Inheritance

by Ricardo Bernhard

No one felt at ease when the man entered the house.

Ludmila would poke at the fireplace logs, which the late Mr. Frederico used to light on stormy days. Poor Mr. Frederico! Tending to the fire was a way for Ludmila to turn her back to the man without leaving the room, which would have been a sign of weakness. She couldn't stand the idea of looking weak.

Joana, two years younger than her sister and always jumpy, would dart down the hallway and lock herself in her room. Or she’d slip through the kitchen and out the back door, certainly to hide among the inga trees by the creek, where she spent more and more time.

Mrs. Lourdes, the girls' mother, would stop working on her watercolors and pace back and forth, holding her brushes as if they were weapons. At first, she had tried questioning the man, but he would never answer, and she had given up.

In the kitchen, my mother would cross herself three times and go fetch, from the maid’s quarters she shared with me, the makeup mirror Mrs. Lourdes had lent us when I became a young woman. She’d place it on the counter, angled toward the spot at the writing desk where the man liked to sit, hoping it would scare him off. As for me, I would rest my elbows on the table, lower my head, and cover my eyes with both hands, like a visor. All I could do was dread and wait.

No one knew anything about the man, except that his name was Julio Braga and that he had been named, in Mr. Frederico’s will, as the sole heir of the house. When he appeared for the first time, he brought a copy of the will and placed it on the entryway sideboard, a silent and unsettling introduction. He then sat at the writing desk and took a deep breath, proud of his new property. He never said a word, not that first time, nor on any other.

In court, Mrs. Lourdes argued that this was the family's only home and offered to sell other assets to pay the man for the house. The man stood firm, and the judge denied the request, stating that such a substantial inheritance would allow the family to settle elsewhere. The will of the deceased had to prevail.

The mysterious will of the deceased. No one knew why Mr. Frederico had handed over the house—this house he had tirelessly renovated with such care—to a stranger. Mrs. Lourdes and her daughters suspected there might have been some manipulation, perhaps even connected to Mr. Frederico's own death. After all, how many people had died under such peculiar circumstances? He was found at the edge of the woods on a bright, pleasant day, his skull crushed by a fallen branch. How hard it was to accept such a death as an accident. But the lawyer assured them that the will had been prepared and safely stored in his office for many years. Besides, he asked, why would a fraudster go after this remote house and not any of the other possessions? There had to be another explanation.

Joana began insisting that the inheritance was her father’s posthumous attempt to make amends for some wrong done to the man. If that was the case, the intruder might still hold a grudge, and it was very possible that his desire for revenge might be awakened by seeing the family in what was now his house. Joana said this desire could only end in one of two ways: with the death of the person feeling it, or with the death of those against whom it was directed.

The theory wasn’t taken seriously (“Dad’s dead, so his revenge is dead too, you idiot,” Ludmila scoffed), until, on one of his visits, the man brought along a bearded fellow with a stiff gait and lifeless eyes. The two of them went through every room, taking their time. When they reached the kitchen, I felt the stranger linger, looking me up and down while circling the table. Next, they walked the entire length of the vast grounds. It seemed like they’d never leave. They finally did when Joana, who had been hiding among the inga trees by the creek, reappeared.

Then it was Ludmila’s turn to come up with a theory: the man had brought an accomplice to size up the young women in the house. The goal could only be to kidnap at least one of us for exploitation, perhaps in another city, perhaps abroad. From the kitchen window, I had seen the bearded man eyeing Joana with the same intensity he had fixed on me. Ludmila convinced us that we were in danger.

Mrs. Lourdes and my mother didn’t understand, but they didn’t oppose us, and I began sleeping in the same room as the lady’s daughters. None of the girls asked me outright, but I sensed that they expected me, the maid’s child, the one who lived in the house as a favor, to protect all three of us when the time came. Every night, I slipped a machete under my pillow.

Days passed without the man or his accomplice returning. This only heightened our fear, as it suggested they were making plans. But in the end, neither of them would come back. One morning, the mailman delivered an eviction notice, and by afternoon, someone was hammering a FOR RENT sign into the lawn. Ludmila and Joana laughed with relief. I laughed too, but only to go along with them.

I now struggle to focus during the lessons Mrs. Lourdes gives to her daughters—and to me, out of generosity, since there are no schools nearby. The lady and her daughters think I’m anxious about the upcoming move and try to reassure me, insisting that my mother and I will stay with them. I am worried, yes, about these changes, but that’s not the main thing. I had prepared myself to kill a man, I knew I was capable of it, and from now on, I have to live with this terrible certainty within me.

---