Page 4 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Three

P en devoted the next week to sorting through Ward’s belongings, deciding what to keep and what to donate to the Salvation Army.

A pang of guilt lingered as he worked, knowing he’d left his brothers to deal with their father alone while he focused on the task at hand.

Since their mother’s death, their father had become even more of an asshole, or maybe it only felt that way without her there to soften his harshness.

He’d all but given up on the small role he’d once played in their lives, but none of the boys mourned the loss. If anything, they preferred it.

Pen stepped outside for a break, leaving half-folded clothes and open donation boxes behind.

The day was unseasonably crisp for late summer, the air already hinting at early autumn.

A northern wind tugged at his shirt, and the thought of cooler days ahead lifted his spirits, if only a little.

Just as he turned to head back inside, a large black Buick pulled into the driveway.

Mr. Ross, true to his word, had returned. The sound of the car door shutting echoed off all the surrounding houses, cutting through the quiet on the street.

“Hello, there, Mr. Turner. How are you today?” he asked as he walked up to the porch, briefcase in hand.

“As well as I can be,” Pen replied.

“I have all the paperwork in order for you. The bank account has been closed, and I have a check here for five hundred dollars. The title to the car will need to be transferred and registered in your name. I also have the deed to the house.”

He handed Pen a pen, a stack of papers, and two sets of keys, one for the house, the other for the car parked in the garage.

Mr. Ross turned and walked back to his Buick.

He opened the passenger-side door and reached inside, pulling out what looked to be a small clay pot with a fitted lid.

Walking back up onto the steps, he held the pot out to Pen, who took it hesitantly.

“He had me handle everything after his passing,” Mr. Ross said, nodding toward the clay urn. “But he specifically requested that you spread his ashes. Now, do you have any questions before I go?”

Pen stood there, stunned. He hadn’t expected to be the one to take Ward’s remains. But of course it made sense. Ward had no one else.

“Actually… yes, I do. I’d like you to take the deed back with you and add my brothers’ names to it. I want them to have a place to call home if I decide to travel. Can you do that?”

“Are you sure? It’s a bit risky signing a house over to a bunch of teenage boys, don’t you think?”

“Well, it’s riskier leaving them in that trailer with my asshole father. This way, they’ll have a place of their own when I’m not here to help them.”

Mr. Ross looked over his shoulder toward the tin-can across the street, gave a small nod, then took back the top envelope from the stack.

“I’ll bring the revised paperwork for you to sign by the end of the week,” he said, tipping his head in farewell.

As the Buick rolled away, Pen looked over at his childhood home. He shook his head in disgust, then glanced down at the urn in his hands, at his beloved friend.

Since Ward’s death, Pen hadn’t gone back home.

He’d made up his mind not to tell his father about the inheritance.

The old man would find a way to twist it, make him feel bad, or worse, try to claim some part of it for himself.

If his father so much as said a bad word about Ward, Pen wasn’t sure he could stop himself from knocking him out.

Better to stay quiet. Better to stay in Ward’s spare bedroom until everything was in order.

He stepped back inside the house. The silence pressed in thick.

He walked into the kitchen, placed the urn carefully on the old table, and pulled out one of the two worn chairs.

The other chair sat empty. Pen rested his hand on the urn.

Its surface was sharp and cold, too cold for the warm man Ward had been.

Aside from his brothers, he had no one now. No friends. No girl. Just this empty house and a choice Ward had left him with. He could stay. Or he could leave. And now, he wasn’t sure which was the right thing to do.

Over the next two days, he sat at Ward’s desk with a giant folding map of the United States he’d picked up at the Gas ‘n’ Go.

He’d decided on a road trip. With a pen in hand, he’d begun circling all the places he wanted to visit.

Before long, he’d traced out a route, a long sweeping loop that connected every mark.

He’d start in Oak Ridge, heading south through Georgia, then over to Alabama and New Orleans.

From there, he’d cut across Texas, wind up through the Midwest, trace the northern edge of the country, and finally land in New England to visit Bates before heading home.

And somewhere along the way, he’d find the perfect place to spread Ward’s ashes.

He was determined to live out a small part of his dreams, even if that just meant a summer trip in an old car by himself.

He wouldn’t be gone too long, a few months at the most. Just enough time to see the country, breathe, and feel like life was still his own.

He didn’t quite trust leaving the house in his brothers’ hands for too long unsupervised, but this he had to do.

It was a Friday afternoon when Mr. Ross came back with the papers once again. Pen thanked him and then waited on the edge of his old driveway for his youngest brother, Val, to arrive home.

Pen and Val shared a special bond rooted in their mutual hatred for their father.

As the firstborn and the last, their father had decided to name them after Pennzoil and Valvoline motor oils.

Their mother protested, and the final compromise landed them with Pen and Val.

Thank God for her. The two middle boys had more ordinary names and escaped the worst of the schoolyard jokes.

Pen and Val, on the other hand, picked up the nickname “grease monkey,” partly because of their names, partly because they weren’t the cleanest of children.

Living in a trailer with a barely functioning shower meant going to school with yesterday’s dirt still on them.

It had been a rough childhood, and Pen hoped that sharing a real house together might ease that pain, even if ever so slightly.

When Val returned from school, Pen greeted him and asked if he’d come across the street to Ward’s old house.

“Where’ve you been? Dave took off yesterday with some girl he’s been dating, and Will’s been pulling overtime all week at the textile mill,” Val demanded, irritation creeping into his voice as he followed Pen up the steps. “What’s this all about, Pen? Why are we at Mr. Richardson’s house?”

“You know Ward died a week ago, right?” Pen said, opening the weathered door. “Well, he left me his house. I had your name, Dave’s, and Will’s put on the deed. It’s our home now.” The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they stepped inside, the clean scent of a well-kept home welcoming them.

“You’re kidding me, right? No way this is ours?” Val said, eyes wide as he took in the space.

“I’m not pulling your leg, I promise. Whatever awful stuff Dad said about Ward wasn’t true. I wish he’d let you guys get to know him. The only reason he ever let me come over here was for the money. Helped pay for his beer every week.”

“Wait, Dad took the money Ward paid you to mow his lawn?”

“Yup, every time. But it wasn’t about the money. Ward was nice to me, told me stories, helped me with school. And in turn, I was able to help you guys. He was like the father ours wasn’t.”

“Well, that doesn’t take much,” Val said.

“You can move in whenever you want. I’m leaving in a few days on a road trip and won’t be back for a month or so. I’m hoping Will and Dave will move in too.”

“Dad’s going to go off the deep end when he finds out.”

“He won’t. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure it won’t be any sweat off his back if you come to stay here.”

Val didn’t wait. He raced home, threw some clothes and the few belongings he had into a bag, and was back at Ward’s before his father returned from work.

He sprinted through the house, calling dibs on a room.

After all, he had arrived first. Pen watched him with a quiet smile.

This was the happiest he’d seen Val since their mother passed away.

Giving him this, freedom from their father, was the best gift Pen could offer.

Later, when the light flickered on in the trailer across the road, Pen ventured over to face his father.

Stepping off the curb felt like walking into a different neighborhood.

Ward’s house had tall oaks, flowering plants, a well-manicured lawn.

The trailer sat surrounded by gravel and weeds, a half-dead pine tree slouched beside it like it had given up too.

Inside, his father was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a cold-cut sandwich and drinking a beer. He glanced up, then went back to picking his crust off.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered. “Thought you were too good for this family now.”

“I’m just here to let you know that Val’s going to be living with me.”

“Oh really? And who the hell made you his father?”

“No one, but I’ve been more of one to him than you ever were. He’s just another mouth to feed to you.”

“Whatever,” his father scoffed. “Never wanted him anyway. Accident, just like you. Less shit for me to deal with. He’s all yours.”

This was exactly what Pen expected. If given an easy way out, his father would always take it. There was nothing left to say. Pen turned and walked to the door. As he stepped outside, he glanced back, hoping it would be the last time he ever saw the old man.