By Scott Holleran
Illustration by Gaetano Vicini
The Klein house was perched on a low bluff near the edge of the woods. The single-story home was the last along a secluded drive that curved along the eastern lakeshore. Though it wasn’t the most prominent property, the mid-century modern house was the most striking. Its boundary stretched into the woods. Made of limestone with a sharp, angled roof topped by a stone chimney, the simple design contrasted towering pinewoods rising on the slope behind it. From the opposite shore, the Klein property looked as though woods and lake adorned the house, not the other way around.
The home was owned by a woman whose forefather purchased the land from an old Indian who broke with his tribe. The woman had lived in the house with her husband — who now lived in a nursing home — and together they had raised three children. Mrs. Klein wasn’t as well known as her husband, Bartholomew, who went by Bart. When he wasn’t building and cultivating residents’ greenhouses, landscapes and gardens, Mr. Klein fixed snowmobiles. His wife wasn’t even as well known as her three sons. Bart’s wife and the boys’ mom was known as Betsy.
Few of the county residents knew that Betsy Klein was president of Wappakee Valley Farmers and Merchants Bank. Some knew that she had died last week in a plane crash. Hardly anyone knew that she had been diagnosed with end-stage brain cancer. Even fewer knew that she’d been to the nation’s top hospital. No one knew that she’d fought for her life — and was denied treatment — until the end. Today was Betsy Klein’s memorial.
The air was cold. Snow had fallen the night before. Betsy’s oldest son, Harry, had awakened at dawn and shoveled a path. Betsy’s youngest son, Richard, had poured the sand and salt along the path, which led from the lake house to the woods, ending at a snow mound close to shore, where Betsy’s middle son, Dominick, had arranged and covered chairs in the clearing.
Betsy’s three sons were seated there now. Their father and a few guests would join them later inside. The sons wore coats, boots, and gloves. Their mother had expressed a desire to be remembered at home, where the boys were raised.
Harry took the urn from Richard, who’d taken it from Dominick. He held it in his gloved hands, staring into the woods. Despite the new blanket of snow, he could make out his mom’s favorite trail. He looked to the lake. Harry Klein turned to his brothers. He smiled.
A moment later, they rose. Boots on the frozen ground near the shore, snowdrifts blowing, they took turns reaching inside, letting Betsy’s ashes be swept by the wind. Betsy’s sons watched as her remains disappeared in twists above the frosted lake. Soon, they would walk back to the house to join the other guests, one of whom had known Betsy as a passenger on the doomed plane. Another knew Betsy as a terminally ill patient. Another hated Betsy. Another knew her as his wife. None of them knew that Betsy had written a will as the crippled jet made its final descent.
How could they? There had been no talk of a will. Betsy rarely spoke of her terminal illness. She spoke less about her estate. She’d never mentioned a will. “Cremate me,” she’d answered Richard, her youngest son, when he put the question to his mother a few weeks after the diagnosis. “Toss what’s left over the lake.”
“Here they come,” said Harry’s wife, Rebecca, to her father-in-law, as she stood by the backyard window. Betsy’s sons filed down the path, one by one, walking back to the house.
Dominick Klein led the way. Dr. Klein had graduated with a Ph.D in philosophy on the same day that his mother was promoted to the bank’s vice-presidency. That was the day that Dominick, who had divorced in his early twenties, had signed his second divorce.
“I’m 39, Mom,” the scholar had said to Betsy that evening in the kitchen. He had felt defeated and raw. He remembered that she had taken his hand. “You think you’re a failure,” Betsy had said, leaning in as Dominick held her gaze. “It will take more than a couple of divorces and a Ph.D. to bring you down,” she told her middle son, gripping his hand. “Stand tall, Dom,” she’d said. “Remind yourself who you are.”
Dominick later realized that he had never been in love. Nor had he been loved. At life’s early to mid-mark, he knew that he’d spent most of his life studying. His brother Harry was handsome and athletic. His brother Richard was a published author. Right now, Dominick remembered that he had kissed his mother’s hand in the kitchen.
He had gone on to settle with his wealthy ex-wife Gail. He knew that he’d pursued and lived by a passion to examine, master and teach philosophy. Walking to the house where he’d discovered his passion, it finally dawned on Dominick Klein that his mother had been right.
Students waited for months to attend his classes. When one later became a businessman and thanked Dr. Dom in a keynote address which became known, the university press asked him to write about philosophy. Dominick’s editor was proofreading the galleys now.
“I love you, too,” his mother had replied to her son’s kiss, smiling and considering her middle son. “Your work’s not like your dad’s,” she said. “It isn’t easily observable. It’s like banking. It takes time to prosper. You may be gone by then.” Betsy added in a gentler tone: “You ought to come to accept this.”
As Dominick approached the house, he recalled the time his mother had been named bank president. Everyone was in the living room drinking, toasting and celebrating. Dominick had stepped into the kitchen for another bottle of Champagne. He’d lingered there for a minute until he heard his mother’s voice.
“You’ve ideas,” she’d slowly told him from the doorway. “The best ideas make progress possible. Keep thinking,” she’d said. “Don’t stop asking why. Whatever happens, keep thinking.”
His mother had always encouraged him. Dominick pushed the sliding glass door and stepped into the house. Suddenly, Betsy’s face as he saw it when she ran toward him in a pine tree flashed before him.
“Mom!!” Dominick had called out for her from the tree on the forest edge when he had finished conducting a physics experiment. “Newton’s right! I figured he was. Now, I know it!!”
“Bravo!” Betsy exclaimed while running toward him in the pine tree. Dominick could summon the memory of his mother’s face, which at once exuded thrill, joy and pride.
Behind Dominick trudged Harry Klein. Betsy’s strapping oldest son kept pace despite a slight limp. Harry had injured an ankle while skiing. With his father’s dark features, his mother’s math ability and a troubled, hard-earned past, the broad-shouldered, six-foot-three-inch business owner had mastered both business and sport.
Harry recalled his first time on skis — with his mother behind him.
“Keep your knees straight!” Betsy called to four-year-old Harry on a cross country trail near the lake. He would learn that, while his mom was not a good teacher, he could learn by watching her ski.
At 42, Harry Klein had worked for the bank, where he’d met Rebecca, for nine years. He later worked in landscaping, balancing books for his dad’s repair and gardening business until Bart retired five years ago. But Harry knew he was never happier working than when he styled hair. It took him four years to make money. It was another three years before he could afford to buy his own business.
Harry Klein’s Beauty Parlor and Barber Shop became downtown’s most profitable business. Though he hired more barbers and employed more workers than any downtown business except the bank, what mattered most to him was enjoying his work. The shop had become a kind of town gathering place.
Harry also lived to enjoy time to play. This, he knew, sorting his thoughts, began in earnest with Betsy. Year after year, season after season, he watched his mom dismount the ski lift and glide down the slopes at Montague Mountain. Betsy skied in perfect form, with agility, control and command. Harry Klein marveled at his mother’s athletic skill.
When they’d meet later at the lodge, she’d greet her son with a smile, peeling off her goggles, hat and gear.
“Hot chocolate?” Betsy would ask just off the slopes, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“Yes, please.” Teen-aged Harry would smile in reply, a bit sheepishly, in awe of his mother’s skill.
“How’d you do?”
“OK I guess.”
His mother would let a minute or two pass, looking over the lodge menu. Then, she’d turn, fold her arms and lean into her oldest son to ask: “Now, I want to know—did you enjoy the run?”
Harry would nod. Walking into the lake house now, he could not recall a time when he didn’t remember enjoying himself at play. He had often reached a sense of euphoria. A few times, he’d felt elated. Exactly three times, he’d felt exalted. In each instance, Harry knew this was rare.
His mother Betsy always minded and nourished her son’s joy.
“Good,” she’d say, putting down the menu. “Otherwise, there’s really no point to skiing.” She’d wink at Harry before turning to the waitress and ordering grilled cheese sandwiches and hot cocoa.
This Harry carried more than any lesson throughout his life — at jobs and in marriage to Rebecca, which was a chronic source of pain, and during his darkest days. Betsy taught Harry to seek and value joy.
However he’d performed on a school test, or in athletic competition, whatever the status of Harry’s romantic entanglements — Harry knew that they couldn’t honestly be called relationships — Betsy treated her oldest son as deserving of joy.
Harry remembered this now. An image of the last time he watched his mother skiing on Montague Mountain — in her yellow snowsuit with pink knit mittens and cap — twisting, curving and laughing down the slope while slicing through snow with greater mobility than anyone else on the run flashed before his eyes. Harry smiled as he entered the house. “Dibs on the salami, Richie,” Harry cheerfully turned and said to his youngest sibling.
“As usual,” good-natured Richard replied, his tone at once light and drawn out, as Harry held the door open. “You go on,” Richard said. “I’m heading to the birdhouse.”
The birdhouse was located on the painted white brick side of the lake house, the only house wall not made of limestone or glass. A small, finely crafted wooden structure had been built on a thin strip of land abutting both the adjacent property and the lake shore. Richard had handcrafted it when he was six. He had not seen the birdhouse since he’d moved out of the house. That was after he’d accepted an offer to work for the Ian Herbert estate.
Richard Klein worked for the late industrialist’s estate as an ornithologist; he’d been hired to study birds.
Rounding the corner by the side of the house, the memories poured in. He could see his mother at the birdhouse now, where she would pull the small glass knob to open the miniature door he’d cut, hinged and installed. He knew that, after he’d moved out, Betsy would go there after a swim or following a run before driving to the bank. He had checked, cleaned and restored the birdhouse for 16 of his 22 years in this house before maintenance became part of Betsy’s routine.
Richard knew that he alone knew the reason the birdhouse had been built.
As a boy, Richard’s room was filled with an assortment of die-cast metal cars and trucks as well as Indians, cowboys and soldiers. He played with them, imagining worlds in which dump trucks would move dirt to build new bridges across bodies of water — growing up on the lake fed his imagination — as his toy police cars chased criminals or soldiers defended front lines or cowboys and Indians galloped across the range.
Even then, Richard was insatiably curious. He followed his older brothers everywhere, for instance, which led to him scaling and falling into a snowdrift when he was three. Harry had heard his muffled cries and yanked him out. Another time, Richard climbed a tree he had seen Dominick navigating and fell onto his back. Fortunately, his father had been tending to the hydrangeas that summer, seen his youngest son’s fall and ran to Richard, who’d merely been winded.
Once, Richard snuck into the family station wagon and had become so fascinated with it that he nearly drove it into the lake. Betsy intervened before Richard drove it past the water’s edge. But curious Richie permanently changed after the time he followed his mother when she abruptly exited the back glass door.
Betsy stole a glance behind her as she slipped out. The sky above the lake was clear on that fall Sunday morning. The air was cool. Though he was six, Richard knew that his mother typically called out to Bart, Harry or Mrs. Hornberger, who helped with laundry and housekeeping on weekends, that she was going for a run, a swim or taking the wagon to town. Not this time.
This time, the curious child noticed something different about his mother. She was sniffling. She had been sniffling since she’d answered a phone call earlier in the week. Richie knew that Grandpa had been sick. He knew that his mom had been talking with Grandma on the phone about Grandpa. He had heard Harry say that their mom was feeling sad.
But Richard had sensed that his mom was feeling something else.
The boy followed Betsy as she strode down the stone path Bart had built which led to the woods. Hiding behind tall pine trees while his mother walked along her favorite trail, he knew that she hadn’t spotted him. He couldn’t tell what she was doing. He could see by her gait that this wasn’t her exercise run, which she usually took around dawn every morning. He could tell that she was upset. She kept looking around as if she didn’t want to be seen.
Finally, with tousled hair and wearing a sweater, slacks and boots, Betsy rounded a bend and stopped, crouching between the trees. Richard concealed himself behind a nearby pine. He watched as his mother reached down and cradled a wounded bird in her palm. She stroked its feathers. He could hear and see that she started sobbing.
He moved closer, more curious than alarmed. Hiding behind another tree, he could see that she was gathering twigs. And he could hear his mother talking to the fallen bird, which she’d placed in the nest.
“It’s OK, little one,” she told the sparrow — Richard could see it was a sparrow — “of course you’re scared.” She was sniffling. Her face was wet with tears. She wept as he had never seen his mother cry. Tears streamed from her eyes. “I’m so sorry it’s come to this, little bird.”
Richard watched his mother. Everything was quiet. It seemed to Richard as though the woods went silent for Betsy’s sorrow over the crippled sparrow. Betsy kept sobbing when she spoke again.
“Oh, my, little bird, don’t die. My darling. Please don’t die. I wish there was something I could do…”
Richie Klein couldn’t stand it anymore. He sprung from behind the pine tree and ran to his mother, calling out and insisting that she stop crying. “Mom!” He shrieked. “Don’t cry, mommy. It’ll be alright.” As she froze with shock as the nested bird lay in the palm of her hand, the boy carefully lifted the nest from her palm. “Here,” he said directly to his mother, sounding strong and sure, “let me have a look at your bird.”
That he did. He cupped and stroked the nested sparrow in his small hands. Richard never stopped tending to birds after that. Before she granted her son the responsibility of taking care of the wounded bird she’d found, she grabbed her youngest son’s wrists and she bound them together with the nested bird safely held inside his hands. In her kindest, tear-streamed face, she told him this:
“I want you to know why I am sobbing.”
The boy listened, suddenly finding himself frightened and struggling to be strong, so he nodded as his eyes welled up and his nose started running. His mother said: “My father is dying tonight,” she looked at Richard and continued, “and, because my father’s done some very bad things to me, my emotions are very, very mixed.” Betsy paused and looked into her son’s eyes for a moment. “Do you understand?”
The boy looked into his mother’s eyes and nodded, a thin, wet stream beneath his nose running past his lips, dripping from his chin.
“I want you to know that, sometimes, that which exists in nature can make you aware of emotions that are buried deep inside,” his mother continued. “That’s what little bird means to me.” Betsy smiled, as if to herself, adding: “I came across him yesterday on my run. I was going to bring him to your dad or Dr. Taylor” — that was the town’s veterinarian — “but it looked like it might be too late and, well, seeing him like this brought up those emotions.”
“It’s OK, mommy,” Richard said through sniffles. “I won’t tell.”
“Oh, Richard,” his mother smiled. “Tell whomever you want. I’m not ashamed,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Betsy sat back, planting herself on the ground. “Your grandmother never wanted to know. My sister —” she trailed off in thought. “Well, honey,” Betsy told her youngest boy, “now you know.” She released his bound wrists and ran her fingers slowly through his blond hair. “Do and tell what and whomever you choose,” she said with tenderness, warmth and love. “This is my burden. Not yours.”
Richard didn’t grasp then but did now that his mother had been damaged. He told his mom: “Sorry for whatever Grandpa did.” He meant it. Then, Richard added, “I think I can help your little bird.”
In that exact moment, Betsy knew and fully, deeply accepted that she was a good mother.
Richard fed and nursed the sparrow. He made the birdhouse for the birds in Bart’s garden. He started with a single piece of wood, cutting it with his father’s help into several sections, as Bart had taught him. Richard knew that sparrows came to the garden, so he sliced wood into a back panel, drilling a base with holes for drainage, a front section and two boards for a sloped roof to match the house.
He cut the wood with Bart’s saw, sanding the rough edges. He nailed sides to the birdhouse base, making an entrance hole for birds using a wide drill bit, sanding the edges to smoothness and making the hole large enough for birds to enter. He drilled a hole at the top to attach the birdhouse to the tree on the side of the house. Richard maintained it and never disclosed what Betsy had said.
Illustration by Gaetano Vicini
Now, he lingered for one more moment before walking back to the house.
Richard heard voices in the parlor as he came inside and he stepped into the parlor to join his older brothers. Their square-jawed father, seated in a corner, balanced his hand on a steel cane, as if poised to stand up.
“Welcome home,” Bart Klein said after a minute. “I’m sorry for not being able to attend the memorial. Doctor’s orders,” he said in a voice seasoned with age. “I know that your mom would’ve loved this.”
“I must admit that I do not,” he added. “You are fine sons, the best men a man could want to know. I miss —” Bart Klein’s voice cracked. His head fell down as his voice trailed off.
Richard, Harry and Dominick stood side by side to the left of an easel with an enlarged photograph of Betsy. They let their dad regain his composure. Harry’s wife, Rebecca, stood to the right of the portrait. Bart saw none of them. His old, gray eyes widened as he looked into the eyes in the picture. Suddenly, against years of sickness and days of misery, grief and mourning, he recalled the moment he took the photograph in the frame.
It had been the morning of Betsy’s first day as president of the bank. She was wearing the silk violet scarf he had given her and her hair was her own, not a wig’s, for the last time before she died. He had been watching his wife from the breakfast nook as she made coffee. She’d been telling him about the merger and plans for new loans and investments. Betsy, he remembered, was thrilled.
The lake, he recalled, gleamed at sunrise as a family of ducks left a ripple of waves arcing out in its wake. Betsy, in spite of the diagnosis and immersed in the newness of dawn, looked up as she poured a cup of coffee. She smiled. Hers in that moment was the most glorious smile he had ever seen. Bart reached for the camera — he had taken up photography as a hobby when she’d been diagnosed — and took the photo. Betsy’s smile became wider and wider until it became a laugh. Then, her eyes were tearing and twinkling—laughing and dancing. He took another picture.
That was the picture in the frame. This, he thought, this is my Betsy.
Just then, a small beige beast came bounding into the parlor, darting past Rebecca, sliding across the floor, panting, barking and leaping onto Bart Klein’s lap. Rebecca Klein shrieked as Bart’s head fell back in a burst of laughter. “Kenny,” he greeted the mutt, which was wagging his tail in Bart’s lap and looking up with big brown eyes. “You are a scamp,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ear. Kenny licked Bart’s arm.
“Dad, would you like Kenny to come live with you?”
The soothing voice was Harry’s. “I’ve asked the nursing home boss,” Harry explained. “He’s willing to let Kenny stay with you.” A tear welled in Bart’s eye. Kenny slowly licked Bart’s hand. And he kept on licking. “Son,” he said, “I’d like to sit by the water window.”
This is what the Kleins called the large, landscape window overlooking the lake. Harry nodded, stepping forward to help his dad get up while Bart let Kenny loose on the floor. Bart hobbled with his cane into the den.
No one spoke. Winter stillness set into the parlor. Surrounded by woods, frost and blinding white snow, four figures in black, gray and green stood or sat in silence around Betsy’s portrait. No one moved.
Harry’s wife, Rebecca, arched an eyebrow and her pleasant face belied a scowl. Her eyes darted from her husband Harry to Richard to Dominick to the doorway toward the den, where she expected at any moment Bart would return from looking out the water window followed by that fluffy beige beast.
What a stupid term, Rebecca thought, water window. It had been three year-old Richard who’d come up with the term. Dominick had chided Richard for being too literal. Her own husband was the one who’d insisted on adopting the term, ensuring that the family would call it the water window. Rebecca sunk into the chair, cursing Betsy for dying. Typical Klein, she thought, to serve a platter of cold cuts. All she could do was indulge self-pity for not being able to stifle a desire to stuff her face with sushi.
Rebecca slid lower, widening her legs, swinging her knees toward each other. Rebecca’s eyes wandered until she caught the laughing eyes of the mother-in-law she hated in the portrait. Rebecca was vaguely aware that she sneered and she hoped no one would notice.
When Bart returned, Rebecca pushed herself up — a bit. Kenny sprang into the parlor, barking in triplicate barks at the front door.
A moment later, the doorbell rang. Everyone looked to Harry, who turned to his brothers with a kind, final smile. “Here we go, boys,” he said to his brothers. “Dad,” he said. “It’s time.”
Harry went to the front door, turning the stone knob. “Please, come inside,” he said, gesturing in one sweep for the woman and child on the front porch to enter Betsy’s home. When they did, Harry closed the front door, paused and stepped into the hall.
“Please welcome Douglas and Francesca,” Harry announced. One by one, Betsy’s family lined up to greet the guests. Rebecca furrowed her prominent brow and contorted her mouth into a smile as she stepped up too quickly and said, too loudly, “I’m Rebecca Klein.”
Harry hastened his greeting. “Hello, I’m Harry,” he said with a tone of apology, extending his hand. Then, Bart, Richard and Dominick stepped up. Richard crouched to meet Douglas.
“It’s a pleasure to know you,” he said to the boy, who wore leg braces.
Dominick warmly motioned for everyone to take a seat in the parlor. Harry asked the woman to stand by Betsy’s portrait and then took a seat. This is when airline stewardess Francesca Calhoun, wearing her uniform — a pencil skirt, cropped jacket and tie — unfurled Betsy’s will. She stood and looked at those gathered in Betsy’s memory. In a gravelly drawl, Francesca explained, looking at Bart and Betsy’s sons, “I met your wife and mother, Elisabeth Klein, on the jet plane last week.” Clearing her throat, Francesca went on, as the boy in leg braces stood by. “Before we made impact, Mrs. Klein handed me her last will and testament.” Looking at Betsy’s sons, she told them: “Your mother asked me to read this aloud…”
Francesca read Betsy’s will until the end.
Rebecca gasped. “I knew it!” She cackled. “Not one dollar—”
“Stop,” Harry interjected. The severity in his voice made his wife stop.
For a few minutes, Rebecca sat red-faced while everyone sat in silence; philosopher Dominick contemplating the connection he made to grief, emotion and cognition—skier and stylist Harry deciding in that moment to free himself from a wrong marriage—ornithologist Richard thinking of harmony with nature, mankind and the world—Bart feeling happier than he’d felt in months; Betsy’s husband smiled.
Francesca smiled. The parlor was bathed in the sun’s bright, golden glare reflecting snow on the woods and iced, shimmering lake. The boy in leg braces stepped forward.
“May I please have a word?” Asked Douglas, the youth to whom Betsy Klein had left her lake house. “I still don’t accept that after everything she went through to get better and heal, her plane crashed and she’s gone. My parents let the airline and Ms. Calhoun bring me here.” He sniffled. “They let me spend time with your mom.” The boy went quiet, then said: “I learned from her—I learned about thinking, being strong and good and becoming whole. Thanks to Mrs. Klein, the system approved my medical treatment, which had been rejected and denied.”
Douglas paused, looked out the water window and, after a few minutes, went on. “I came here not really knowing about the outside world. I’m very sick. I’ve spent my life inside a hospital.” He looked down. “Mrs. Klein showed me the courage to fight for my life — she showed me her whole wonderful life.”
The boy suddenly stopped. Douglas looked down. Then, he looked up at Betsy’s sons.
“I’m don’t think it’s right to say I’m sorry,” Douglas told them. “I know Mrs. Klein was in pain. I know she wanted to get better. I know she wanted to live — but not like that,” he swallowed and closed his eyes. “I am sorry she’s gone. I miss your mom. She was my friend.”
“I know I can’t pay back what she gave me,” he looked at Betsy’s picture, “but I think I can earn it.”
Turning and re-bracing himself to the framed photograph of the one whose legacy he inherited, Douglas faced the laughing image of Betsy Klein. Douglas lifted his chin. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the beveled window glass. As he did, everyone could see that Douglas, Betsy’s boy, looked as if he beheld himself anew in the wholeness of daylight.
Award-winning author, writer and journalist Scott Holleran lived in Chicago for 21 years and writes the non-fictional Industrial Revolutions column as well as short stories. Read and subscribe to his non-fiction newsletter, Autonomia, at scottholleran.
