Magnificence by Lydia Millet

occurred to her that he might feel entitled. Not once. She never had, herself.
    She blundered on. “Middle-aged Susan, more like.”
    “Nah, really. You don’t look a day over thirty.”
    “Aw. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
    “Gimme the private tour.”
    “Come on in.”
    Inside the music room, which opened to the pool and backyard and was full of sheep and goat mounts, he looked around and whistled. Except for a faded, wine-colored velour couch the room was almost empty, only a stand with some colorful guitars in a corner and a dusty double bass with no strings.
    “Old guy was crazier than I thought,” he said.
    “I didn’t know him well,” said Susan.
    “So why’d he pick you?”
    “Honestly, I have no idea. Were you two still in touch?”
    “We did a couple Turkey Day meals. That kind of shit. Mostly at our place, though, when we lived over in Reseda. He would come in from out of town with a pile of gifts for the kids. So they kinda liked him. Deb didn’t. She thought he was an old lech.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “As far as invitations, he didn’t return the favor. Last time I was in this place I was a kid myself.”
    “He had a player piano, remember? I haven’t found it yet, though. Maybe he got rid of it. The kitchen’s over here,” she said.
    “Building’s massive. Jesus.”
    “It’s large.”
    “Guy musta had a full-time taxidermist on the payroll.”
    “Was he a hunter? Do you know?”
    “Well it’s sure as shit not roadkill.”
    “Do you remember what he did? For a living?”
    “It was like, commodities trading maybe? He was abroad a lot. He was traveling all the time.”
    “What can I get you? I have coffee, tea, sparkling water—”
    “No beer?”
    “Oh. At ten-thirty . . . ?”
    “Gimme a Bud, if you got one.”
    She opened the refrigerator as he paced the room peering at the stuffed fish.
    “Dos Equis OK?”
    “Mexican pisswater? Enh, sure. I’m not picky.”
    She almost decided not to hand it over, then reached for the bottle opener.
    “What is that, a marlin?”
    “I’m still learning. Whatever the label says.”
    To occupy herself she reached into the freezer for the bag of coffee.
    “So. What brings you by? Wanting to check out the place?”
    “Yeah, you know. Though we probably won’t make a claim.”
    “What claim?”
    “Against the estate. You know.”
    She gaped at him. The sunglasses were propped up on his head now, but his eyes didn’t tell her much either. He raised his beer bottle and drank.
    A wave of illness moved through her.
    “No—what?”
    “Like I say, we probably won’t. Tommy’s giving me some pressure. He says it’s the principle of the thing. But listen. I’m like, she’s had a bad year already. That woman has nothing. Zip. Nada. She needed something like this. I go, She needs it more than we do, Tomboy.”
    She was unsteady.
    “Well. Thanks for that, Steve.”
    “Yeah. Well. You know.”
    “It was pretty clear in the will, wasn’t it? I mean what do I know.”
    “See, though,” and he shook his head, taking a swig from the bottle, “the non compos thing. Not of sound mind.”
    “Was he under care or something? In an institution?”
    “He lived here by himself.”
    “So what makes you think he was—?”
    “Shit, woman. I mean the guy was a hermit. There’s no one to say if he was crazy or not.”
    She might be having a panic attack. Her breath felt constricted. Spite, she thought. Spite and malice. She wouldn’t be surprised if the old man had left her the house expressly to make sure it wasn’t given to Steven. Possibly when he saw the guy, on holidays, the guy had irritated him. Possibly she was projecting, but possibly Steve’s poor character had been the source of her own good luck.
    She fumbled with the coffee grinder as her breathing evened out. It was an excuse to turn away; she’d already drunk her coffee quota. As she pressed down on the lid and the grinder spun and shrieked she raised her eyes to the wall