Willing
by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon
He woke up, deciding he needed to make a will. Still fuzzy with sleep, still in his pajamas and socks, while sipping his coffee, he saw smidgens of the dream he had had—was it early on, or one of those morning dreams when he'd fade in and out, the covers wrapped around his shoulders? Was he dreaming the dream or making it up as he pushed into the pillow—warm and safe until his day started?
In the maybe-dream, someone had willed him plenty of money, hundreds or thousands, he wasn't sure, plus a belt buckle (was it silver?) with an initial on it. Not his, but whose? He tried to re-create that part, but just couldn't. But a thousand bucks and a belt buckle were enough to make him realize he, too, needed a will.
Really awake now, his coffee cold, he said out loud to no one, So how do you make a will? What would I will away, give away, or throw away, and to whom? He had seen ads for wills on Legal Zoom on his computer screen, but wouldn't someone steal his information and change it around? Plus, he knew it would cost money, not the same as a lawyer's fee, but money none the less, less money to leave it to someone else.
But who? His grandsons, grown old now, and distant (where did they live?) were ingrates, sons of an ingrate; he had never liked the man his daughter had married in a hurry. At all those Thanksgivings, at the Christmases, he had kept his mouth shut, minding his own business, making sure his temper didn't flare up from the scotches he drank before the dinners and even through the desserts. He didn't have much, but he sure as hell wouldn't leave it to them.
Who then? He remembered a TV show from years ago—a guy would show up at someone's front door, ring the doorbell, or knock the knocker, and hand the guy who answered a check for a million bucks. He could do that—appoint someone to deliver a check after he died. But to whom? Better to leave it to an animal shelter even though he never cared for cats and hated the dogs his daughter had. Maybe, over the next few days, he could research charities, deciding on one or another, or leave his money to the high school marching band who was always coming around pleading for donations for new uniforms. He remembered when he was kid in the junior high band, wearing a worn-out uniform, faded to near-pink, its fringes frayed, its cuffs threadbare and dirty. He had always felt like a ragamuffin, back in the trombone section; his school never won band contests or even had their picture in the weekly newspaper.
He knew he'd have to die of something: heart attack, a cancer, failed liver. His will could mention one of those organizations and at the end of his obituary, there could be instructions: In honor of his life, please contribute to _________ or ____________. If he died in a car accident, his money could go to Triple A or a highway improvement project.
Mid-morning by now, and still in his pajamas and socks, he decided to forget about the will business for the time being. His dream had faded into a thin gauze of memory. Tomorrow would be time enough.
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