Chasing the Monsters: 9

"Todd," Jack Ribsky put his hand out.  

"Ribsky," he said in response, gripping the man's hand in reciprocation.  They were on the same steps where he had stood over a year ago, when he had come to talk to Connie about his father's death.

"Mr. Ribsky," Timothy said, offering his hand, and Todd moved inside, examining the living room, again.  

The urn they all had mistook for Peter's ashes was gone from the mantle.  Pamela came in, quietly, from a side room, and her face seemed drawn and gray.  Todd caught her eye, and weakly smiled, offering his hand, "Ms. Ribsky," he said, softly.  To himself, he sounded like a child.

She said, "Todd, call me Pamela, please."  She took his hand and shook it.  It was cool, and she smelled lightly of pancake syrup, or something similar.

He said, "I'm . . . sorry, about your sister, Connie.  What my father did . . ."

"No, Todd, you can't apologize for that man, not after . . ." she stopped, her throat catching. 

Jack Ribsky stepped forward, "Todd, I think you ought to know why we called you here."

"Some money junk, I thought," he said, sitting on the floral couch that not a year ago he had sat on, opposite Connie, as she coldly refuted his claims about Peter.

Not her fault.  He had her fooled.  Somehow.

Timothy said, "We appreciate y'ar including us."

"You adopted Todd," Ribsky said, "as an adult."

"Yes.  He's my son, the lad is.  Of course, what to do with him!"  he smiled.

"Hmf," Ribksy said, smiling back.  "It's a good thing.  Very positive.  Considering what he went through.  Todd, I'm sorry that . . . well, at first, we didn't exactly buy into your stories of Peter."

"That's okay.  I didn't even remember half of them until recently,"  Todd said.  Pamela offered him tea, and he refused.

She took a cup and drank, quietly.

Todd felt uncomfortable when he looked at her.  For some reason, she seemed so frail and weak.  He wondered if it were true, or just what he imagined.  She looked as if she were dying.

Ribsky said, "I'll get to the point.  Your father left Connie a sum of money, in eight figures.  It's your money, most likely.  I know he had scammed your accounts your whole life."

"How do you know that?"  Todd asked, his palms sweating a little.

"I know from her journals, which we also found.  There are several volumes.  Some are as far back as the late 80s and early 90s, Todd."

"She was with him," Pamela started, and everyone turned to her, abruptly.  Hearing her was unexpected, "Almost thirty years."

"I was a kid," Todd said.  "A teen, maybe."

"Yes, you were," Pamela said, her lips pursed tightly.  

Todd noticed her hands shaking.  He said, "There's no blame to be put on your sister."

She looked down, as if into her tea, and then placed it down on the table.  "Oh, no, Todd.  There certainly is.  There's blame.  She'd be alive today, if she had done things differently.  She had to know.  Look at . . . look at that house, that place . . ."  She locked her own hands together to stop them from shaking.

"You've seen the house?"  Todd asked.

"Yes," she said, and sat back, silent.

Ribsky chimed in, "Pamela insisted."  He paused, looking at his wife.  "She's not been able to get past it."

Todd swallowed, and looked to his hands.  Timothy broke the silence.  Good old Dad.  "Ya must have had a tough time, seeing where she died, eh?"  his father said.

Pamela didn't answer.  She had a very far away look, one that Todd almost recognized from his days strapped to a chair. . .

"There's more," Ribsky said.  "The house was also left to her, it's been in probate, since we've not claimed it . . . well, it . . ."

"Reverts back to Todd, the only living relative, aside from Bitsy?"  Timothy offered.

"Shit, I don't want the place," Todd said.  "Bomb it, for all I care."  For a moment, he flashed on his mother, seeing Peter in that kitchen and fainting.

"If ya don't claim it, it will revert to the state," Timothy said.

"I'm not claiming,"  Todd said.

"That's fine.  No one says ya have to."  Timothy assured.

Todd said nothing.  Ribsky handed him a check.

"I don't want it," Todd finally spoke again.  "You take it.  Pay off this house, take a trip, whatever.  I don't want anything that comes from him."

"The problem is, neither do we," Ribsky said.  "You understand."

Timothy spoke, "Is there a charity?"

Pamela finally sat forward, and said, "I know a charity.  My sister . . . she would have wanted it to go to the local hospice.  Our mother died of cancer, right there, on the outskirts of Chicago."  Then, she looked at Todd.  "It's eighteen million dollars.  He invested it and it grew.  Are you certain?"

Todd said, "I have no use for that.  Not from him."

"It was yours, Todd.  He siphoned it off you for years,"  Ribsky clarified.

"Doesn't matter.  Hospice is good, I'm good with that.  Blair would be, too, and Momma," Todd said.

"Done, then," Timothy said, taking the check and handing it back to Jack.  He stood, "We appreciate everything," Timothy said, extending a hand.

Ribsky stood and took it, and Todd found himself standing as well, though his eyes rested on Pamela's gray complexion and her strained eyes.  The two men shook hands, and Todd, watching the woman, said, "I'm so sorry . . . for what he was," and couldn't pull his eyes away from hers, that were filled with water.  

For a reason he later could not explain, he reached for her hand.  She took it, and a tear spilled over onto her cheek.  He said, "I'm very sorry for your loss."

He let go of her hand, and as he did, she said, "Todd?"

"Yeah?"

"My sister . . . she wrote that she was going to protect that child.  She planned on keeping him from any harm.  She wrote that," she said, breaking down.

In a moment's passing, Ribsky was taking her in his arms, sitting beside her on the couch, and Timothy was pulling gently at Todd's arm, as he heard, behind him, the woman break into sobs.  He gulped, and followed his father out the door and onto the stairs, where he took the railing, and gripped it tightly, leaning forward as the ground seemed to buckle and move toward him.

The next thing he knew, Timothy was saying, "Breathe deeper, Lad.  That's it.  Sit down here, if ya can."

Todd sat, on the same stoop he had sat on close to a year before, and closed his eyes a minute.  Things had stopped swirling in his vision, and he felt less warm and more still.  He looked at his father.  "What happened there?"

"Ya almost went down."

"I'm over all this, Dad."

Timothy paused.  "Ya might be, Son."

"I am."

"All right.  Do ya want to try and get up now?"

"No."

They sat in silence.

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