The Inheritance Paradox
Twenty-One (My Story)
“EUGENE?”
My mouth dropped open. Mrs. Sinclair had opened the door, looked me straight in the eye, and said my father’s name. She was a lovely older woman and didn’t look like she was in her seventies. Of course, neither did Mom. I’m a lousy judge.
Mary Sinclair was about five-six and impeccably dressed. Her makeup and hair were subtle but elegant. She appeared to be quite concerned about appearing proper, down to the low heels she wore. I guessed that if she invited college women on campus to stop by anytime, she must have to look proper for them. I don’t know why I made that kind of assumption.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Um… Nathaniel. I… This was probably a bad idea. Please forgive my intrusion. I’ll leave.”
“Why? You’re Eugene’s son, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
“Is he gone? Is that what you’ve come to tell me? First Howard and then Eugene. It’s a sad year.”
“I’m… No, ma’am. He’s still alive and reasonably well for his age. You know, just normal things. I don’t… I’m working on our family history, and I don’t know anything about my father before he met my mother. When I found out he’d been married, I thought I should look you up and see if I… have any siblings,” I said, feeling like a teenager stumbling in front of a great lady. She smiled.
“Come in. Nathaniel, was it? Come in and let’s have tea. I’m afraid I’ve finished lunch, but I have cookies the girls baked the last time they were here.”
I didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t seem to have any animosity toward my dad. I just followed her into her apartment and sat where she indicated. Her home was obviously prepared to entertain a chat group. The furniture was arranged so people could comfortably talk over the book they’d read, or the plight of orphans in Africa, or something.
“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she said, going into the kitchen.
“Please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Nathaniel. We have instant hot water in our kitchen and I’m afraid I make tea with bags, not a fancy loose leaf basket. Now, here.”
She came into the sitting area with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies on a tray that looked like she always had it ready.
“Now, please. Tell me everything. I’ve always wondered what became of Eugene and have kept him in my prayers all these years,” she said.
“Well, he married Lynn Dorsey in Flint. They live in Ann Arbor now. I’m their oldest child, born in March of 1981. My sister Megan is three years younger and is a research scientist in North Carolina. I’m married to Brenda and we have two children, sixteen and eighteen.”
“And why do you think you might have another sibling?”
“Meg, my sister, specializes in DNA research. She’s really quite brilliant. She recently discovered my… an associate had a close link to our family, suggesting my father might be her grandfather. I’ve been doing the footwork to try and track down her family,” I said.
I don’t know why I felt so free telling all my family details to Mary Sinclair. She was incredibly easy to talk to. The room simply seemed made to put people at ease so conversations could occur. I bet Mary Sinclair listened to many a college student unburden her soul in this room.
“Oh, my. And this associate is quite close to you, I see. I’m afraid this may be a disappointing trip for you. Jeremy is my first child, and his children are about the same ages as yours. He was born three years after Eugene and I divorced. That was almost a scandal in itself as I remarried soon after we parted. My daughter is two years younger than Jeremy, so definitely not possible to be your sister.”
“What happened?” I blurted out. “I only found out recently that Dad had been a minister. What happened? Why did you divorce him?”
“Your father should have answered that question long ago. But Eugene was not in a stable mental state at the time. God help him. I hope he is better now. He was ridden with guilt and failure. Looking at him made me think he might also be seriously ill, but he wouldn’t talk about it.
“I didn’t divorce him. He divorced me. I wanted to work things out. I considered it my own failure. Why else would a man so dedicated to God and his church take a teenage mistress?
“I knew he would have to leave the ministry, at least in this church, but we could still make a life serving God. But when he came home from being expelled by the trustees, he silently packed everything he could fit in his little car and left. Just two weeks later, I was served with divorce papers.”
“It seems so unlike Dad,” I said, more to my teacup than to Mary. I looked up and saw a tear forming in her left eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you pain.”
“I’ve been waiting over forty years to feel this,” she said. “We never displayed our affection for each other in public. It wasn’t proper. We certainly were intimate at home, but it was almost like a business partnership rather than a marriage. Nathaniel, I truly hoped I would bear you.”
I didn’t know what to say next.
Mary seemed unwilling to let the conversation end. She offered me another cup of tea and encouraged me to take another cookie from the plate ‘her girls’ made. Perhaps she was using this opportunity with a relative stranger to release the pain she felt from having her husband pass away so recently. She seemed like a warm and caring person.
“There is something else I should give you,” she said. She left the room as soon as she’d delivered the fresh tea and returned a few minutes later with a banker’s box that was taped shut with several layers of tape. “These are things of your father’s.”
“You… kept some of his things?” I asked.
“I was so hurt and disappointed when he left. I would have done anything to save our marriage. That horrid girl claimed she was pregnant and it just drove him over the edge.” I came alert. My half-sibling? “He left. I think he planned to marry her after he divorced me. By that time, of course, she’d confessed that she wasn’t pregnant at all.”
“I’m not sure of anything that happened back then,” I said. “I was still a couple of years away. I’m sorry my father hurt you.”
“I don’t blame him. I was a terrible wife. I was in love with the idea of being a parish wife and didn’t figure a husband into the equation. That’s why when I arrived back here at the college, when Howard became the president, I completely revamped the Ministerial Service Club. I didn’t want other girls to fall into the same trap I did. Being a minister’s wife is not just being a partner in the ministry. It is a vocation of its own. Many young women who married ministers were shocked and offended when their husbands wanted sex more often than to procreate! I acquiesced to my husband’s desires, but my heart wasn’t in it. He knew, of course.”
“I guess I understand the problem, but that doesn’t make you a terrible wife,” I said, unable to excuse my father as easily as she seemed to.
“We see homeless people, drunks, thieves, and murderers all our lives and think how they have fallen under Satan’s spell. But why would Satan be concerned with the likes of them? They choose their life and Satan scarcely needs to glance their way. But in the Bible, when Satan wanted to conquer someone, he turned to Job, a man of God. In the same way, who better to attack in our day than the minister of a church. We read about those who have succumbed to his attacks, like Eugene did. For some it is sex, for others it is money. But there was no reason they should have fallen. The job of the minister’s wife is not merely to play the piano in church and assist in his ministry, but to be a bulwark between her husband and the temptations of Satan. She should keep him above the temptations by offering her body, ensuring the efficient management of his home, and being the confidential ears that he can whisper any secret to without being judged. If I had fulfilled my own ministry, my husband would never have strayed.”
“That seems like a fairly um… antiquated view. It’s an old-fashioned role for a woman,” I suggested, trying not to be judgmental and failing.
“Oh, I don’t hold all women to that standard. In the secular world, women should have every opportunity and benefit men have. But when a woman becomes a minister’s wife, she has a relationship, a partner, a lover, and a career.”
“I see. Thank you for this box,” I said, thinking it was time for me to leave.
“When Eugene left, I was ready to throw everything away, including my life. Then Howard came to help me. He was Eugene’s best friend and roommate in college and seminary. They’d even been soft-spoken rivals for my affection, though Howard stepped away as soon as Eugene made his intent clear. Still, he came to help me when Eugene left. I don’t know what I would have done. I had to leave the house the church had provided us. Perhaps return to my parents in shame. Howard negotiated a period of time with the church in which they allowed me to stay in the parsonage. Then he helped me find lodging with a kind family. He comforted me and carefully packed all Eugene’s belongings when I would have thrown them into the street in frustration.”
“And you married him then?”
“Nearly two years later. It still raised eyebrows that a reputable minister would take a discarded woman as his wife. But he explained to me in ways Eugene never could, how constantly a minister faced temptation. He said one day, Eugene would come to his senses enough that he would want these few treasures from his past. Through forty-three years of marriage, and numerous moves, most of the things like books and furniture were discarded, but Howard always made sure this one box was kept sealed and ready for Eugene to claim. I know now that he won’t. He may not even remember me. But you are his son, so I entrust this to you.”
It was late afternoon and I was afraid if I stayed any longer, she would ask me to stay for dinner. I really needed to get home. I made my excuses and picked up the box to leave.
“My blessings to you and your family, Nathaniel, and to Eugene and his,” she said as I left.
I called my sister on the drive home. She was busy, but when I told her I talked to Mary, she was all ears.
“But no children with Dad?” she asked. “That’s disappointing.”
“Yeah. Her first child was born nearly three years after the divorce. And apparently the cause of the divorce was that Dad had an affair and the girl claimed to be pregnant. But before the divorce was even final, the girl admitted she wasn’t really pregnant but wanted Eugene to marry her. Then she left town and was never heard from again.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Just her first name. Gloria,” I said.
“Well, you know what all that means? There’s only one other person to trace. We need to find Rachel Erickson. It makes sense,” Megan said.
“How does that make sense?”
“Think about it. Brenda is only five years younger than you. That means Dad would have been thirty-five or thirty-six when his granddaughter was born. That points to the likelihood of two teenage pregnancies. If Dad was at least eighteen when the first generation was born, his son or daughter would only have been seventeen or eighteen when Brenda was born. If it was anytime later than high school, it would really cut down the length of generations,” Megan said. “You need to track down Rachel.”
“Right. Maybe there’s a clue in the box Mary gave me. Do you think it’s okay to open it without Dad’s permission?”
“Nat, you’re the only one who can make that decision. All I can tell you is that if I’d received that box, I wouldn’t have even left Grand Rapids before I had it open.”
“I’ll talk to Brenda about it.”
Brenda looked through all the photos I’d taken of yearbook pages and spent a long time looking at the photo Mary had allowed me to take of her. We stared at the box for a long time before we went to bed without deciding whether to open it. We talked as we settled down to sleep.
“You know, I don’t entirely disagree with her,” Brenda said about Mary. “I’m not religious about it. If you strayed, I would still want you back. And I would feel like a failure if I couldn’t even win you back. We have a wonderful and maybe even charmed life together. I know that sounds a little like Mom talking about her and Dad. I would do anything for you, Nathaniel. What’s more, I am confident you would do anything for me! I wouldn’t have described it as a vocation. It's just the way I feel about you.”
“I feel that way about you, Bren. I’ve never been tempted away from you by anyone. Even when the job became stressful with a lot of hours and we were dealing with kids and sometimes got short with each other, I never doubted that I belonged by your side.”
“We are so lucky to have found each other.”
“I saw that scared girl on a corner in East Lansing and took her to Mom,” I chuckled.
“I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t done that. I was in more danger than you could imagine. I love you so much, Nat.”
Those little declarations were all it took for us to find even more comfort in each other’s arms.
The next night, Wednesday, the kids were all out in the garage. I say all as there were at least five others besides Zach, Val, and Lisa. They were having a work party. Brenda and I sat at our desk with the box of Dad’s things between us.
“It still feels strange to open a box of Dad’s things without actually asking him,” I sighed.
“I suppose it wouldn’t feel the same if we were doing a postmortem search,” Brenda said. “But Dad has pretty much made it clear that he’s personally uninterested in anything that happened before he and Mom got together. I don’t think it’s a problem.”
“Uninterested in anything that happened less than a hundred years before he met Mom,” I chuckled. “Mary said the box has been sealed ever since her second husband, Howard Sinclair, packed it after Dad left.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” Brenda said. “If something happened to you, I think I might ask your friend Bruce to come and pack your things for Zach and Lisa.”
“Are you thinking of Bruce as a second husband?”
“What? No! He’s kind of gross. But you like him and you go out to do things with him sometimes. I’d just use him as a buffer, so I didn’t have my fantasies of what a wonderful man you are destroyed.”
“What would destroy your fantasies?” I asked in horror.
“Oh, don’t be silly! You might have evidence in your cell phone of a hidden mistress you’ve been seeing for twenty years. I wouldn’t want to know!”
“You don’t need to worry about that! You can have access to my cell phone anytime you want,” I said.
“I know, honey. And I know I don’t need it. Now just cut the tape and open the box,” she said.
I really didn’t think there was anything in my life that I’d be afraid to let Brenda know. I suppose she didn’t know how often I played the lottery, or how dark some of the stories were that I wrote when I still thought I’d be a famous author one day. Even those weren’t all that embarrassing.
I cut through the old packing tape and gently pulled the lid off the box to look into my father’s past.
“Picture frames?” Brenda asked when I lifted the first item from the box. I unwrapped the newspaper from around it.
“Dad’s college degree,” I said. “I guess at one time he was proud enough of it to have it framed. Which means this one…”
“Yes,” Brenda said. “His ordination certificate. I guess that’s why the box lid said not to stack anything on top of this.”
“A wedding portrait of Dad and Mary. They look so young and beautiful,” I sighed.
Seeing these treasures and knowing Dad had left them behind was affecting me emotionally more than I expected. Mary had said she had truly hoped she would bear me.
After that, the box contained books.
“Looks like you wasted your time finding the yearbooks online,” Brenda laughed. “1968 Paean.”
“Dad apparently didn’t care or couldn’t afford other years. Or Howard didn’t consider them important. Here’s his senior Grace Mission yearbook,” I said.
“Does it make sense to pack the frames and books on top? Don’t you usually pack the heavy flat things on the bottom?” Brenda asked.
“I guess it makes sense to put the most fragile on top. I don’t know about the books. What’s next?”
“Everything is wrapped in newspaper and packed in like some kind of Tetris puzzle. Howard was an expert packer.”
I pulled out one of the irregularly shaped items and carefully unwrapped it.
“This is some kind of cup.”
“More like… um… what’s in it?”
I pulled a long piece of embroidered silk from the cup.
“Oh. I saw pictures off these among the seminarians. This is a stole that the minister wore at ordination. That means this must be a communion chalice. There was a display of them at the college library with a placard about the heritage of communion.”
I pulled out another wrapped item that proved to be a speech trophy. By the time I’d read the inscription, Brenda had two small jewelry boxes in her hands.
“Rings?” she asked.
“Let’s open this one first,” I said, taking one of the little boxes from her. I opened the lid and saw three rings in it. A small diamond and two rather plain bands, one significantly larger than the other. “Oh, wow. She packed her own wedding and engagement rings with Dad’s wedding ring.”
“He. I think Howard Sinclair already intended to marry her when he packed this box. He didn’t want any reminder of her past marriage in the house,” Brenda assessed.
“What’s in that one?” I asked, closing the wedding ring box. Brenda opened the box.
“A class ring. 1968, so high school. It’s too small for Dad.” She slipped it onto her own finger, and it fit perfectly.
“Initials RE. This would be Rachel Erickson’s class ring. They went steady in high school. Looks like they never broke up.”
I held Brenda’s hand as I examined the ring. If Megan’s hunch was right, this could be her grandmother’s class ring. She pulled a larger jewelry box out.
“What could be in this one?” Brenda asked.
“I’m amazed at how neatly everything has stayed packed. Everything in this one is packed in layers of cotton. A tie bar and cufflinks with a horseshoe on them? I don’t think I ever saw Dad in a tie except in the photo of him giving a speech in high school,” I said. “Ah! A belt buckle with the initials WH on it. It must have been my grandfather’s! Wallace Holbrook. Wallace is Dad’s middle name.”
“That would mean this cameo brooch must be your grandmother’s,” Brenda said. “And the 25-year service pin is from Kellogg’s. That’s where your grandfather worked, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. These will be things the kids will definitely want to have when they’re older and settled on their own,” I said.
Brenda had been keeping an inventory on a pad of paper as we unwrapped things, almost as if she was recording Christmas gifts so we could write thank you notes later. She jotted down the contents of the ancestral jewelry. I reached to her hand and gently removed the class ring to put back in its ring box.
“Oh! Yeah,” she said. “I do like that.”
We looked into the box again and pulled out a manila folder.
“More certificates and such. Birth certificate, Granddad’s death certificate, Dad’s first driver’s license,” I said. “The marriage and divorce certificate must be duplicates. Mary would need a copy if she ever wanted to get married again. What are these?”
I pulled out two stiffly starched pieces of white cloth, about an inch wide and three inches long.
“The tabs,” Brenda said. “Dad’s black shirts with the banded collars? There are slits in the collar where these would fit, making them a clerical collar.”
“I just can’t imagine Dad as a preacher. It’s so different than anything we’ve ever known,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “I feel like I’m meeting a different person for the first time.”
“There’s only one thing left in the box and it’s wrapped and taped like it’s a gift,” Brenda said, holding a small package.
“Do you suppose we shouldn’t open that?” I asked. “I mean, I feel like I’ve been eavesdropping on a conversation or spying on my father. What if this is a gift Mary wanted him to have?”
“I don’t think so. Howard packed the box and was preserving things he thought would be precious to Dad. It wasn’t something he packed with a message from Mary.”
“I suppose. It’s like opening a person’s search history in a browser and seeing the bizarre things they searched for, but not knowing why they were searching for them,” I said. “It feels like there’s a book in here and more papers.”
I searched for the spots where it was taped shut and slit them open with my pocketknife. The subtly patterned paper had various religious symbols on it but wasn’t specifically related to a holiday. It fell away from a small stack of letters, a notebook, and a few photos.
“They’re pictures of Dad with his high school girlfriend,” Brenda said.
I saw the resemblance immediately and knew in my heart we were looking at pictures of Brenda’s grandmother.
“The letters are from her, too. Postmarked in St. Louis and sent to him at the college,” I said, disciplining myself not to get too emotional until we’d confirmed everything.
“What’s in the notebook?” Brenda asked.
“Uh… Wow! Poetry. And a few clippings. There’s a memorial clipping for your… his girlfriend. It says 10-year class reunion, but also says she died in 1969,” I gasped.
We both had tears in our eyes, running down our cheeks. This was Dad’s unicorn. They didn’t break up. She died.
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
