Chapter 3

So that's how I got to be an honorary Belevere – of the Fox Avenue Beleveres. I was still Chris Harcourt. And I was still hated or ignored or looked down on or whatever at school, 'cause I had gotten Morrisette pregnant. Only Lu didn't think so – I guess she was the only one – and I maybe didn't think so.

The next day, Mr. B. and Mrs. B. had a long talk with me. Lu just sat and listened.

"Chris," Mr. B. said, "it concerns me that you don't seem very upset about your parents." He paused, but I didn't say anything. It didn't seem to me that he asked a question or anything. "Maybe you're keeping your feelings bottled up inside. It's not real good to keep things inside. You have to let them out. You can always talk to me or Marilee or Lucy. Or we can arrange for you to talk with a doctor who knows about these things." Then he stopped and looked at me.

He waited a long time, so I thought it was my turn. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. Mom and dad are dead. Nothing I say or do will change that. I don't feel bad about it, 'cause they always told me that someday they were going to die. They were getting me ready to live on my own. I guess that day is now.

"I am just trying to figure out what to do next. I'm not real smart, I know that. I can't read worth a lick, and math is confusing. But I'm not a dummy either. I understand all kinds of stuff. And I'm way good at the CAD program dad was showing me on the computer. I was learning from the college courses he got for me on CD. On top of all that, I don't speak many goodlies." I used the word completely wrong, and I had a little smile on my face. They all listened, and then Lu started to laugh, then Mrs. B. got it, and her husband did, too.

Lu reached across the kitchen table, where this was taking place, and put her hand on my left arm. "You do just fine, kiddo." The fact that she was willing to even touch my left arm – which didn't work real good, and was much smaller and shorter than my right arm, cause I didn't exercise the muscles there – meant a lot to me.

I looked down at where she touched me. My voice was thick, like I was almost crying, but I wasn't, and I said, "Thanks, Lu. You're my best friend – even if you're a mighty, mighty Junior in High School now." And then I smiled at her.

She smiled back.

There was a funeral at the East Side Memorial Home where a whole bunch of people I didn't really know came to see my parents. There were two caskets and a picture of my parents on a stand. There were lots of flowers from a bunch of people. Mostly they were people from the local neighborhood, who came and patted me on the shoulder and said stuff like 'Don't worry.' and 'It will pass.' And 'You'll feel better soon.' And like that. Oh, the best one was 'At least they didn't suffer.'

I wasn't worried. What was supposed to pass? And I didn't really feel sick or anything, so I didn't expect to be feeling better anytime soon. As for the suffering ... how would they know? And even if my mom and dad didn't suffer, I was doing that now.

I did feel sad though, because after all, it was mom and dad in those coffins. I wasn't going to see them anytime soon. Maybe never. Probably never. We never were very religious, but a pastor came by – he was going to speak later – and told me stuff like 'They're in a better place.' And 'We can't understand God's will.'

I asked him what was the better place they were in? How could it be better than here with me, and them not dead? They weren't sick or anything, and I'm sure they didn't want to die. That's when he said the 'God's will' thing. I could see that he thought he knew the answers and that I was just too dumb to get it. Thanks a lot. If religion was telling me that God wanted my parents to die, then I wasn't much interested in religion. I'd rather think it was just a stupid accident, than think that somebody – even God – actually wanted them to die. Especially God. I mean, He could have made the truck miss their car, right? But He didn't do that, so if God worked things so they'd come out like that, then I didn't want to have anything to do with Him.

Lu sat beside me the whole time I was in the funeral place, holding my hand. She was like my bigger sister.

Morrisette and her family came by, and she asked me "What are you going to do now?" She was starting to look pregnant, with a little baby bump and all. "Are you going to sue?"

Lu jumped into the conversation and said, "He's not going to do anything yet. And this isn't the time to talk about it." She said it with a kind of cold voice. I could tell that she was mad at Morrisette.

Some of the other girls I had spent time with over the summer came also. I thought that was kind of nice, but weird too, especially since they hadn't spoken two words to me since word got around about Morrisette's being pregnant. One of the girls, Marcy Albright, put out a hand to steady herself, and then bent over to whisper in my ear. She said, "I'm so sorry for everything. Call me sometime."

The hand she reached out to steady herself fell onto my thigh, kind of high up, and she grabbed my penis, which was trailing down the left side of my pants. It could have been an accident, I suppose. I mean, I wasn't hard or anything. Then her hand tightened on me but then released real quick, and I started to get hard. I looked down and saw Lu's hand around her wrist, pulling Marcy's hand away from my thigh. Actually, by now, it could have been my crotch, she grabbed me that high. Lu hissed at her, "This is a funeral, for God's sake."

"Right," said Marcy, shaking her hand lose from Lu's grip. "Call me when you feel better, Chris."

Again with the 'feel better' stuff. It was like everybody thought I was sick.

Lu whispered to me, "If you call her, I'll kill you."

"Why?" I answered.

"She only wants you for one reason. And it's not because she likes you."

Well, I didn't understand what Lu meant. What reason? Why would she want me to call if she didn't like me? Anyway, if Lu thought it would be a bad idea, I wouldn't call Marcy.

There were two men who spoke at the funeral. One knew my dad real well, I guess, Hamilton Reed. He was a senior partner at my dad's firm. He said nice things about my dad and mom. How he was a rising star, with a good future. And he wished me well in whatever path I chose to follow. When he was done speaking, he came down and shook my hand. The other man was the pastor from the Belevere's church, who'd spoken to me before. He said he was Episcopalian and didn't know dad or mom real well, but that they were pillars of the neighborhood and they would be missed. Then he called for Christ's blessing on them, that he believed they were in a better place now, and that he would pray for me in the days to come.

I didn't know what good praying for me would do, honestly, since he believed God had wanted to kill my parents. That kind of left me in a bad spot, you know? Me, I just thought a cement truck had crashed into their car.

Then it broke up and I guess everybody was going to the cemetery. Or at least, I was and the Beleveres were. Mr. and Mrs. B. were real nice to me all the time and I was glad to have them as my foster parents. Lu was super nice. My big sister.

On the way out of the funeral place, I was shaking everybody's hand and somebody stopped to talk to me. "I'm Jay Fellsmore," said an older man in a dark gray suit. He had on a pale blue shit and black tie. "I was one of you dad's partners, and I did all his estate planning. Call me whenever you feel up to it, but make it within a week or so." He put several of his business cards in the breast pocked of my suit coat.

Lu was holding my left hand and said, "Maybe Friday? I think he'll be ready to deal with things by then. Maybe about 1 p.m.?" It was now Tuesday.

He said, "That will be fine. You'll want to talk to Mr. Merriweather, also."

I guess Lu knew what he was talking about, 'cause I sure didn't.

Then the four of us and the B.'s pastor went to the cemetery. They put mom and dad into one wide hole in the ground, they called it a grave, but it was just a hole in the ground. The two caskets went in side by side. There was a granite marker at the head of the grave with some writing on it. I had to ask Lu what it said.

"It has the names of your parents, and the dates they were born and when they died. Then it says 'Loving parents of Chris.'" For some reason Lu was all choked up about that. "Me and mom and dad thought that was the most important thing."

"Thanks, Lu," I said. "That's the right thing to say, forever."

Well, Friday at 1 p.m. rolled around and Mr. B. and Lu and I went to see Mr. Fellsmore. He said my mom and dad had set things up so that there would be a trust for me. That everything they owned would be in the trust, except of course, my personal things. He also said that they had individual life insurance policies, and another policy in case they both died in the same event. That one, he said, had double indemnity in case of an accident, which would be indicated in this case.

I didn't like the way he spoke, all formal like. What would be indicated in this case? I wondered. What did double indemnity mean?

He spoke to Mr. B. "That's one million in each individual policy, and five million doubled for the joint policy. That's in trust, but we're going to have to decide what to do for Chris. The trust will come under Chris's direct control when he's eighteen. He can then draw out $100,000 per year, but that's contingent on him getting a job or going to college. He won't be going to college, will he." He said that quietly, with that 'Poor stupid kid' attitude that I got so often. "Until his eighteenth birthday, he can draw out enough to pay all his bills, with the approval of the trustee. When he's 21, he'll get the whole thing and the trust is dissolved ... Then there's this letter. It's to be given to Chris when he turns fourteen."

"Which is now," I said. "I was fourteen last October."

He looked at Mr. B. like I couldn't be trusted or something. Mr. B. nodded. "That's correct," he said. "When are the insurance companies going to send all this money?"

"Well, since there's no question about it being an accident, I suspect that will be within thirty days or so," said Mr. Fellsmore. "But then there's the question of the cause of action against the driver and the construction company he works for. He was returning to the company lot from a construction site, and he was on drugs. I suspect the settlement will be substantial. Mr. Merriweather will be handling that."

"Who's the trustee?" asked Mr. B.

"I am," said Mr. Fellsmore. "Or someone nominated by the firm, if I die. We'll have to set up an investment program for Chris. Got to have the capital growing, don't we?"

He handed over the letter and I just held it in my hands. I turned it over and saw that there were some scribbles on the front and back of the envelope.

"What's it say, Lu?" I said, showing the envelope to her.

"It's got a date. Three years ago on March 1. And then there are signatures of your mom and dad," she said. "Your name is on the front."

"Can't he read?" Mr. Fellsmore asked. He could have asked me, but then he probably figured I was too stupid to answer.

"Chris's a poor reader," said Mr. B. At least he was talking about me using my name. "But he's a bright boy; he'll understand it."

I just stayed there, holding the envelope.

"Do we have to talk to Mr. Merriweather, now?" I asked. Mr. Fellsmore said that Mr. Merriweather was handling something.

"You could do that," the lawyer said to Mr. B. He picked up a phone and said he wanted James Harcourt's family to meet with Alex Merriweather, a-sap. Then he waited a few moments and hung up. "He'll meet with you as soon as you get there," he told Mr. B.

"Chris, ... are ... you ... going ... to ... read ... your ... daddy's ... letter ... now?" Mr. Fellsmore asked me. I can't explain how humiliated I felt with the way he talked. I hate it when people speak to me like I don't understand what they're saying: all slow like. I understand fine. What I can't do is read. For that, everybody talks to me like I'm a puppy. With that 'happy voice', you know? Grrrrrrr.

I was really mad. The whole time we were in his office, he didn't talk to me at all. It was him talking to Mr. B. about 'him', meaning me. Like I was a lamp or a plant or something.

"No ... Mr ... Fells ... more," I said, trying to talk to him in exactly the same way. "I'm ... going ... to ... save ... it ... to ... read ... at ... home."