Money (short story)

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“It’s not about the money.”

“Yeah, well, you sure had me fooled.”

Amnesty stopped ascending, clenching the staircase’s frigid metal railing.

“It’s not about the money. He’s my uncle.”

“If I recall,” I said briskly, imitating the autumn evening, “we’re meeting this uncle because he borrowed money from your aunt. And she can’t collect…”

“That’s not exactly...”

“…and so she’s sending you. Even though you’ve never met him before.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Amnesty took another step, then turned again to me.

“My uncle is a major real estate developer,” she said. “He doesn’t need…”

“Clearly he did, else he wouldn’t have borrowed from your aunt,” I countered. “And if this is one of his developments, I can see why.”

The three-building complex looked like any other drab trio of apartment buildings – curtained windows, flowerless lawns, and half-full parking lot – except for the staircase. Each three-story building was snaked by stairs that wrapped around it like a metal cord, dotted with landings that led to each apartment, irregularly stacked.

“Yes, he owns these buildings,” she said.

“I think I can see why he would need the money,” I observed, slowly climbing forward, passing door after door. “No tenants.”

“How do you know…”

“See these other buildings?” I said, pointing to the pair of identical structures on either side. “Lights on. Televisions flashing. People moving. And this one? Completely dark.”

“Maybe everyone went to bed early,” said Amnesty, as we walked in moonlight past one empty window after another, “and anyway, you don’t have to be so smug.”

“I’m too cold to be smug, and frankly, I’m creeped out by all of this and can’t figure out why I agreed to come along.”

“Because my apartment sits directly above yours and if you don’t help, I’ll practice midnight tapdancing.”

“Oh, now I remember,” I said. “Let’s hurry.”

Amnesty’s uncle lived in the topmost apartment in the center building, at the end of the staircase.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have managed this over the phone. The guy lives all the way across town from us.”

“My aunt tried that, and we’re already here, aren’t we?” she said, shivering, mostly from the cold.

“So knock,” I said, peering over the railing, wondering if I could survive the fall and deciding no.

Pause.

“Second thoughts?”

She knocked.

“How much money does your uncle owe?”

“It’s not about the money.”

She knocked again, louder.

“Is it just me, or is it too quiet up here?”

“Is it just me,” mimicked Amnesty, “or is someone getting nervous?”

“Not ‘getting’ nervous. I am nervous. He’s not home, it’s way too dark, let’s get out of here.”

She pulled a notepad from her purse and started scratching a note.

“Don’t write a novel,” I said, again glancing over the railing, again wondering why she couldn’t have come during the daytime. “Stick with ‘sorry we missed you, call me’.”

She turned the page over and continued writing on the other side.

“He’s family,” she explained, as she added a fresh sheet.

“Family that you’ve never met,” I reminded her.

She moved on to a third sheet.

“Sign it and go.”

She kept writing.

“Sign!” I snapped, grasping for the pen.

The ballpoint tumbled off the staircase to the leafpiles below.

“I liked that pen,” she frowned, taping the note to the door.

As she pushed the note against the door, it slid open, barely, into the black apartment.

“He left it unlocked…”

“And he’s not home, so we’re leaving,” I said, seizing her arm.




“You’re sure that he’s here tonight?”

“I already told you that I called to confirm.”

“So you’ve talked with this uncle, finally.”

Amnesty kept climbing the staircase.

“You have talked with him, yes?”

“I talked with my aunt,” she said, without turning around, “and she insisted he would be home tonight.”

I almost turned around then and there.

“Amnesty, if her ex-husband owes so much money…”

“It’s not about the money, and they weren’t married,” she corrected. “Uncle’s from my dad’s side, aunt’s from my mom’s. And you know my aunt lives overseas and can’t be here in person.”

“But she can lend from a distance.”

“If you’re trying to get me to leave you behind next time, you’re doing a good job.”

“I’m guessing there will be a next time,” I said, counting the stream of darkened windows as we climbed the steps. “The place is still empty.”

I looked nextdoor and stopped.

“Hey, Amnesty, hold up a minute.”

She kept walking.

“Amnesty, check nextdoor,” I said, catching up with her at the top.

“Look, my uncle took the note,” she said, knocking at the barren door.

“Yes, and look at the next building,” I pointed. “Dark. Everyone’s gone.”

This apartment building and the one across were dark and silent. The third building in the complex was bright with activity.

“Power outage,” she decided.

“Maybe that’s why he borrowed the money – to pay the electrical bill.”

“It’s not about the money!”

“Then you don’t have to keep knocking.”

Amnesty stopped, embarrassed.

“I hope he heard me.”

“I think everyone in the complex heard you,” I said. “Assuming there’s anyone to hear.”

Pause.

“I wonder if it’s unlocked again.”

“Don’t check.”

She checked. It was.

“Let me see if…”

“We are most certainly not going to prowl around an abandoned apartment in the bad part of town.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping and…”

“And he slept through your knocking and keeps all his lights off even though your aunt insists he’s home? Let’s go, Amnesty!”




We sat in the car in the empty parking lot, our highbeams the only light.

“They’re all dark now,” she said, breaking the silence.

“Maybe another ‘power outage’.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” she snapped, reaching for the door handle.

“No you don’t,” I said, wrenching the car into reverse.

“But my aunt swears that tonight he’ll be there.”

“It’s been three days, Amnesty, and I’ve come to one conclusion,” I said, as she scanned the empty apartment complex for some sign of life. “That your aunt has no idea of anything.”

“That’s no way to talk about my…”

“And she’s not any good at loaning money, either.”

“It’s not about the money!”




“I’m sorry I yelled at you last night.”

“It’s OK, Amnesty,” I said, sitting next to her on our apartment steps, watching the sunset. “I was rude. My fault.”

Pause.

“I talked to my aunt again.”

“Oh?”

“She said not to worry about my uncle. There must’ve been a mistake.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Did you ever see such a sunset?” I asked.

“Long ago, back home.”

“Where was that?”

“You know…overseas.”

A longer pause.

“I was talking to…”

“Ssh,” I warned.

As the sun disappeared, it became obvious that the apartment building across from our street was completely dark.




I came home late in the afternoon to find Amnesty on the steps.

“She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” I asked.

“My roommate. She’s gone.”

“To…visit family?”

“No, she’s gone. Her stuff is gone. It’s all gone.”

“Ex-boyfriend returned?”

“No, it’s gone. Everything’s gone.”

Amnesty’s tone was perfectly level. I felt ill.

“And…our neighbors in the building…”

“I’m not going back inside,” she said with exacting calm.

I looked up at the three-story complex that had served as my apartment, and Amnesty’s, for so long.

“And what about my roommate?” I asked.

“Not here,” she said. “Haven’t seen anyone.”

I turned around and looked at the building across the street. No cars in its parking lot, or ours, except mine.

“I called my aunt,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“I asked for his phone number and I got it. So I called him.”

“Last night?”

“Two nights ago. The third time we went to his home.”

“What your aunt thinks is his home.”

“She’s gone.”

“Your aunt?”

“No,” she said blankly. “My roommate, remember?”

I looked at Amnesty, then at our apartment building, then back at her.

“Let’s take a drive.”




“I need to tell you something,” she said, as we got out of the car. The three dark buildings loomed large in the darkness.

I pulled out of the trunk the biggest, heaviest flashlight I had ever purchased, and passed it to Amnesty.

“Hold this,” I said, keeping a tire iron for myself, along with a blowtorch I’d saved for one reason or another.

“Look,” she said, flipping the light on, “I know you don’t care about money, but…”

“What is it with your aunt and money?” I demanded, wading through the unswept autumn leaves that clung to the complex.

“It’s not about the money!” she flared, finding the central building’s staircase and beginning the iron ascent. “But I’ve been scared…and you’re the best friend I’ve had…”

“I was happy to help,” I lied, shaking like the leaves that littered the stairs.

“I met with the lawyer today,” she said, as we passed one bleak doorway after another, tracing past curtainless windows.

“Your aunt is not going to get any of her money back.”

“I know that,” said Amnesty, step by moonlit step. “It wasn’t for my aunt. It was for me. And you.”

“For me?”

“You’re the only one I can trust,” she said, flashlight shaking.

“And that, Amnesty, is why I’m walking into who-knows-what with nothing more than a stick and a blowtorch,” I said. “If I faint, please catch me before I fall off these stairs.”

“Long way down,” she said, unable to laugh.

We finished the staircase in silence.

“Well, here we are,” I said glibly, deeply sorry to have reached the top. “Let’s see if your uncle is really here.”

“I know he’s here,” said Amnesty.

“Why?”

“I talked to him, remember?”

She turned the doorknob.

“Drat,” I said, squeezing the tire iron. “Unlocked.”

Amnesty pushed the door wide into the apartment, flicking the light around its empty interior.

“Empty.”

“Let’s check inside.”

I reached my arm in and fumbled for the lightswitch. No light.

“I changed my mind, Amnesty,” I said, backing off. “Give me the flashlight and I’ll go inside first.”

“All right,” she said, but not letting go of the flashlight.

I stayed put.

“I changed my mind again,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

“Home to what?”

I felt ill again and leaned against the railing. It was a long way down into what looked like a sea of leaves.

“I don’t know…I don’t know what we’re doing here and…”

Amnesty went inside.

“I’m right behind you,” I said.

But I stayed outside.

“Amnesty…wait, Amnesty, come back out here…wait for me…”

I tried to shout, but my voice came like a whisper.

The flashlight flicked and flickered and flashed and dropped.

“Amnesty!”

A low gurgling sound filled the apartment.

I lunged at the doorway and then…and then I heard it and I smelled it and I saw it and I…

I slammed the door shut.

The door opened just as my back hit the railing. I lifted the tire iron and it slipped out my sweaty hands into the leafpiles below.

I did the only thing I could. I jumped.


* * * * *


“And that’s when you set fire to the building.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, still dizzy from the sedatives. “Just enough flammable material from the leaves and other debris.”

“And then you dragged yourself to safety.”

“Before passing out from the smoke. And the pain.”

“Ah, yes,” said the lawyer, tapping my body cast. “Shattered both your legs. Small price to pay, hmm?”

“For survival.”

The lawyer looked especially tall as I stared up at him from my hospital bed.

“And for millions of dollars.”

“Excuse me?” I croaked.

“You say that this Amnesty was your friend,” he continued. “How close?”

“Fairly close,” I allowed. “We were neighbors.”

“Close enough to inherit?”

“Inherit what? Her student loans?”

He pulled out a thick folder.

“Seems on the night she died, your ‘friend’ prepared a will, the first of her life, signing everything over to you.”

“She didn’t…”

“We have a statement from the preparer,” he continued. “Seems she was stressed and worried. Maybe under duress.”

“I wouldn’t have…”

“What do you know about this woman’s ‘uncle’?”

“Nothing besides what I told you.”

“Strange that you would claim he was borrowing money,” said the lawyer. “He had millions in the bank and millions more in property all across the city. Including the complex where you rent.”

“I didn’t know…”

“Though he probably knew about you, seeing as you’re three months late on rent.”

“I’m between jobs.”

“Uncle had a will too, it seems. Signed everything over to his niece, right before he died last week. Any guesses who that niece was? Here’s a hint: burned to death.”

“But Amnesty never said anything about…last week?”

“Heart attack. Stroke. Something like that.”

“But that doesn’t make…”

“You asked me to represent you, so listen to me,” he said, leaning close. “Your legs may never work again. You have burns all over your body. Your lungs will take a month to clear out. And do you know what? I don’t care. I won’t take your case. I’m lawyer enough to know there’s no court in the world that’ll sustain that will. You killed her for nothing.”

“I told you everything that happened! I had to kill it! I had to!”

Two nurses walked in, rolling another burn victim into the room.

“You call her an ‘it’? All this just to get some money,” he spat, turning to leave.

“It’s not about the money!”

The new patient gurgled his assent.

 

I quite, quite liked the story, right up to the hospital scene.

However I sort of struggled through that last part. (I understand what you were going for, but it didn't hit me on the first read. Somehow I had to stop and reread the last scene for it all to sink in. Usually, the last paragraphs of your stories simply flow in my head.) This is just my humble opinion, though, and hardly worth anything.

The mood was excellent. The vacant buildings part... very nice.

 

I admit, I'm not happy with the ending either...but I'm not sure where else to take it. I was writing the story and got to the end and thought, "Is THAT what happens?!?" But the story goes as the story goes...I just follow a few steps behind with the keyboard.

 

I agree with dmc and Loreseeker. As always, you do a great job of setting a mood. Like Loreseeker, I really enjoyed the story up until the hospital scene, which seemed a bit disconnected from the rest of the story. I’m sure there is a fair amount of symbolism going on here (thus explaining why I’m somewhat confused, because I’m crappy when it comes to figuring out symbolism), but there were some unanswered questions -- The whole vacant darkness thing seems unresolved. I’m not sure who (or what) this gurgling patient is supposed to be (other than presumably the one responsible for the same noise in the apartment). And who exactly is Amnesty supposed to be (or represent)?

Like I said, I’m dense.

 

Splunge: 90% of your posts contradict your denseness.

The Grey Magistrate has the ultimate answers.

Therefore, just to check if I got the story right, I'll put my opinion on your questions here, so that Grey can help me out too, if I'm wrong.

The vacant darkness - late Uncle's doing
The gurgling patient - The Uncle, or someone with similar story/experience as the main character (another "Uncle" is out there) (the second option is statistically less probable, but it was what crossed my mind on the first read, actually)
Amnesty - just Amnesty, I guess

Of course, there's always the option that the character made it all up and that the lawyer is right, which would make the other patient a random burn victim. - not my opinion, but possibility.

I'm lousy with symbolism and have the above to prove it.

 

Sorry, no deep symbolism in this one. I had to escort a friend of mine to collect cash from an uncle she'd never met before and who was living at the top floor of this outdoor apartment complex, and the experience was so creepy that I knew it had to go in a short story. I like to write stories with an untrustworthy first-person narrator, and so I thought up the idea of a story where we follow the narrator through what seems like an unbelievable monster story, and then realize at the end that the story really is unbelievable.

Trouble is, I was too clever by half...this story has two twists, the first when we think that the guy was maybe making it all up, and then at the end when the gurgling patient makes us think that he wasn't making it up. And then I made it worse by giving Amnesty that peculiar conversation when she's watching the sunset and talking vaguely about life "overseas". That's the part when I, writing the story, started to get really creeped out and thought...maybe the narrator isn't making it up. I'm the writer and even I don't know!

But if I had to guess, I would go with Loreseeker here. Blame the darkness on the Uncle; the new patient is the Uncle; and Amnesty is just plain ol' Amnesty. (She's named after one of my IWD2 characters. No symbolism there, either.)

 

So in other words, 10% confirm it.

And Grey's most recent post adds more confirmation. I guess I was just trying to read more into the story than what was intended, because he just sets the bar so high. (No pressure there. No siree )

 

Ah, Splunge -- if you are so complimentary in your critiques, then how can I hope to stay humble if I ever write something really excellent?

A question: did you assume that the narrator was male? I tried to write it such that the narrator could have been either, figuring that a man reading it would assume he was male and a woman reader would assume she was female. But I showed it to some ladies and they one and all assumed the narrator was a man.

 

I thought he was a man.
(From the first moment of the story, actually. The thought that the character is female never crossed my mind.)

Maybe because Amnesty asked the character to accompany her? Also, I'm having a hard time imagining a woman jumping so readily over the top floor rail, but that's just me, probably. The way the lawyer talks to the character, the way the character talks back... all says male to me.




(I'm female, btw.)

 

And I thought the narrator was female. Probably something to do with the character's reaction to being in the unsettling situations made me think female, but now Loreseeker points it out, the lawyer-talk was more masculine.

Out of interest, have all the males that have seen it assumed the character was female?

Nope, logically 10% don't contradict your denseness- doesn't mean that they must confirm it. Could be neither here nor there.

 

Well, I'll break the trend here - I thought it was a man, basically for the exact same reasons as Loreseeker. Plus, and I know this sounds sexist, but I don't usually associate women with tire irons and blowtorches (my second girlfriend notwithstanding).

So I'm siding with the ladies here - does this mean I'm really female? Or does it mean that there's more truth to my current signature than I realized?

Trust me - it confirms it.

Edit: Is it just me, or is my signature not showing in this post? It shows in my other posts.

[It helps if you don't untick "Show my Signature" under the post's Additional Options. -Tal]

[That's odd - I never even knew that option existed. I must have somehow clicked it by mistake, although given that it's a very small box, I'm not sure how that's even possible. Thanks Tal. - Splunge]

[Edit 2 - Since I changed it (again), the above reference to my signature doesn't really make sense any more. Not that it did before.]

 

Only you can answer that for us. I strongly advise checking.

Not just you mate, it appears to have vanished. May I suggest buying a leash?

Given the way your signature is/isn't, would that be nihilism then?

 

Well, I have whiskers on my face, and a bald spot on my head. Is there anything else I should be looking for?