The Lawyer, The Ghost And The Cursed Chair 675i28

The Lawyer, The Ghost and The Cursed Chair

Copyright 2010 by Untreed Reads Publishing, LLC

Cover Art Copyright 2010 by Untreed Reads, Photo By Pukalski, Fonts By Dara England

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Ruth Sims and Untreed Reads

Mr. Newby's Revenge

Burma Girl

http://www.untreedreads.com

The Lawyer, The Ghost and The Cursed Chair

By Ruth Sims

Time and Age. They make bottoms sag, legs shake, and arms wobble. Every time the old chair was moved it left a trail of little Hansel-and-Gretel tufts of ancient gray stuffing. In the world of furniture it had once been a duchess. Now it was a bag lady.

H.L. (Horatio Lamar) Snodgrass IV never gave the old chair another thought after he placed it in the storage room of his office to await the junk man. He was too busy sniffing and stroking its replacement, experiencing almost orgasmic pleasure in the smell and feel of the tall-backed chair made from the hides of Pamplona fighting bulls, a chair fit for a king. Or a damn good lawyer. He was the best. When he spoke judges melted. When he spoke Justice took off her blindfold, winked, and hiked her skirt to the thigh.

His clothes were custom made. One car was foreign and expensive. Another was American and expensive. His favorite was old, low-slung, and expensive. His wife, who was visiting the baccarat tables and roulette wheels in Las Vegas, was petite and expensive. Larry, his long-time boyfriend, was not petite in any way, and less expensive than his wife.

A series of bone-shattering blows against the door interrupted his thoughts. Normally he would have let his secretary answer the door, but since this was Saturday she was not there.

On his way to the door, H.L. had to the time-faded oil portrait of his Greatgreat-great Grandfather, Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass, and he felt a brief twinge of conscience. After all, the old fellow had brought the chair from England generations ago. Hawkins had been a famous barrister in his homeland and he became more famous in his adopted country. Part of his fame was due to the eccentricity of never abandoning the English wig and robe even after becoming an American citizen. Hawkins was the founder of six generations of Snodgrass lawyers, each more successful and richer than the last.

“Perhaps,” H.L. thought, “I should keep the chair as a memento...but what the hell.”

The explosive knock came again. H.L. opened the door and came eye-toAdam’s-apple with a hulking individual who sported a turned-about Chicago Cubs cap and a bushy beard. A fine gold chain led from the gold hoop in his left nostril to a large gold hoop in his left earlobe. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and a gold skull on a chain glinted upon a chest of black fur that a grizzly bear would have envied. Clamped between his teeth was a cigar that, judging from the smell, had been made from a mixture of rotten eggs and old rags.

“Are you the junk man?” H.L. asked.

“No, I ain’t no friggin’ junk man,” the Neanderthal growled. “I’m Vyvyan Smucker from Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling, and Haulage.” He took a drag on the cigar and exhaled a choking cloud of smog. “Show me the junk.”

H.L. led him to the storage room and pointed to the chair. Like a harem virgin about to be mounted by a five-hundred-pound Maharajah, it seemed to shiver

and huddle within itself.

“Five bucks,” said Smucker.

H.L. was pleased. He hadn’t realized he would make five dollars off the deal. However, Smucker did not move toward either the chair or his wallet.

“Well?” said H.L. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Me either. Gimme my five smackers and me and the piece of junk are outta here.”

“What? I’m supposed to pay you?”

Smucker removed the cigar from between his teeth. “Well, whadda you think?”

“Oh, hell,” grumbled H.L. as he forked over the five. “That’s the trouble with this country today. Everybody’s out to screw everybody else.”

Smucker’s eyes brightened. He replaced the cigar and thoughtfully looked H.L. up and down. Twice. After a minute he shrugged. “Nah. You ain’t my type. Too flimsy.” He hoisted the chair up under one arm and strolled out.

As H.L. shut the office door behind him, he mumbled, “Damned cretin. Probably drags his knuckles on the ground when no one’s looking.” As he turned from the door he caught his reflection in the ornately framed square mirror on the reception area wall. He scowled at himself, squared his jaw in a manly way, and imagined himself naked, muscles bulging, in a Mr. Universe pose. “What did he mean I wasn’t his type? What’s his type? King Kong?”

That night, after a splendid gourmet supper and a bottle of expensive Condrieu wine, H.L. sank torpidly into the comfort of his new double-king-size round waterbed with Larry. Long past midnight he woke to find that he was wet. The waterbed had sprung a leak and he was lying in Lake Michigan.

Larry leaped up, yelling, “What the—? I told you not to drink so much!” Larry gathered his clothes and left in a soggy snit.

“Aw, shit...” H.L. surveyed the damage to his priceless Persian rug. “Aw, shit...” he said again.

“I could have predicted that,” said a deep voice behind him.

H.L. gasped and grabbed his pistol from the bedside table and waved it around. He saw no one. “Come out, you coward,” he yelled.

A shadow quivered and took shape beside the bed. H.L. screamed and jerked the trigger. The gun went off, blasting a crystal vase, circa 1749, into costly smithereens. In front of the window was a portly man in a black robe and a sidecurled, pigtailed barrister’s wig. And yet… and yet… H.L. could see the window. Through him.

“Who are you? How did you get in? Are you—are you—are you—are you—”

“Stop flopping your jaw,” replied the apparition in a crisp British accent. “It makes you look like a fish. I am your forebear, Horatio. Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass. In the flesh...metaphorically speaking.”

H.L. squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. I had escargot and wine for dinner. That’s all you are. Undigested snails swimming in corked wine.”

His ancestor snorted. “‘More of gravy than the grave,’ eh? Horatio, why in the name of Sir William Blackstone, did you get rid of that chair?”

H.L.’s eyes popped open again. “The chair? What chair? Omigod, your chair?”

“Precisely. You imbecile! Didn’t you realize there had to be a reason why the Snodgrasses kept it all these decades? Did you think I carted it to America because of its aesthetic charm? All the success the Snodgrasses have had for over a century and a half was due to that chair and now you’ve queered the pitch.”

“I’ve...huh?”

“Queered the pitch. Booted the ball. Cut the wrong stallion. Gutted the wrong goose. Eh? What, what?” There was a little grumble of thunder. The apparition cocked his head as if listening. Then he glared at H.L. “Your father instructs me

to say you fucked up.”

“Oh,” whispered H.L. He plopped down on what was left of the bed. So this was what going crazy was like. You sat in a puddle listening to your great-great-great grandfather along messages from your deceased father. “Well. Tell Dad hello for me.”

The shade of Old Hawkins groaned and covered his face with his hands. “You must be a foundling. You could not be the ultimate fruit of my loins.”

H.L.’s panic ebbed away. Since he was cuckoo there was no point in fighting it. His twisted mind had produced this hallucination; he might as well go along. Likely there wasn’t anything really the matter with the waterbed. He settled back in the puddle, put his hands behind his head, and crossed his ankles.

“What did I do that was so wrong?” he asked.

Hawkins said ominously, “You mean your father never told you about the chair?”

“He told me never to get rid of it. But since the old coot was such a pack rat, I just figured—” There was a louder rumble of thunder. “Sorry, Dad. I mean, he was a sentimental old gentleman.”

Hawkins hovered beside the bed. “Very well, then. I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose I owe you that much.” He pinched snuff from an ivory box, inhaled,

gave four explosive sneezes, and began.

“It pains me to it I was a colossal failure as a London barrister. Then I defended an old Gypsy woman on a charge of theft. She was acquitted. All she had to give me in payment was that chair, but she put a Gypsy spell upon it: so long as it remained in the family unchanged by anything but the age of time success would belong to the Snodgrasses. And it worked. Until you gave it away. And now it will rot on a trash heap somewhere until rain and worms and weather ruin it!” He snatched off the wig and hurled it to the wet floor.

“But I didn’t know—” H.L. protested. “I didn’t think—”

“Obviously! Well, I was inclined to let you stew in your own juice. But your father and his father and the others thought you deserved another chance. We cast lots and I lost. Now they’re Out There trying to pacify Old Magda, trying to explain why her chair was disposed of.”

H.L. sank down further. Damn, he thought. This is too uncomfortable to be a hallucination! He sprang to his feet and flapped his hands at the “ghost.” Whatever it was, it wasn’t supernatural.

“Curses!? How idiotic,” he said. “Beat it. I’m awake now. Scram.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the apparition.

* * *

At nine o’clock on Monday morning two things happened. A ed letter arrived from the Hoggswine Bank and Trust Company. They regretfully would not be renewing his retainer. And his secretary announced she was quitting to take a job for twice the salary with Snark, Snark, Bork, Boonwhistle, Jones, and McClunkey.

Tuesday morning he hired a secretary who was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a live Barbie doll with a brain. Not only was she gorgeous, she was super-efficient. Briefly he wondered if he could possibly juggle a wife, a boyfriend and a girlfriend. Unfortunately, he thought it out loud. She slapped his face and quit. That afternoon he was notified she was suing him for sexual harassment. Her attorney was his worst enemy, Giovanni Ponchielli, whose godfather was rumored to be a Godfather.

Wednesday, while H.L. was at work, his wife returned home, closed out all the t bank s and left again, taking everything but the wallpaper and the family dog.

Wednesday evening a man who sounded suspiciously like Vyvyan Smucker answered Larry’s telephone.

Thursday morning the transmission quit on H.L.’s new Cadillac.

Friday evening the brakes failed on his new Lamborghini, leaving it with a crumpled hood.

Saturday night someone stole his lovingly restored ’57 tomato-red Corvette with the white leather upholstery.

As the new week began, his golf score shot up. He clobbered his handsome head playing racquetball and had to have eight stitches that made him look like Frankenstein's monster.

His three-time Best of Breed Lhasa Apso bitch, Sri-Sri Tutawi of Inhknar’s Folly, escaped from her kennel and when he found her she was blissfully being humped by a very ugly mutt. And when the mutt sank his teeth into H.L.’s leg, he had to have rabies shots because the damn dog had not.

H.L.’s dentist yanked the wrong tooth.

And then came the capper. His client, Sister Maria Josefa, an 85-pound, 4-foot11-inch, 75-year-old nun who was recovering from hip surgery, had foiled a purse snatching by tripping the thief with her wheelchair. The thief, Dick Rodent, eighteen and built like a Humvee, broke his collarbone in the fall. He had sued her for criminal assault and intent to kill or maim. Rodent appeared in court on crutches and wearing a body cast. The jury did not even leave the jury box to deliberate. They found Sister Maria guilty on all counts.

* * *

Weeks ed.

Clients avoided his door in droves. “Oughtta hang a bell around my neck, I suppose,” he said sourly, “and go around yelling ‘Unclean! Unclean!’”

Day after day he sat alone in his beautiful office, sunk into the comfort of the handsome chair, drinking putrid coffee he made himself. His life was crumbling like the Titanic’s hull and he didn’t know why. His logical legal mind told himself it was all coincidence. And then he ed the dream.

He stared at the portrait of his thrice-Great Grandfather. Suddenly it grinned. “Well, H.L.,” said the painted lips, “are you ready to try lifting the curse?”

“Curse?” H.L. squeaked. His knuckles pressed against his teeth, his face paled, his composure melted. “There really is a c-curse? You’re real? It wasn’t a dream?”

“Yes, there is. Yes, I am. No, it wasn’t.”

“What—what’s going to happen to me? How much worse can things be? Oh, my God—That old Gypsy—she’s going to make me a werewolf or something?”

“Ha. Being a werewolf would be a blessing. Now listen to me. She said you have only twenty-four hours to lift the curse before it starts its final phase.”

“What’s…the …final phase?”

“She says you don’t want to know.”

“She—she couldn’t have that kind of power.”

“No? She says she’s responsible for certain presidents, televangelists, infomercial hosts, and text messaging. You want power? That’s power.” In his agitation, he shook his head and his barrister’s wig fell out of the picture. It lay on the floor next to the wall, beneath the portrait.

“All right!” By now H.L. was sobbing. “I believe you! Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

“You have to get the chair back. Unchanged.”

“Yes. Yes. I’ll find the chair. I’ll find it if I have turn this town upside down.” He was shocked to realize he was babbling like a teenage girl.

“That’s the old spirit. Get it? The old spirit? Hee-hee. Never mind.”

The painting lost its animation and became just a painting once more. Then abruptly it came to life again. “Where the blue hell is my wig? Oh, there it is.” Hawkins leaned out of the picture, picked up the wig and clapped it back on his head, crookedly. “You young chaps ought to wear these. Add some dignity to the profession. Nowadays you all look like chartered ants.”

H.L. squeezed his eyes shut. None of this is happening. I’m hallucinating again. I have to see a shrink before the week is out. When he opened his eyes he gave a shaky laugh and looked at the portrait. The eyes were just lifeless, painted eyes. The thin lips were just lifeless, painted lips. The wig was—sideways, with the tail dangling in front of one ear.

H.L. moaned and seized the telephone book. “Shit,” he whimpered. “Shitshitshit.” He couldn’t the name of the junkyard. The Yellow Pages had no listing for “Junkyard” and he couldn’t think of a euphemism. He turned back to the A’s and began working his way down. At long last he dialed a number and was answered by a familiar, hulking snarl. “Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling and Haulage. This here’s Vyvyan speaking.”

It was the same voice that had answered Larry’s phone. Screw that. In the face of a curse it didn’t matter.

“Vyvyan!” cried H.L., his voice high-pitched and quivering with raw emotion. “This is H.L. Snodgrass. Thank God I found you! I’ve been going crazy trying to reach you. Vyvyan, I need you. I really, really need you!”

There was a long silence. “Aw, I hate when this happens,” said Vyvyan. “Listen, Snoddy—I can call you Snoddy, can’t I?—seein’ that we got…stuff…in common? Dude, not to, like, hurt your feelings or nothin’ but like I told you, you ain’t my type. Tell you what, Snoddy. You go, like, pump some iron, work on your lats and your abs, lose the love handles, get some black leather chaps, coupla tattoos, maybe a tit ring or two, and we’ll talk. Bye now.”

Even as H.L. winced in pain at the very notion of tit rings, he protested, “No! No! You don’t understand! I want my chair back.”

Another long pause. “Chum,” growled Vyvyan, “I thought you was a few ants short of a hill when I met you the first time. So long.”

“Wait! I’m serious! I have to have it back.”

The gravelly voice became crafty. “Have to, eh? Well, I ain’t got it no more but if you was to make it worth my while I could tell you where it is.”

H.L. thought rapidly. He could go as high as twenty-five dollars if necessary. “How much is your while worth?”

“Five hunnert bucks.”

H.L.’s voice hit a C above High C. “What? That’s highway robbery!”

“Ciao, baby. Stay in touch.” Vyvyan snickered.

“Wait. Wait! Don’t hang up. I’ll give you...I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

“Four-hunnert-seventy-five.”

“One-fifty.”

“Three-fifty.”

“One hundred ninety-five dollars and eighty-three cents. That’s all the cash I have on me.”

“You drive a hard bargain, buddy. Okay. Bring me the cash and I’ll tell you where your precious chair’s at.” He gave H.L. his address. It was also Larry’s address.

As soon as he had delivered the money to that hairy junkyard Jesse James, H.L. jumped back in his orange Gremlin—the only car he could afford by then– $1,000 at Honest Sam’s Used Cars and Salad Bar—and laid rubber to the address the damned bandit had given him.

He screeched to a stop in the small parking lot of the pseudo-Tudor building. A bell tinkled merrily as he hurled open the door and stood panting and disheveled, on the threshold of Ye Olde Tyme Antiques.

H.L saw only a jumble of ugly things his wife would pay outrageous prices for. But no pathetic Duchess-turned-bag-lady of a chair.

An elderly, rosy-faced woman with Ben Franklin spectacles cooed in a Glendathe-Good-Witch voice, “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for a chair.”

She smiled and laugh lines splayed at the corners of her eyes. “Of course you are! A certain period or style? Colonial? Regency? Hepplewhite? Duncan Phyfe? Queen Anne? We even have a few Shaker pieces that—”

“No, no. It’s a Snodgrass.”

She looked puzzled. “Sir, I have never heard of a Snodgrass.”

“It wasn’t made by a Snodgrass. It belonged to a Snodgrass: me.”

Her faded eyes flashed. “If you are ridiculing Antiques, we are not amused! Antiques are a Way—”

“It’s been in my family a hundred and fifty years. I—uh—gave it away by mistake.”

“By mistake!”

“I didn’t know just how much it meant to me.”

“Hm. Well, follow me. Perhaps my grandson knows about it.”

In the cluttered, wood-dusty room were at least a dozen pieces in various stages of restoration. The smells of hot glue, fabrics, and varnish clung thickly to the air. He was momentarily distracted by the rhythmic derrière of a young man with earbuds feeding music into his head as he bent over a—

“I’ve found you!” H.L. screamed. “I’ve found you!”

The young man straightened and turned, taking the buds from his ears. “Found me?” He grinned. “I didn’t know I was lost. What can I do for you?” H.L. couldn’t help noticing that he had red hair, very blue eyes, and freckles.

“That chair. It’s my chair.”

Old Hawkins suddenly hissed into H.L.’s ear, “Pay anything. If you don’t, Magda will make it happen. Whatever it is.”

“She can’t do that!” H.L. protested.

“Whadda you mean ‘she?’” The young man’s smile became a scowl. “I’m not a ‘she’ and I can do anything I want, Pops. I paid one hundred bucks for it and I’ll do what I please.”

“I—I didn’t mean you. But you can’t, either. Please. I—I really need... You paid a hundred dollars? To whom?”

“To my main supplier. Dude named Vyvyan gets all kinds of lovely things—I mean real cool shit—for me. Now clear out.”

H.L. was stunned. $100 from this kid. $195.83 from H.L. Plus the original $5. Jesse James had made $300.83 off the chair. Dear God!

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I made a terrible mistake in getting rid of it. I can’t explain.” He looked with pleading desperation into the kid’s eyes and saw him waver.

“Well,” the kid said, “if it means that much to you...”

“It does,” he said soulfully.

“Tell you what, Pops. Lay a thousand dollars on me and you can carry it out the door.”

Snot-nosed little pirate! “I’ll give you five hundred.”

“Forget it, Pops. I can get—”

Hawkins hissed, “For godsake, don’t bargain.”

H.L. gulped. “Will you take a personal check?”

“Dunno. Who are you?”

“Horatio Lamar Snodgrass the Fourth, Attorney at Law.” He stood taller, knowing the kid would be impressed. “You’ve heard of me.”

The kid’s face was hard. “Who hasn’t? My sister is suing you for sexual harassment. Cash or nothing.”

“All right, all right. I’ll get cash. But you have to give me time.”

“One hour, Pops. Flat.”

* * *

H.L.’s wife had taken everything she knew about. She hadn’t known about his mad-money at the Piggoty Bank. Inside the bank, he shoved his way into line ahead of a tottery senior citizen with a walker and filled out a withdrawal slip. The young teller took it and typed his number into her computer. “Sorry, sir, you have insufficient funds.”

“What? That can’t be right. Let me talk to your supervisor at once!” he roared.

She dashed away. Her supervisor must have been at lunch in the Outer Reaches of Mongolia. Finally the girl returned. “It’s about time,” he snarled. She burst into tears as she counted out his money.

Behind him rose a chorus of voices. “You oughtta be ashamed!” and “Buddy, get over yourself.” “Aren’t you the lawyer who let that nun go to the slammer?”

Ignoring them, he hurried to his car. Ten minutes remaining. He was almost afraid to turn the key in the ignition, certain the motor would not start. It did. His luck was changing already! Two blocks from the Piggoty Bank the car choked, gagged, and died. The fuel indicator needle lay languidly across the E. But he’d put gas in it that morning! What the hell…?

He was ready to burst into tears himself when he realized there was a gas station on the corner. He sprinted to the service station and told the disinterested counterman that it was a matter of life and death. He had to buy an Authorized Container, but he got the gas. The stinky elixir brought the Gremlin back to life and he drove off. Four minutes left. But he was only three blocks away. Surely the kid would allow a minute or two grace.

“You’re buggered,” said a gloomy voice at his elbow.

H.L. was so accustomed by now to Hawkins popping in and out that he scarcely glanced at him. “I’ll get there.”

“Not unless this contraption grows wings. Look.”

H.L. looked. Groaned. And collapsed across his steering wheel. Railroad lights flashed red; the black-and-white guards were down. Creeping across the track was a miles-long, slow-moving freight that stretched from Hell to Breakfast. His voice was muffled. “That’s it, then.”

“I fear so, Horatio.”

“How...how will I know when the curse has begun to take effect?”

“Magda says when it happens you’ll know. All she’ll say is that it will make Pharaoh’s plagues look like ‘tea with the bloody queen.’ ”

The caboose rumbled past. The crossing gates lifted. H.L.’s numb thoughts dwelt on his worse-than-Biblical fate. What would it be? Boils? Frogs? Lice? Bunions? At least he couldn’t lose his first-born son, since he didn’t have one. “Well, whatever it is, I’ll face it like a ma—” He was alone. “I wish he’d give me some warning before he disappears.”

H.L. returned to the antique shop. If the kid would accept the money he’d take the chair back just for old times’ sake. When he strolled into the shop, announced by the tinkling bell, the kid was standing at the cash .

“Hi, Pops,” he said, all smiles. He was so friendly H.L. looked over his shoulder to see if someone else had come in behind him.

“About the chair ...”

“Hey, no prob. Look, I know all about sentimental attachments to old junk—uh —heirlooms. Just give me what I paid for it and we’re square.”

H.L. was weak with relief. Unchanged except by time. And the twenty-four hours was not over yet. Was he safe from the final phase of the curse? Tomorrow would tell. Meanwhile, he was mystified by the kid’s change of heart. “Why are you being so nice?” he asked.

The kid waved his hand. “Oh, just say I’m a softy, a humanitarian. I’ll even strap it on top of the car.”

That afternoon the interior decorator took away the new, sleek, Pamplona-bull chair. H.L. settled down behind his desk. The old chair felt like home, especially when it pinched his left butt-cheek.

H.L. had barely settled the chair into its accustomed place behind his desk, when the portrait of his ancestor came to life again, reached up, and realized his wig was crooked. “Oh, bugger,” he mumbled, and straightened it. To H.L. he said cheerfully, “Well, Horatio, it’s been a bit of a jolly romp, eh?”

“Great-great-great Grandfather, I’ve learned something from all this.” H.L.’s smile was saintly. “I’m Scrooge after the Three Spirits. I—I’m a far, far better man than I have ever been—”

“Oh, spare me Dickens,” Hawkins snorted. “He’s the biggest bore in Paradise.”

But H.L. was transported by his vision and could not hear him over the drums and trumpets playing in his mind. “From now on, I’ll never overcharge a client. I’ll pare down my worldly trappings! I’ll help widows and orphans! I’ll adopt an orphan child! No—by God, I’ll adopt ten orphan children! I’ll live Green! I’ll set up homes for the homeless and I—I’ll personally serve the soup!” His voice was a jubilant shout as he leaped to his feet, face aglow. In his head the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang “Hal-lelujah! Hal-lelujah! HallelujahHallelujah, Hal-layay-lu-jah!” Flags and banners waved. “I’ll go work in an inner city! For nothing! I’ll give to all the charities! No—I’ll do better than that. I’ll collect for all the charities! I’ll even—donate my blood!!” He flung his arms wide.

“God’s kneecap, boy; no need to get carried away,” Hawkins murmured. “Au revoir.”

“But Great-great— He’s gone again.”

H.L. sat down slowly. Choir, trumpets, and drums faded away. Perhaps Old Hawkins was right. It wasn’t healthy to make too many changes in one’s life too abruptly; it might cause the bends or something. Besides, he wouldn’t be sure about the status of the Curse until tomorrow.

The next morning, the president of the Piggoty Bank called, apologized profusely for the computer error and for any embarrassment caused by same, and sent him a free toaster.

His original secretary returned when he tripled her salary, and gave her five weeks vacation and complete health care.

The Hoggswine Bank and Trust renewed his retainer after all, following an emergency meeting of the Board.

The kid’s litigious sister dropped the sexual harassment suit and ran off to Chile with Giovanni Ponchielli, (who had the FBI hot on his trail for income tax evasion) and his godfather the Godfather also hot on his trail over some missing funds.

The following week the Appeals Court overturned Sister Maria Josefa’s conviction.

He made a hole in one. Twice in one week.

His wife hit it big in Vegas and sent back his share of their money. Two days later she wrote that she had Found Herself and had fallen in love with a six-foottall showgirl named Velvett Darling and she wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.

Larry explained that Vyvyan Smucker had answered his phone only because he was a distant cousin who had needed a place to stay while his condo was being painted. H.L. and Larry had a tearful reunion involving a leather thong and a cute little whip with a tassel, and lived happily ever after.

* * *

As the years ed H.L. couldn’t forget all those promises made to the beat of

the Hallelujah Chorus. At first living up to them was an effort but as he became middle-aged, then old, and finally really old, it became second nature. The generations that followed in his wake thought he was as wise as Solomon, as kind as St. Francis, and as incorruptible as George Washington. The worst anyone could say about him was that he didn’t always recycle. Presenters at the Nobel and Pulitzer ceremonies bowed when they handed him his awards. And if he was sometimes tempted to be less than wise and incorruptible, all he had to do was look at the chair and the Curse.

One day, well into his second decade as the first openly gay Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, H.L., last of the Snodgrasses, was called to that Great Hall of Jurisprudence in the Sky.

H.L. knew he was dead at the same moment he realized with delight that his liver spots were gone, his spine was straight again, and his blindingly white robe had a Versace label. He ed his hand over his previously bald trembling head and discovered the luxurious hair of his youth. Hot dog!

The next thing he realized was that he was in an enormous hall with gold floors, diamond walls, and emerald pillars that served no purpose since there was nothing overhead except an azure, cloudless sky that never rained. A small knot of men, white-robed except for one who was in black with an old-fashioned wig on his head, were gathered at the end of the Great Hall, near the Celestial Food Court. “Dad! Grandpa! Hawkins!” H.L. cried, rushing to them. There were hugs and handshakes and joy all ’round.

He was a little puzzled that he had arrived at his destination restored to youth but they all looked old. His father waved it off as not much of a mystery. “We can look like anything we wish,” he said. “You’ll learn the drill soon enough. We all just decided it would ease the transition for you if we looked as you would expect.” There were more hugs and rejoicing.

H.L. was vaguely aware of hearing loud throat-clearing. He stopped reuniting with his relatives and dropped his gaze.

A short, round woman stood in front of him, looking annoyed, her hands on her hips. “Ain’t anybody going to introduce me?” she demanded. She was oddlooking, that was certain. Swarthy, wrinkled, with an untidy bright scarf all outof-keeping with her heavenly robe. The scarf fell off and she tied it back on. “I’m Magda,” she announced.

H.L. bent and enveloped her in a hug. “Magda! You and your curse changed my life. Thank you.”

She grinned, giggled. “What curse?” She had the attention of all the Snodgrasses then; they pinned her with a collective stare. “Aw, come on, you smart fellas didn’t really believe in it, did you?” She giggled some more. “You didn’t… you couldn’t…”

“No,” H.L. protested. “The spell was real. I know it was. I stopped the curse, didn’t I? Everything turned out right because I got the chair back unchanged, just as you said.”

Magda grinned and tapped the side of her large nose. “But it was changed. The red-headed boy, he does this...” She pantomimed the careful opening of a seam. “He finds something very important in the stuffing of the seat. He finds treasure. Gold doubloons, very, very old, from Spain. Worth much more money than an old chair.” Her giggle became a guffaw. “Foolish men! Don’t you get it? It was all a joke. It was my Hokkani Boro, Magda’s Great Trick!”

Every Snodgrass jaw dropped. They stared at each other and then at Magda, who was rolling around on the floor of gold, yipping and howling and laughing uncontrollably.

In the world H.L. had left behind, the old chair gave an asthmatic little wheeze… a delicate little shudder …a fragile little creak…and collapsed into a pile of dust that was swept up by the puzzled janitor.

The End