The Forest of Mayhem

Chapter Two

One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.

Anton Chekhov

Thursday, April 30 - 10:30 a.m.

My wild watchdog, a small Douglas squirrel, set up a chattering complaint as I dripped up the side steps to the kitchen door of my parents’ funky olive-green farmhouse. The little squirrel had taken up residence in the trees next to the house during the winter, and now she chattered at perceived intruders, including me, who had lived here over a year.

My parents had purchased the rambling home when I was in college. I’d loved it straight away for the wide-planked wood floors, generously-sized rooms and abundant windows. The exterior was an odd color scheme with the olive-green house being topped by a gray roof and accented with berry-red gutters, and bright yellow doors, all of which were grimy now.

I unlocked the algae-streaked door, accompanied by the high shrills of the squirrel.

You’re better than a dog, I called.

The squirrel went into overdrive as I squelched inside. I stripped down on the inside door mat. There was no one home to see me in my goose-bumped nakedness, which suited the hell out of me. My wet clothes could wait on the welcome mat until I felt like doing laundry.

There were a few joys I’d discovered in having a large, rural home to myself. Wandering about unclothed was one. The house had been built in the 1980s to look like it was from the 1880s, which meant it came with a mighty furnace and abundant insulation.

It was a toasty home.

I carried my phone and sauntered, naked, down the main hallway, then up a staircase to an old-fashioned bathroom with a deep tub. Turning on the taps and rejoicing at the quick steaming water, I added bubbling bath soap. A few minutes later and it was heaven to wiggle toes in the hot water as the suds reached my chin.

A walk with Gretchen was a good excursion, even with the downpour of cold, late April rain.

There hadn’t been many happy moments in the past year. So many things had been a struggle.

The months ahead didn’t look to hold much joy either. My happiness began to dissipate as I contemplated the tasks to come.

I blinked, sniffed and frowned. It was time to entice my twin into taking on some of the estate shedding.

It had been easy to speak with confidence to Gretchen about getting the things moving, but now I found myself squirming with discomfort. My brother’s life was very full. Thursday mornings, however, he had an assistant to open the ice cream shop.

Taking a breath, I reached for my phone and typed a text, Ready to make some $$? Stop by?

An affirmative thumbs up chimed in quickly. 10 min, my brother messaged.

Damn. I’d hoped to stay in the tub until the water cooled. Still, task shedding and improving my mental health were the goals. The game was on. I emerged from the water, rosy and clean.

After a few hasty pats with one of my mother’s deluxe towels, I made another naked dash through the house, this time to a bedroom overlooking the back meadow.

I’d claimed the room as mine when I had moved in to care for my parents. They had been frail and needy from the start, which meant I had simply dumped my worldly goods in the gracious room.

Today I yanked a clean T-shirt out of the laundry basket and rummaged for a semi-clean pair of jeans from a pile on the floor.

Speed was important. I wanted to greet my brother with a sword. Our father had been a sucker for weaponry, and Kent was too.

Unfortunately, the sword collection had been popping up in my mind every night as I struggled to sleep. I was too often haunted by a mental picture of what a fine blade could do against a wrist. It was time to take positive actions before a negative action became alluring.

I clattered back down the staircase and headed to our father’s office, a room I’d avoided for weeks. Two of three overhead light bulbs were out, and I hadn’t summoned the strength to fetch a ladder to remedy the issue. The office was a dim place, crowded with belongings.

The door opened smoothly enough, coming to rest with a bump against a heavy wooden chest. I clicked on the remaining light and tried not to see the thick film of gray dust that covered every surface. My heart stuttered a bit as I took in Dad’s big office chair.

I made my eyes move to the wall to the left. There, on a high shelf, sat a prized Japanese katana, resting on an elegant wooden stand with the sword’s scabbard cradled underneath the blade.

It would be foolish to stand on Dad’s wheeled chair to reach the high shelf. I dragged the wooden chest closer to make an enormous step. With a stretch I could lift the entire array, which ended up being heavier than I expected.

My legs shook, but I was able to lower the whole apparatus to the desk. I scrambled down, took a new grip on the sword, sheath and display stand and hustled out to the kitchen.

Kent’s Civic was already turning down the long drive to the farmhouse. I galloped back to my father’s office and flung open the closet. Pushing aside coats that smelled altogether too much of my father, I found four stacked wooden cases. I grabbed two and sprinted back down the hall to the kitchen to lay the cases on the counter.

Three swords would have to do. I knew there were more stashed elsewhere in Dad’s office, but we could start with these.

I rinsed my now grubby hands and took a few calming breaths, trying to look nonchalant as my brother came in the kitchen door.

Kent stepped onto my pile of wet clothes, swear words coming easily as he rocked for balance, all of which amused me.

Sorry about that, I said. I had a walk in the rain. Thanks for coming.

Sure. Kent pulled me into a fast hug. His eyes were already on the katana as he released me. Oh, man. That beauty! He moved closer, bending down to take in the details of the exquisite sword smithing. It’s dirty, but you can see the hamon line.

One of the lovely things about having a twin is seeing yourself. Kent has my russet curls, round face and square jaw.

Alas, our father’s fascination with all things Asian had begun early. My given name is Kamiko, and my brother is Kento. With our stout Western bodies and pale, round faces, we look at home hoisting steins of lager in an Octoberfest beer garden. I’m busty enough to fill out a dirndl nicely.

Kamiko and Kento don’t play well with the surname Schmidt. For years I had a reflexive wince when a new teacher called out Kamiko Schmidt? always with an air of uncertainty.

Our parents had been unapologetic. We’d been miserable until a middle school P.E. coach Americanized our names.

It wasn’t that we hated our names. We had, like most schoolchildren, hated being different.

Today my twin straightened up, smiling. I remember when Dad bought this. He was so excited. You’re right. This is worth some money. The smile shadowed as Kent added, If we can find the paperwork.

Yep. I hunched up my shoulders. It might be under ‘sword’ or ‘katana.’ Dad’s filing was terrible.

I know. The papers might be under ‘Japan.’ Or ‘Collectible.’ Kent shook his head. I think we bought a katana on the 2014 trip. Maybe a 2014 file?"

Great. I folded my arms and sniffed. That’s about when Mom bought a new dryer, so maybe I can figure out if that screeching sound can be fixed under a purchased warranty if I can find the 2014 folder. Dryer receipt with a sword receipt. That sounds about right.

Kent looked a bit ill, like he’d swallowed a frog.

What? You think I’m wrong? I asked.

No. You’re absolutely right. Dad’s filing system isn’t a system. Kent looked at me, steady, twin-to-twin. I need you to know that Ashlee is wound up. She thinks you’re goldbricking out here.

What? I waved a hand towards our father’s den. She’s seen that mess!

I know. I know.

I couldn’t help myself. Ranting was better than breaking into tears. With a most excellent sneering tone, I said, I was all for calling in an auction house. She’s the one who says we’re going to come out ahead if we go through all this stuff ourselves. And you’re not helping. Any.

I know. Kent looked beyond miserable. We’re cramped. The girls have lots of needs. She’s overwhelmed, and I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

He sighed. Money is so damn tight. I really think the shop will pick up this summer. People are going to be traveling, and there’ll be events downtown.

I relented. But you have to get through most of May, right?

Yeah. Things should pick up as soon as we have some sun, but it’ll be June before we’re really busy. His fingers drummed on the kitchen counter. Could we get this house on the market next month?

My rage dissipated. Kent was trying to find a way forward, and I could hear his exhaustion.

It’d be crazy making, I said, flapping a hand at the sword. Maybe we can do the nice stuff faster. Can we sell this katana without the paperwork? I managed a weak grin. I’m an eternal optimist. Hell, I even thought I could write books for a living.

You can. He looked down at the sword. We will get so much more with proper documentation. This was made with immense skill. With the paperwork, we might get thousands. Without, maybe a couple hundred.

It matters, I said.

Yes. For Japanese katanas, documentation matters a lot. Kent straightened his shoulders. We can do this. We have to. It would be a tragedy for the history of this piece to be lost. We’ve got the history. We just have to sort out where the hell Dad filed it.

And the others? I jerked my thumb at the two long boxes I’d fetched. There’s more in the den closet.

Let’s hope all the documentation is in one file marked ‘Katanas,’ or it’s a long path to payday, Kent said.

Sweet Jay-sus. I had harbored hopes that Kent would remember more about the swords and be keen to take them home to do a fast, lucrative marketing plan. I’d be safer from my dark ruminations, and we’d make money.

Now I was realizing that was ridiculous. Kent and Ashlee had a cute, but overstuffed, bungalow and two very little girls. There was no room for processing estate items. Ashlee would be apoplectic at the idea of weapons coming in the door. For all their collectability and grace, the katanas were serious blades.

The swords had to stay with me.

My stomach swooped and roiled. I took a steadying breath and made a silent vow to find a sleep aid so my nights would not include mental images of blades on wrists.

You okay? My twin’s face showed his lips coming together just as mine did when I was worried.

I’m overwhelmed. Each item has to be researched. I have to measure the thing, take pictures, write a description, and then the real fun begins. I upload the whole bundle and pray for results.

A groan escaped me as I added, And then it either is total crickets with no interest, or the emails start arriving with questions I struggle to answer.

I scowled, "Would you say Dad’s jackalope is in good, fair, or moderate condition?

There’s a difference?

Good is better than fair. I think that both ‘good’ and ‘fair’ are under the moderate umbrella. If I’m wrong, then the buyer might ask for a refund.

Jay-susss! Kent’s eyes roved around the kitchen. I could see him look up at the row of cookie jars lining the perimeter of the upper cabinets.

Right, I nodded at his surveillance. Each one of them should get that treatment. An hour, or more, per cookie jar. Some of those are rare collectibles.

Kent shook his head. I can’t help you with the cookie jars. If I took one of those home, the girls would be into it right away. It’d be chipped by dinner time.

I know. They’re little girls. I moved to the sink to fill the tea kettle and took in my brother’s tightly hunched shoulders. What’s really going on?

Whadya mean? Kent’s question was too innocent. I shot him a hard look, bringing my eyebrows down to augment the glare.

Kent shifted on the kitchen stool. He finally said, Ashlee bought a product line.

No! I set the teakettle down on the burner with a thump. One of her mother’s Ponzi schemes?

Multiple Level Marketing opportunities are not all Ponzi schemes.

Most of them are. I turned the burner to high with a frown. I can’t believe Ashlee did that.

She can’t either. Kent slid off the stool and took down two mugs. She told me Glynnis called with a ‘fabulous entry deal,’ and it caught her at a weak moment.

That I can believe. Glynnis is a terror.

Kent licked his lips. I knew that ‘tell’ because I had the same one. There was more to confess here, and he didn’t want to share it.

I plunked tea bags into the mugs and said, Spill the beans. Which line did she get and how much?

Essential oils.

Great. Any product Ashlee doesn’t sell can be gifted. Everyone can smell like vanilla or cinnamon all year after Christmas. For the next ten years.

Not funny.

I poured hot water into the mugs and gave my twin no quarter. How much? I repeated as I set the kettle back onto the burner.

Five thousand.

It was a good thing I’d put down the kettle because I would have dropped it. My mouth worked like a goldfish, opening and closing with no sound. Finally, I croaked, "Five thousand dollars?"

On the store credit card.

No!

She feels bad, Kent defended his wife. She’s going to do her best to move the product.

To make her money back, she’ll have to enroll other salespeople.

Kent shook his head, Nope. We agreed she is not going to do that. She’s going to sell the product she has and be done.

Five thousand dollars of essential oils must be boxes and boxes of stuff.

My brother’s sigh was expansive. He followed it with a second sigh. I can’t park the car in the garage.

I don’t get it. Ashlee’s smart.

It has nothing to do with smarts, Kent snorted. It’s her desire to make her mother proud, and to rescue me from a business I can’t run well. Glynnis said she knew someone downsizing an essential oils collection, and this was a chance to get in on the ground floor. I was in Seattle for a couple of days for a training course. Glynnis drove over to stay the night with Ashlee and the girls. By the time I was back, Ashlee had signed. The stuff was delivered the next day.

He squeezed out the tea bag and tossed it into the trash. I would say ‘ground floor’ was really ‘ground-down Ashlee.’ It’s hard to stand up to a sales pitch from Glynnis.

Can Ashlee unload this great opportunity to someone else?

She’s trying. It’s hard to do much at the computer with the girls.

But she thinks I should be churning out the sales here. My bitter tone made my brother’s shoulders rise and tighten.

She says a novelist cranks out thousands of words, so why aren’t you? Kent put his hands around the tea mug. Kami, I know you hate this stuff, but doesn’t she have a point?

All writing is not the same. I responded with a sneer. "It’s like ice cream. You can power through a pint of Chocolate Crunch, but you can’t handle a scoop of Double Licorice. Lots of people can tell a story and are not able to write a sales blurb or a synopsis. I can write blurbs - I just hate them."

I sat down on the kitchen stool next to my brother and made my voice take a neutral tone. I told you. There’s also a ton of work assembling the material. It’s exhausting.

Pointing at the katana on its stand, I confessed. I’m having nightmares about cutting wrists. I’m okay, but I need to stop that road from building further.

Shit! Kent’s eyes went wide.

I’m not going to. There was just the thought you could take the swords home and do some of the research and write up yourself. You’d see what I’m talking about, and I’d get these things out of the house.

I can’t have blades at our place. The girls…

Got it. What was I thinking? I shifted my weight and grimaced. Gretchen knows two high school kids. She says they could be hired to help process stuff.

Can you get them, like fast? Kent’s shoulders were still hunched up.

Eyeing his tension, I asked, Besides Ashlee dropping five grand on stupid stuff, what’s up? I held up my hand, extending a pinkie. It was our secret handshake. Pinkie-to-pinkie meant I’m here for you, but no bullshitting me.

Kent wrapped his beefy pinkie around mine. The reason Ashlee caved and went for the product line purchase is because we’re thirty days behind on the store rent. She actually got twenty thousand dollars of product, so she was thinking – for a moment – that it was a screaming deal. Glynnis, of course, was pounding that line, for sure.

Christ on a crutch.

Kent snorted. It gets better. He released my pinkie, which was fine. I knew he would continue to be frank.

How does it get better?

Glynnis is coming back here. Kent paused. She’s staying with us while her condo is painted and recarpeted. She wants to sell her place.

"Well, Bro, the girls are her grandbabies."

Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. Kent scowled. She’ll be in my face and on my case about improvements I can make. She also acquired a dog. A little yappy thing.

You poor man. Is there someplace else she can stay now that she has a dog?

Dearest sister. Twin of my heart, Kent began.

No! I shook my head. Absolutely not. She is not staying here.

Chapter Three

Neither a borrower or lender be.

Polonius in Hamlet. Act 1 Scene 3

Thursday, April 30 - 11 a.m.

I was unrelenting. Based on my previous handful of interactions with Glynnis, I knew her presence would, in no way, help me process my parents’ belongings. Quite the opposite. Glynnis could be very persuasive. If she were staying with me, I might end up thinking one of her programs was actually a smart investment.

To his credit, Kent didn’t try too hard to convince me to house his mother-in-law. He finished his tea and left, giving me a hug and a wry smile after rinsing his mug and shrugging on his jacket.

We’ll get through this, he said.

I gave him a fierce nod, but found myself blinking back tears as he backed an old Honda Civic down the drive. Five years ago, we’d each had a top-of-the-line Lexus.

Now there was too much to do and not enough cash on hand. There were financial outfits who were keen to lend quick cash while the estate went through probate, but my research made me wary of them.

The downstairs toilet gurgled ominously when I flushed. I stalked out to the garage to look for the plunger, feeling that a backed-up toilet represented my life when an idea blossomed.

What about a home equity loan? Would the respected credit union where my parents, Kent, and I had banked for years extend a home equity loan to the estate? We could get the house in shape with hired help and get it on the market.

I abandoned the plunger hunt and ran back into the house.

Forty-five minutes of intense computing later, I had an on-line application submitted for thirty thousand dollars.

As I stood up and stretched, I felt we had a chance of gaining approval for the loan. Housing costs in Thurston County, like so much of the rest of the nation, had soared in recent years. My parents had no mortgage. It was a low-risk loan for the credit union.

We could do so much with the added cash flow. The roof could be replaced and the driveway re-graveled. Both should be done before the house went on the market.

And the loan could give Kent and Ashlee a bit of breathing space.

We’d have to be careful. With our history of spending, Kent and I could mow through thirty thousand in an eyeblink. We had been accumulating better money management habits too slowly.

A weak sunbeam slicing through a dirty window let me know the morning showers had passed. I felt empowered enough to fetch the mail.

I have a love-hate relationship with mail. I adore cards and packages. I hate bills and flyers. The past week had been so miserable that I hadn’t collected the mail even once. It was depressing to acknowledge my college friendships had wilted during a long year of parental care. There was no one out there who would be sending me a card. Surrounded by knick-knacks, I’d also severely curtailed my on-line shopping. There would be no interesting packages arriving.

Shouldering a canvas shopping bag, I set out for the neighborhood mail tower.

My parents’ farmhouse sat at the end of a rural spur road. The meth epidemic of the early 2000s resulted in constant theft from rural mailboxes, so the eight households and one real farm on our spur went together to buy an industrial mail tower, anchored in concrete and lit by a rare county streetlight.

The hike to the mailbox was actually one of the