The Summons by John Grisham Page A

Ellie?” Ray asked after a long puff.
    “Crazy as hell, the same.”
    “Will I see her at the funeral?”
    “No, she’s up to three hundred pounds. One-fifty is her limit. Under one-fifty and she’ll leave the house. Over one-fifty and she locks herself up.”
    “When was she under one-fifty?”
    “Three or four years ago. She found some wacko doctor who gave her pills. Got all the way down to a hundred pounds. Doctor went to jail and she gained another two hundred. Three hundred is her max, though. She weighs herself every day and freaks out if the big needle goes beyond three.”
    “I told Reverend Palmer that we would have a wake, but not here, not in the house.”
    “You’re the executor.”
    “You agree?”
    “Sure.”
    A long pull on the bourbon, another long puff on the cigar.
    “What about that hosebag who ditched you? What’s her name?”
    “Vicki.”
    “Yeah, Vicki, I hated that bitch even at your wedding.”
    “I wish I had.”
    “She still around?”
    “Yep, saw her last week, at the airport, getting off her private jet.”
    “She married that old fart, right, some crook from Wall Street?”
    “That’s him. Let’s talk about something else.”
    “You brought up women.”
    “Always a big mistake.”
    Forrest slugged another drink, then said, “Let’s talk about money. Where is it?”
    Ray flinched slightly and his heart stopped, but Forrest was gazing at the front lawn and didn’t notice. What money are you talking about, dear brother? “He gave it away.”
    “But why?”
    “It was his money, not ours.”
    “Why not leave some for us?”
    Not too many years earlier, the Judge had confided to Ray that over a fifteen-year period he had spent more than ninety thousand dollars on legal fees, court fines, and rehab for Forrest. He could leave the money for Forrest to drink and snort, or he could give it away to charities and needy families during his lifetime. Ray had a profession and could take care of himself.
    “He left us the house,” Ray said.
    “What happens to it?”
    “We’ll sell it if you want. The money goes in a pot with everything else. Fifty percent will go for estate taxes. Probate will take a year.”
    “Gimme the bottom line.”
    “We’ll be lucky to split fifty thousand a year from now.”
    Of course there were other assets. The loot was sitting innocently in the broom closet, but Ray neededtime to evaluate it. Was it dirty money? Should it be included in the estate? If so, it would cause terrible problems. First, it would have to be explained. Second, at least half would get burned in taxes. Third, Forrest would have his pockets filled with cash and would probably kill himself with it.
    “So I’ll get twenty-five thousand bucks in a year?” Forrest said.
    Ray couldn’t tell if he was anxious or disgusted. “Something like that.”
    “Do you want the house?”
    “No, do you?”
    “Hell no. I’ll never go back in there.”
    “Come on, Forrest.”
    “He kicked me out, you know, told me I’d disgraced this family long enough. Told me to never set foot on this soil again.”
    “And he apologized.”
    A quick sip. “Yes, he did. But this place depresses me. You’re the executor, you deal with it. Just mail me a check when probate is over.”
    “We should at least go through his things together.”
    “I’m not touching them,” he said and got to his feet. “I want a beer. It’s been five months, and I want a beer.” He was walking toward his car as he talked. “You want one?”
    “No.”
    “You wanna ride with me?”
    Ray wanted to go so he could protect his brother, but he felt a stronger urge to sit tight and protect theAtlee family assets. The Judge never locked the house. Where were the keys? “I’ll wait here,” he said.
    “Whatever.”
    ______
    The next visitor was no surprise. Ray was in the kitchen digging through drawers, looking for keys, when he heard a loud voice bellowing at the front door. Though he hadn’t heard it in years,