The Will to Live

Having little to his name when he died, the reading of Henry Fromm’s will went quickly. Jennifer seemed relieved that he hadn’t saddled her with the town home. It reeked of cheap tobacco and the realtor had indicated he thought it was unsellable. Add to that the stench of death and the untenable mortgage and Jennifer laughed when Molly and her husband seemed so pleased that he thought so highly of them. “Fools,” she snickered under her breath.

Henry’s ex-girlfriend, Kate, of course, received the bulk of the money. He never could get over her. He was a smitten fool around her. When the executor, a squirmy bookish banker, indicated it might be close to $650, Jennifer again giggled quietly. As for herself, she didn’t get anything of real note. In fact, her name wasn’t even uttered during the reading of the will. She wondered why she had even been summoned to the reading when the little executor approached her and placed a small crumpled piece of paper in her hand. “I guess that’s it,” he exclaimed without even a hint of what message it might contain.

She thought it odd and quickly tossed it into her black snakeskin handbag. A love note? A secret bank account? She couldn’t possibly imagine. She knew it would be personal, though. He always had a knack for being personal. She had known him forever it seemed, but she had never really figured him out completely. He was always a bit of a mystery. A joker and a mystery.

The truth be told, she liked him immensely. His pranks and teases had delighted her since they were children. She had always envisioned a life with him in it. She had tried to be romantic at one point in college, but he never responded like she wanted him to. He actually laughed at the thought of kissing her. She didn’t think it mean or anything. In fact, he promised to tell her sometime why it wouldn’t work. No, they were best left as friends. Maybe that is what bothered Jennifer so much about his passing. Not only had she lost the love of her life, but she had also lost her best friend.

Jennifer slid into her slick sedan and quickly slammed the door. She anxiously reached into her purse trying to locate the paper. “Where is it?” she blurted. After a few frantic moments she finally found it and smoothed it out and began to unfold it. She then read it once and reread it a second and third time:

1498 South Honesty Drive #124

The bank? Why would he send her to the bank? Maybe it WAS a secret bank account. She figured the number had to be a safe deposit box. Her curiosity piqued, and without an appointment for the rest of the day, Jennifer whipped the Beamer into a fancy U-turn and sped off toward the bank.

The trip took only twenty minutes, but that was plenty of time for Jennifer to exhaust every possible scenario. In the end, she just figured it would be personal, but that suited her just fine. Maybe it would be the reason their relationship just wouldn’t work. Maybe he would tell her. Maybe.

She had wondered about it for years. Like every man, Henry’s superficiality had ruled his love life, but Jennifer could turn heads with the best of them. She knew it wasn’t her looks. He had even commented on numerous occasions just how beautiful she looked. No, it wasn’t her looks. Nor was it her personality. He had spent hours talking on the phone to her and laughing at her jokes. Nothing indicated his aversion stemmed from that. Yet, there was something. Maybe she would find out.

She reached the bank at 2:05 p.m. and parked in one of the slots right up front. Not knowing why, she checked herself in the mirror. She would present herself for him like the woman she knew she was. She tossed her blonde hair casually over her shoulder and donned her Fendi purse. She looked like a million dollars.

The bank manager saw her enter and sauntered back to his desk and extracted a key.

“You must be Miss Cole,” he assessed adeptly.

“Why, yes, I am,” replied Jennifer.

“The executor of Mr. Fromm’s will indicated you might be coming today. I guess you’ll be needing this.” The bank manager placed the brass key firmly in Jennifer’s hand and directed her to the vault.

The butterflies churned in her stomach as she counted the floor tiles on the way back to the safe deposit box. It was bigger than she thought it would be. The manager left her in her own silence. She dared not breathe. She fitted the key cautiously into the lock and turned it gingerly. It opened easily and Jennifer again stopped breathing in anticipation.

She couldn’t contain her excitement as she reached in eagerly and extracted a shoebox wrapped in duct tape. It was so typical of Henry. She missed him. She turned it once to expose a small piece of paper with Henry’s scrawled letters. She blurted every word out loud.

“To Jennifer Cole, may this answer all your questions.”

She would know. She tore into the box with wild abandon, ripping and peeling the layers of duct tape. Finally she reached the moment of truth. The lid tottered atop the box. She again drew a deep breath and removed the lid.

“Henry Fromm,” she shouted angrily, “may you rot in hell.”

She threw the contents of the box across the room, breaking the bottle of mouthwash and scattering the breath mints all about the vault.

Henry smiled. Now she knew.