THE CABIN IN THE WOOD by AJ CUNDER
O
n the night of my fiftieth birthday, cluttered candles on the cake still warm and smoky, I questioned Mother about her lineage. A shade passed over her, as it always did when I asked, and she withdrew to the shadows, hollow. “Best you don’t know,” was the only morsel she offered. “Not yet anyway.” She never did get the chance to tell me. The following night, my parents died in a car accident. According to the police, my father suffered a stroke, hopped the median into oncoming traffic. I afforded myself a moment of grief, a tear or two escaping, then tucked it away before it could do any more damage. What-ifs and if-onlys already hardened my heart. I had no room for more. I distracted myself with the paperwork of funeral arrangements, probate, interring my parents peacefully in the ground. I wondered if my child would call or text after I left a voicemail with the news. Instead, a few days after the burial, a lawyer rang. He gave the name of his firm, Aarne, Thompson, and Uther, est. 1857, and an address in Germany. Said there was important business regarding my mother’s estate. “I’m sorry, Mr... which one are you?” “I am Mr. Aarne,” the tinny voice came through. “Mr...” “And I am Mr. Thompson,” a voice interrupted. “Also Mr. Uther,” a third said. I swished a mouthful of bitter black coffee, my third cup that morning, from a chipped mug that irritated my lip. It was a Christmas gift years ago, the words Best Mom Ever cracked and fading after countless cycles through the dishwasher. Through my apartment window, the Hudson Valley sparkled as the sun streaked golden across the hills. Since my parents’ death, a strange unease had settled upon me, like losing an important to-do list and forgetting what was on it. That and a latent hunger that refused to abate, no matter how many egg sandwiches I made. “It is important business,” Mr. Aarne said again. Or maybe it was Mr. Uther. I couldn’t quite place the accent. German, but the inflections sounded... ancient. “Your presence is required. I do not mean to sound crude, but there is a matter of inheritance, and no insignificant sum.” I would need time off work. A reason to escape the production ledgers and account audits combing through Hershey factories. My supervisor would understand. I was grieving. I held my hand over the mug, vapors curling through fingers. “Give me two days.” 51
