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The old man sure is dressed to kill today, Dan thought as he studied his father. Charcoal pinstriped suit, starched white shirt and his favorite red silk "power tie". What was left of his hair lay neatly combed, the part perfect. His gold signet ring glittered on his right hand. His "lure."
He said that people saw it as a sign of wealth and status that made them yearn for a piece of his success and want to do business with him. "Clothes make the man," Dad said. "If a man wants to be somebody, he's got to dress for success."
Dress for excess, Dan thought.
He felt his old anger rekindling, starting the all-too-familiar boiling in his stomach, so he stuck his trembling hands into his pockets and turned from the casket. The old man was dressed to kill, all right. Too bad he was already dead.
Dan looked over at the shell of his mom sitting in the corner with Phil Williams, the family lawyer. She looked thin and frail, as if the next strong breeze would whisk her away, another victim of the iron will of Daniel Trevor Lewiston The Fourth.
Not me, Dan thought. Bastard tried, had to give him that. Tried to take control of my life the same way he dominated mom's.
"What do you mean, art school?" he'd asked, less than two days ago. "First you want to be a worthless musician, and now this? You don't have an aptitude for either one." He leaned back in his leather chair, took a pull on his cigar and shook his head.
Dan sat on the other side of the mahogany desk in the study, the smell of old books and cigars suffocating him the way his father's stubbornness had strangled his dream of being a songwriter. He hated this room and everything it stood for. Hated his father and all his trappings. Always had, ever since the first time his father "called him on the carpet" at the age of four to humiliate him for wetting the bed.
It wasn't that the old man had actually abused him. On the contrary, in the eyes of others, the old man spoiled him with an abundance of possessions. He never wanted for anything. No cruelty; at least not physically and not in public. The cruelties were mental, saved for private moments.
Dan had not lacked for anything—except love. In his father's mind, love translated into one thing, love of money. He demonstrated this to his son with material possessions that little Danny soon lost interest in, but let young Daniel ask him for attention, or play catch, or go for a walk like the other kids did, and the old man brushed him aside.
"There you go again," the old man said, jerking him back to the moment. "Drifting off into never-never land. No wonder you turned out to be such a loser. Look at you. You dress like a slob. No tie. You need a haircut. Should've known you'd come here begging for a handout."
"A loan, Dad, not a handout. I'll pay it back in a couple of months..."
"You're dreaming, son. It'll be another waste of money, nothing more. Come to work at the firm..."
"Dammit, Dad, for once can you let me do what I want!"
Dan recalled what he thought of as a string of bad luck that followed him through his endeavors since the first time he rejected his father's offer of a job with "the firm". He suspected that his failures were due to something more than bad luck. Maybe his father's influence had once again slithered into his life, the same way it had in school. "It's been you, hasn't it? You're the one who's been ruining things for me."
"No, it hasn't been me." His father’s voice rose and his nostrils flared. "If there's one area you don't need help in, it's this one. You've screwed things up all by yourself."
The old man softened his tone. "I honestly don't understand what's wrong with you," he said, shaking his head. "Why can't you take some initiative like I did? No one helped me."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't have been a success at all if it hadn't been for your partner."
Daniel senior's head jerked back as if he'd been slapped. His face flushed and his mouth tightened.
Dan savored the moment; the first time he had ever seen his father speechless. He thought of his father's previous two heart attacks and the doctor's warning. The thought of having power over the old bastard filled him with savage glee.
The old man started to shake. His complexion passed from pink to crimson. "You ungrateful little bastard! You'll never amount to anything..."
Dan realized how much he hated his father. If the old man croaked, his problems would be over. The money would be his. "Hey, dad, you know what?"
He would never forget that puzzled expression. "Fuck you!"
His father half rose out of his chair. "You little shit -t - t," he stuttered. Spittle flew, clinging to his lower lip and dribbling down his chin onto his power tie. The color on his face nearly matched his tie. He grabbed at his chest and fell forward, twitching on his desk, the heart attack ending his life.
Seems like ages ago, Dan thought. He walked toward the rear of the funeral parlor, feeling his mother's accusing stare burning into him. He looked up and she turned away, burying her face in a handkerchief. Dan shook his head and stared down at the floor. When he reached the back of the room his gaze met the hollow eyes of his dad's lawyer.
Williams leaned over and whispered something to his mom, then rose from his chair.
Here it comes, Dan thought, steeling himself. The old lawyer shambled toward him, stooped like a walking corpse. His skin looked dry and colorless on his spindly frame as if all the juice had been sucked from him long ago. Dear old dad had a way of squeezing the life out of anyone who came under his influence.
Williams nodded and cleared his throat. "My condolences."
Dan didn't answer.
"I know this seems like an inappropriate time, but it is my duty to request your presence for the reading of the will."
"When?"
"When is it convenient for you?"
"Eight o'clock tonight."
"He's not even buried yet."
"He is as far as I'm concerned."
––––––––
The three of them sat in the study, Dan to one side, chain-smoking, his mother across from him, head bowed. Dan could never remember her holding her head up. Behind the desk, in his father's seat, Williams shuffled through papers, spreading them across the desktop. When he seemed content with their arrangement, he cleared his throat. Dan sat up straight and glanced at his mother. Head still bowed, she looked sideways at Williams, like a child who did something wrong. Dan looked back to the lawyer who nodded, then began reading.
"I Daniel Trevor Lewiston The Fourth, being of sound mind and body declare this as my last will and testament. As has been my habit in business matters, I will be succinct. To my dutiful wife Elizabeth I leave the house, all my worldly possessions and all of my investments and interests, with the exception of my wardrobe."
Dan gasped, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach. He looked at his mother. She put her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook.
"She may handle things as she sees fit, provided that she lets none of it fall into the hands of my worthless namesake."
Another punch.
The feeling in Dan's stomach shifted from icy hollowness to the familiar boiling rage that accompanied all of his dealings with his father. Even from the other side of death, the old serpent had put a chokehold on him. He glared at Williams who appeared to sink deeper into his chair.
"To my worthless son I leave my entire wardrobe so he can learn to be a successful man on his own. Clothes make the man. With this gift he can dress for success and make something of himself."
Trying to control me with his clothes! Dan thought. Like he did with everyone. With his goddamned clothes! He jammed his cigarette into the ashtray, sending up a flurry of sparks, then stormed out of the room leaving his mother behind, sobbing.
Anger raging, Dan stopped at the first bar he came to and ordered a double scotch and water. He downed it and ordered another. The bartender gave him a sideways glance with the third, but when Dan glared at him, he shrugged and said nothing.
God damn that cold-blooded old reptile, Dan thought as the numbness of the scotch took effect. He thought of his relationship with his father, playing back scenes from his childhood. Why couldn't things have been different? His anger dissipated into sadness, not because he had lost his father, but because he never had one. His family history was nothing more than a power struggle that dad always won. Even after he died, he was still trying to win. Dan drained his drink and rose from the barstool. His head spun. He held onto the bar to steady himself, then drove back to his apartment, stopping first at a liquor store.
He stayed drunk the next day, nursing himself through the funeral with a hidden flask. He barely remembered the reception. When it ended, he managed to drive himself home, stagger up the stairs and fumble for his keys, gasping when he opened the door to find his living room stacked full of huge boxes.
He saw an envelope taped to the corner of the one nearest him. He tore it off and unfolded a short note written on his father's letterhead:
––––––––
In spite of what you think, you are wrong to blame your father for your misfortunes. Your failures are entirely of your own making. He only tried to help. This delivery is his wish. You know how important it was for him to be prompt in his business matters.
Regards,
Philip C. Williams—Attorney At Law
––––––––
"My father's wish. My father's wish. Fuck my father! What about my wishes?" He ripped the note in half and kicked one of the boxes. "What about my wishes, you self-centered old prick?" He kicked again. "What about my wishes?" he screamed, launching himself at the pile of boxes, punching and kicking holes through them until he fell to the floor, sobbing and exhausted.
Dented and battered boxes lay strewn about. An arm from a suit hung out of one hole as if trying to escape, part of a shoe poked through another. He saw a mass of ties through a third. Breathing raggedly, Dan fought to calm himself. Other than his heavy breathing and an occasional sob, the room seemed silent.
Or was it?
He listened carefully and thought he heard a rustling sound, as if a small animal—no, several small animals—scurrying around inside the boxes. He sat up and tried to pinpoint the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from more than one place.
"What the hell? Rats? Jesus Christ, did they send me a rat's nest?" He threw a haphazard kick at the box nearest him.
The strike agitated whatever was inside, which set off the boxes around it, the excitement jumping from box to box rising into a cacophony. Dan bit his knuckle, dragged himself to his feet and staggered backward away from the quivering boxes.
A moment later the arm of the suit sticking out of the box flopped about. The tear around it grew, then the shoe came to life, kicking angrily against its box, punching its way through. The tangled mass of ties rose from their hole, swaying to and fro like hungry moray eels.
Dan opened his mouth in a strangled scream and the clothes broke free and attacked. Shirts and pants flew through the air. Ties wriggled toward him. He turned to run, but a belt tripped him, then the suit coat flew over his head and a shoe kicked him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He tumbled to the floor, gasping for breath and wrestling with the suit coat. Something slithered up under his shirt.
He pulled the coat away from his face in time to see a red silk tie weaving between the buttons on his shirt, popping them in the process. The sensation of cool silk sliding over his skin sickened him. The tie coiled on his chest like a snake, its wide end hovering in front of his face like a cobra poised to strike. He tried to scream again and the tie lunged toward his mouth.
His father's voice came from the darkness, and Dan smelled his cigar, there in the room with him. "Clothes make the man," the voice said. Dan realized that it had to be a bad dream. His father was dead.
"They made me," his father's voice continued. "Now they're going to make you. I tried my damnedest to make you follow my path, but all it got me was a heart attack. Now you'll have to follow in my footsteps whether you like it or not."
Dan felt pressure on his throat. He shook his head from side to side to rouse himself from the nightmare.
Taking a deep breath, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His feet felt strange, as if his shoes were too tight. He pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at his feet. His breath caught in his throat.
His father's shoes!
He scrambled up off the floor, switched on the light and stared wide-eyed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked impeccable, dressed in his father's favorite suit. Dazed, he reached up, absently touching the tie, and felt it tightening around his neck.
