Chapter 25 - The Declaration of War
Arthur laughed, a sharp, barking sound that had no humor in it whatsoever. He took a long swallow from his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned down so his face was level with Frank’s. "You actually think you’re going to live here?" he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "In this house? With your little waitress wife and your brat of a kid? Do you have any idea how many local judges I play golf with on Thursday mornings, Frank? Do you think the probate court is going to honor a codicil signed by an eighty-four-year-old woman who was on heavy narcotics and experiencing intermittent delirium?" "She was lucid enough to sign her name in red ink and leave her thumbprint," Frank replied evenly, pulling the certified copy of the document from his inside jacket pocket and holding it out just far enough for Arthur to see the official stamp. "And her primary care physician signed off as a witness stating she was of sound mind when she made the amendment. You can call your golf buddies all you want, Art. But if you’re not out of this house by Friday morning, I’m sending county sheriff deputies with an eviction notice and a moving truck to put your furniture on the curb." The color drained entirely from Arthur’s face, leaving it a sickly, pasty gray. He knew as well as I did that Frank wasn't bluffing; once a legal document like that was logged with the county clerk, the courts didn't care about family politics or country club memberships—they cared about the letter of the law. "You're a miserable bastard, Frank," Arthur muttered, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the railing. "Mom was right about you from the day you were born. You take, you destroy, and you leave nothing behind." "No, Art," Frank said, turning his back on his brother and walking back down the steps toward our car. "I just learned how to clean up the mess you and Mom spent thirty years making." We got back into the car without looking back, leaving Arthur standing on the porch like a petty king whose castle had just been successfully besieged. But as we drove back toward the highway, I couldn't shake the heavy, crawling sensation between my shoulder blades. Arthur wasn't the kind of man to accept defeat lying down, and if he couldn't beat us in the courtroom, he was going to find another way to make our lives a living hell before the ninety days were up.
