact same kind of man." He swirled his finger in the glass more thoughtfully.
+
He came to visit her at the new house. He asked whether the old one had reminded her too much of the past, and she nodded to save herself the trouble of telling the truth.
"It's quite an elaborate bath," he said.
"It's always been an important part of my day."
"You should get a dog."
"We have all the security we need," she told him.
"I'm sure," he said. "I meant as a pet."
+
She called him in his office one day when he was quite preoccupied with something else; his first thought was that it was not actually her, that it was some kind of an imposter. She asked for some vague legal advice, and he gave it to her. Before he could digest the experience, she had already called back. Did he have a photo of her father? She was making a scrapbook.
+
Once, he thought he saw her leaning over a carton of shredded wheat, perusing it as if it were something unfamiliar. He managed to trick himself into believing he had glimpsed her on a train, and found himself looking in the bathroom mirror where she had, apparently, vanished.
He called her days later, when he could no longer think of a reason not to. She answered the phone after the twelfth ring.
"I know who it is," she said. "Why are you calling?"
"Something bothered me about the dispensation of the estate, and I was wondering if I could discuss it with you. Nothing serious, but possibly meaningful on a personal level."
She asked if she would need her lawyer.
"I shouldn't think so."
"See you then." He held her on the line and asked if she had any allergies, if he was to serve a meal.
+
They spoke of provincial matters before a long enough pause elapsed where he took out the box. It was lacquered, black and sleek. She opened it with a minimum of aplomb. The two dueling pistols were ancient, even by the standards of her father's generation.
"These were not in the bequest," she said.
"I know."
"And why did you keep such a thing from me?" She touched her lip. "Not that it matters a whit: I have no interest in weapons of any kind."
"That was what made me determined not to reveal them to you. But eventually, I felt a responsibility for what your father had asked me to do."
She waited for him to continue.
"It's specified that...they are to end your life." She laughed, and he asked what she was thinking. She moved her finger to her mouth again, and he said, "I suppose when you're infirm. When you can't go on any longer."
She smiled and said, "Who would want to end their life?"
+
He was called when she was in a car accident returning to her island. He had been on some old contact list for the family's insurance. Later, there was a settlement, not that she needed the money. But standard protocol had to be observed, and she was entitled to what she was entitled.
Velka was sustained intravenously, and he could not help himself from going as close as he could to her, setting the case down next to a massive bed. It was nearly impossible to stop following the mad dancing of her eyes. He told her she was going to be all right.
Antonia Ringle is a writer living in Brooklyn.
"One of My Kind" - Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band (mp3)
"Kodachrome" - Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band (mp3)
