Innocent Heir

By Melissa Andres

She wanted to add someone to her life who would benefit from her vast fortune. She had choices but whom would she select? Would there be a price to pay?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Andres
• Release date: Apr 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540153104

Melissa Andres

Melissa Andres has been writing short stories and poetry since she was a small child.  She is currently developing a novel from a short story she penned some time ago.  She lives in Fort Worth, Texas with her loving husband and two dogs, Ruckus and Cooper.

Book preview

Chapter One

The dirtied ropes slapped the cracked sidewalk around the rhymes.  Jumping rope was always better for the children than sitting inside.  I used to smile at their skipping songs.

"One, two, three, do you still love me?

We can hold hands, and we can hug,

Maybe even cut a rug.

Who will it be to marry me?

Bryan, Chris, Emerson, Ivan ..."

All The Building Kids girls would skip and spin the rope as they listed The Building Kids boys’ names.  Inevitably they would miss before all names were mentioned.

"Mommy had a baby, is it a girl or a boy?

We don’t have the money to buy it any toys.

Besides we have enough kids.

And don’t need any more!

One, two, three, four, five ..."

I was the oldest of three.  At the time, I was ten-years-old.  Lilac was seven and Banyon was six.  Our family was small compared to some of The Building Kids.  That’s what we called ourselves, The Building Kids.  We were the kids that lived in The Shadow Ridge Apartments.  We lived in the shadow of poverty; the shadow of filth and disorganization.  There was twenty-nine of us kids all together in the crumbling, three-story, thirty-six-unit building. 

Shadow Ridge was more like a long-abandoned prison or insane asylum rather than an apartment for families.  Yet, I seemed to be the only one to notice my surroundings.  The building itself appeared weary; just plain tired.  Teal paint was peeling off the doorway, what I considered to be the gateway to Hell, at a rapid pace.  How long had it been since it felt the coolness of fresh paint?

The smaller children were fidgeting.  Many were vying for my attention; asking questions, pressing in for a hug or for a spot sitting in my lap.  In a way, I had taken on the role of Mom for The Building Kids, although there are those much older than myself.  Some do not have mothers, some do not have fathers.  Some live with Grandmas or Grandpas or Aunts and Uncles.  No matter what our living arrangements we are all inner city, abused children.  Physical or emotional, abuse is abuse.  Scars and memories run deep.

I have, for some reason, made it my mission that we learn we are not forgotten or insignificant; that we see we have value.  We need to know our lives are full of worth.  We need to know that we have hopes, dreams and a future that will count, regardless of where we live or how others see us.

For now, The Building Kids of Shadow Ridge are all innocent heirs of someone else’s poor decisions.

Juniper, can you tell us that Cinderella story again?

You’ve heard that story a million times, Dennie, I teased.  Do you ever want to hear something else?

The little Korean girl with beautiful dark eyes shook her head.  "No way, Jose, I like that story and I haven’t heard it that much.  I can’t even count that high."  She wrinkled her little four-year-old nose and giggled.

Yeah, tell us again, Janie, Nikki and Virgie hollered in unison.

Ivan, a young boy originally from Nigeria, grimaced.  No, Dennie always gets her way.  Tell us one about hot rod cars and dragons and dark knights, Juniper, okay?

Oh, yeah, hey, Cinderella could get run over by a souped-up hot rod.  She could get her head smashed like a big ol’ pumpkin.  William Norton had always been a bizarre child.

Dennie began to cry and Virgie whacked William in the arm.  The fight escalated with shouting and name calling.  Blood spurt from William’s nose before I could separate the heated children.  The glaring sun did little to help anyone’s mood.

Hey, what’s that thing?

We all turned to see a long black car edging down our pot-holed street.  We fell silent.  What was it doing here, on our road?  Creeping down Wood Avenue?  Why was it coming to a stop in front of Shadow Ridge?  I flung my arm across Dennie’s chest as she started down the apartment steps.

Don’t.

Why?  What is it, Juniper?

A death car.  My tone was quiet; reverent.

William wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then his blue tee-shirt.  What’s a death car?

They’re cars that come get dead people and take them to cemeteries, I replied.  You know, after they die and all.

We all stood, frozen to the front steps, mouths agape.

Have you ever seen one before? Virgie asked.

I shook my head.  No, I’ve never seen one in real life, just on television.  And no one else had either.

That was the day we met Frederica Brimsey. 

––––––––

Miss Frederica Catherine Brimsey was a regal lady.  Her age did not matter.  She was old, but certainly not dead.  She was tall and slight, her salon-perfect hair the color of thickened ice.  I imagined her to be a VIP in a stuffy woman’s club.  Her brow was corrugated with wrinkles and her petite, pink lips curved downward in an expression that was probably intended to be stern but succeeded only in being pompous.  She looked down her nose at each of us and not because of our height.

But before we met her, we viewed a man that stepped out from behind the tinted windows of the long, luxurious, opulent black car.  He was dressed in a dark suit with a dark tie and, like the vehicle’s windows, wore darkened glasses as well.  He was well pressed and clean but was sullen, serious and, to tell the truth, boring.  He was too professional, too singularly focused.  All in all, he was non-descriptive.

Frederica Brimsey was a bit more interesting.

––––––––

She snorted and rolled her eyes as the chauffeur accompanied her to the sidewalk. 

Orwell, I can walk, thank you very much.

He released her elbow but did not respond.

Hello, children.

We didn’t respond either.

Do all of you live here?  She pointed at the building.

My little sister Lilac moved toward me.  Her trembling fingers wound around my hand.

Terribly rude of me to just drop in on you like this, but are any of your parents around?  She turned her head and mumbled.  The streets are no place for a child; no loving parent would let them roam such a dangerous and filthy place.  The man in black nodded his head at his employer.

My parents are dead, little Bryan exclaimed.  I live with my Gran and Pop Pop.  He doubled up his fists and hit them on his freckled thighs.

Banyon sidled up the steps and wound his way through the others to stand beside me and Lilac.  Who the hell are you?  He gritted his teeth and poked out his little six-year-old chin.

Banyon!  I couldn’t believe his audacity.  We had recently had a discussion about respecting our elders, whether we liked them or not.  Apparently he hadn’t listened.  I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to excuse my brother.  I think he’s afraid you might be with Child Protective Services.

His crimson hair flashed in the morning sun, his eyes, the color of dust, were vacant.  I looked from child to child; everyone seemed vacant and dazed.

Adjusting the diamond encrusted choker around her turkey neck, the priggish woman laughed.  Me?  Involved with Child Protective Services?  Certainly not, the mere thought is utterly absurd.  I assure you, I am not associated with that agency or any other of the kind.  I am here to talk to your parents; someone’s parents about a, well, a program that I am developing.  Yes, a program, that’s it.

Was it my imagination or was she staring right at me?  Why just me?  There had to be at least fifteen Building Kids out here this morning.  I looked away.  My stomach was gurgling, roiling.  I wasn’t hungry though.

My name is Frederica Brimsey and although I hate to admit it, I own this building.  Let’s start with you and your little brother.  What was your name again?

My head snapped back to its original position.  I didn’t tell you my name and you aren’t taking me or my little brother, I pulled him closer to my side, or my little sister anywhere.  I threw my arm around Lilac.

Frederica Brimsey narrowed her eyelids and pointed at Lilac.  She is your sister?  But she’s, umm, she is...

Bi-racial, I interrupted.  How nice of you to notice.

Lilac pushed a long corkscrew curl away from her forehead.  We got different Dads.  Her face lit up and she smiled.

Me too.  Banyon stood on tip toe, importance in his tone.

Oh, I see, Frederica’s skin faded to a mottled gray.  I didn’t mean to offend anyone.  I was just taken aback for a moment.  You all look so different to be siblings.

So?  I was offended.  Wasn’t it a good thing to be different; unique and distinctive?

It seems we have started off on the wrong foot.  What I would like to propose to the parents or grandparents who live in this building is to have a child visit me for a weekend.  I have a fine home in Chandabrooke with gardens, horse stables and tennis courts.  I would like to get to know each of you.  How does that sound?

It sounded Wonderful.  It sounded Awful.  It sounded Scary and Ridiculous all packed into a great big box of Unbelievable.  Rich old ladies just didn’t show up in a neighborhood like ours and want to whisk you off to their mansion.  Things like that just didn’t happen.  Ever.

I wanna see a horse, Juniper, please?  I’ve never seen one before, Banyon pleaded.

She can talk to Mom about it for a minute, can’t she? Lilac asked.  It can’t hurt anything, even if she says no.  But I hope she says yes.

I knew Mom would say no, if she was even capable of comprehending Frederica’s intentions.  Normally we weren’t allowed anywhere during the day except school or outside on the stoop.  She slept days and worked nights.  When she was awake, she was drunk or high.  Should I warn our uninvited guest about this? 

No, no, I’d let her discover that for herself.

Chapter Two

There was the banging of a door, the sound of an argument.  Everyday sounds that no one ever complains about.  The first thing that hits you is the smell:  an acrid mixture of stale cigarettes, pet odors and filthy carpet infused with God-knows-what.  Seems hard to believe that no one complains about this either.  Shadow Ridge Apartments have never been vacant.  Tenants are grateful to have somewhere to live besides alleyways or under bridges.

Located in southeastern New Mexico, Edgemeadow is a former railroad hub that is now home to 45,000 and to Theet University which has an enrollment of 38,000.  Yet the unemployment rate is 10.8 percent.  Approximately half of the population is low-income.  There is enough poverty in Edgemeadow that local food banks are often empty due to high demand.

The front room of our unit is bare, with the exception of a large puke-green sofa bed and a basket full of dry flowers.  Broken dolls and action figures dot the floor.  Spiders have laced the walls with cobwebs in an intricate sort of beauty.  Some lay in dusty rags.

In the tiny, dated kitchen a broken stove sits atop horribly worn checked linoleum.  Hand-sized holes decorate the walls and bugs scurry into the corners as I pull the chain on the bare bulb hanging from the water-stained ceiling.

The toilet in the pink bathroom is clogged, the faucet in the sink drip, drip, drips and dust lays over every surface like dirty snow.

This is the worst excuse for a home I’ve ever seen.  Frederica held her nose, her voice whiny and grating.

I glanced at my siblings.  Lilac, Banyon, why don’t you two go back outside and play?  You know Mom doesn’t like a lot of noise when she first wakes up.

Aww, Juniper, let us stay.  My sister poked out her bottom lip and fluttered her long dark eyelashes.

I said go, now scoot.  I stomped my bare foot.  With a swish, they were gone.

Whirling toward Frederica, I stomped my foot again.  You will never criticize our home again in front of those precious children.  I felt a prickly heat rising in my chest.  I know this place is grim and gloomy and has a sickish smell but it’s what they know.  They don’t care.  It’s not important to them.  What’s important to me is that they remain happy.  Do you understand that?

Her driver took one heavy step forward.  Frederica waved a jeweled hand in the air. It’s fine, Orwell.  I have been properly chastised.  I apologize, Juniper.

I didn’t like the way she said my name; haughty and superior.  But, I did enjoy how Miss Frederica Brimsey climbed off her royal high horse, even if for only the briefest of moments, and fell flat on her face.

Shoving the bedroom door open, a different stench assaulted our nostrils:  cheap perfume and cat feces.  A small pumpkin-orange kitten darted across our toes, his brother wasn’t far behind.

Alfred, Dempsey, you two had better behave.  We have company, I snickered.

A long, low mournful mew, mew, mewllll reverberated off the hairline cracks in the walls.  Momma Cat Tilly hissed at her unexpected guests, ominous amber eyes glowing in the darkened room.

The majority of our meager belongings were kept in the bedroom, the only bedroom.  A tattered mattress.  A few tee-shirts and a pair of jeans and socks sat neatly folded in one corner.  A pile of dirty clothes sat on the floor of the closet and, above it, on a shelf, rested our school backpacks.  Superman for Banyon, Minnie Mouse for Lilac and one with tiny pastel butterflies for myself; all pity gifts from one of Mom’s many ex-boyfriends.  What was his name again?  Barry?  Carey?  Terry?  No matter, he was long gone now, just like all the others.

There is nothing here but the threat of the cold empty space of the great beyond.

Mom’s voice was shaky, thick and low.  She sat cross-legged in a once-upon-a-time overstuffed chair.  Smoke from her Virginia Slims twisted in an artistic way above her disheveled head.  My mother was biting down on the fullness of her lower lip.  Her heart-shaped face was sad but lovely.  Large, glazed, hazel eyes stared at each of us with a manic irritability and frustration I had never witnessed before.  And, Mom was irritable and frustrated quite often.

I tell my children not to expect too much from life.  Life is just a series of failures.  A long line of grey ash dropped to the floor.

It doesn’t have to be, Frederica stated.

How the Hell would you know?  A bottle of fine malt whiskey appeared as if from nowhere.  Mom chugged voraciously.

Orwell took a side-step and placed his protective, manicured fingers on his boss’s shoulder.

"Juniper, would you mind leaving us alone with your mother so we can have