Zinnias

Chapter two: Knocks

The crackle of my radio. Something jazzy spiraling through the house. My hands made raw by potent cardboard. A dusty Sunday morning.

I held an expensive-looking urn to the light and inspected it for cracks. A conclusion arose that my grandmother had owned an insatiable amount of money and simultaneously had no sense to preserve any of her luxuries. Edges of the furniture were scuffed, bottles of lavish wine sat open and spoiled in the cellar, a pearl bracelet lay abandoned under a side table, and countless other painful shows of my grandmother's poor maintenance skills. The thin wad of pounds in my pocket panged a little.

I was lucky in the way of work, or so was rather adamantly told to me. "An opportunity like this is not to be squandered," my mother had said over the phone, muffled by what sounded like a hearty room of cigars and adultery.

An opportunity, because to call it employment of any kind would've been incredibly generous. I was apprenticed to a prehistoric family friend, an elderly man by the name of Markus Heimlich. He payed me to help his bookkeeping business, in seemingly random amounts based arbitrarily on how he thought I performed. Once, I had apparently exhibited a "fatal seriousness better suited to a librarian", which he informed me of very poshly and decked half my salary for. I was in no position to complain, however, especially considering his lenience when I mentioned my being gone for a week. It was a delirious sort of lenience, as he seemed to think I was venturing somewhere remote and tropical. "You watch out for them sculpins. Dreadful critters, they are," was his recurring advice.

Anyhow, I was beginning to see some truth is that supposed luck of mine. As I filtered through jewelry boxes and lifted shimmering gem earrings (the likes of which I could hardly remember my grandmother ever donning), the urge to sell it all and live care-free on an exotic island was tempting. To wear expensive silks and be fanned with palm leaves and never lay eyes on a packet of two-minute noodles ever again. That these treasures had just been given to me so quickly, so easily, was incomprehensibly thrilling. Yet, when thoughts of high-heels and diamonds brimmed my mind, they were always quickly tainted by guilt. "To do with what is rightful," said my grandmother's will, echoing in my mind like a stern parent. It seemed she had a very solid definition of 'what was rightful', which was the worrying bit. What if I decided that my interpretation of the word included charcuterie platters and excessively red lipsticks? Perhaps I was afraid that she would haunt me if I gave in and indulged myself.

Although, in some ways, she already did. I came across pieces of her everywhere; a bowl of empty pistachio shells, half-burned candles, scribbles on thick parchment that were neatly penned but ideologically illegible. All reminders of her strange existence. But there was one encounter that stuck out as particularly harrowing.

It wasn't uncommon for me to come across a room that I had never before set foot in. After all, I had been quite the anti-social child and had remained, for the most part, in the confines of that spare bedroom. The house was built in such a manner that it seemed to spiral in on itself; one room would lead onto the next and the pattern would continue in endless circularity. On occasion, a particularly large parlour would branch off into several different rooms, and then I would have an unsteady moment of confusion before finding my bearings. It was a dizzying system, but one that I was becoming accustomed to traversing.

It was one such situation that led to the discovery of an exceedingly odd room. It was cramped, leading off from a short passage. The moment I walked in, or maybe even from the second I opened the door, I was made distinctly aware of a change in gravity. Suddenly feeling a good lot heavier, I tentatively flicked on a light switch.

There, facing in my direction, was an old, quilted armchair. I froze in the doorway, wanting terribly to turn the light off again and pretend I hadn't found it. Perhaps, to an outsider, it would seem silly that I reacted so. Admittedly, the thing itself was very unassuming; covered in worn fabric and passively awaiting time's terminal toll. But it felt to me like ogling a corpse. The details of my grandmother's death were relayed to me by a monotone Mr. Fernstein; she was found by a caretaker not hours after passing, dead in a lonely armchair.