Power of Attorney

All seven members of the Sanders family entered the room. It was dark, barely lit by a candelabra sitting in a corner behind an ancient mahogany desk. Cobwebs hung from its intricate ironwork and swayed up and down gently, seeming to reach for the heat cast by the candles only to retreat toward the cool, stone floor. Despite the thermostat hanging next to the room’s lone door reading seventy-eight degrees, the room felt ice cold.

At the desk sat Bitters. He was the lawyer to the family matriarch, Gertrude Sanders. To her heirs, he looked much older than the mahogany desk and quite a bit paler than usual. Which was saying something!

Bitters detested the Sanders family, save for one. Malcolm, or as everyone called him, Mal, was the only one the ancient lawyer could stomach. Indeed, he rather liked the child. Mal never gave his beloved employer any trouble. Gertrude Sanders had left a small black notebook with her last will and testament on the very desk at which Bitters sat. He knew what it contained, and he felt bad for Mal.

"I've called you here today to be witness to the Last Will and Testament of Gertrude Beatrice Sanders. She left this notarized notebook, dated December 28, 2010, three days before her departure from this world, with instructions as to the disposal of her estate. I've read the instructions contained herein. I shall read them to you now."

All in the family leaned forward. Greed radiated from the eyes of everyone except Mal. Only the soft gleam of tears reflecting the dim light of the candelabra could be seen in his eyes. Bitters felt a tug of sympathy for the young lad. And he knew that Gertrude Sanders only had affection for Mal. She was well aware of the greedy and bullying nature of the rest of her family. Mal was the sole grandchild who wanted nothing but the love and attention of Gertrude. He’d never asked for anything other than that.

Bitters started the recorder.

“Today’s date is January 2, 2011.”

I, Gertrude Beatrice Sanders, being of sound mind and body, leave the entirety of my estate to my son, Jeffrey David Sanders. The value of the estate shall mature, with the funds becoming available for distribution on January 1, 2021. Jeffrey is to divide the assets amongst the remaining members of his immediate family, save for one member. Malcolm Sanders is to receive nothing from these proceedings.

The only stipulation to the dispatch of this will is as follows: Should my lawyer, James Fillmore Bitters, predecease the reading of this will, the terms are null and void. The estate will revert to the control of the Gertrude Sanders Charitable Foundation.

It crushed Mal. He was too young to really care about the money. Being left out of the will entirely by the person he loved most in the world was the only thing his eight-year-old mind could focus on. His family members were elated, of course. They'd hit the jackpot! They all guessed the old bat was worth a couple hundred grand. Thirty thousand each! Sure, it was ten years away, but that just meant they could play now and pay later!

David, Mal's older brother (and chief tormentor) pointed at Mal, laughed, and said, "See what you get for being a brown-nose!"

Mal was too much of a gentle soul to respond in kind to his brother's taunt. He pretended to laugh and take it all in stride, though his insides were roiling with anger and sadness. Why had Gramma done this to him? What had he done to make her so mad? Why do good things happen to bad people? It made no sense.

The members of the Sanders family all gave each other a congratulatory high-five. Malcolm, of course, was left out of the celebration. No one, other than Bitters, seemed to care. His heart ached for the poor boy. But there was only so much he could do at the moment. He regretted it was his time to move on.

Mal stayed seated while the remaining members of his family scooped up their winter coats and got ready to leave. Bitters watched silently from behind the ancient mahogany desk. Never drawing a breath as he watched the greedy members of the Sanders family exit, one by one, from the room.

“Mal, let’s go! It’s dark out and it’s snowing. We need to get going before the roads are too slippery!”

“Okay, dad. I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to ask Mr. Bitters about Gramma.”

Jeff Sanders rolled his eyes, “Don’t take forever, kid.” Mal’s dad slammed the door behind him.

“What do you need to know about your grandmother, Malcolm?” Bitters asked.

“Was my Gramma mad at me when she died, Mr. Bitters?”

“Why do you ask that, Malcolm?”

“Well, not that I wanted anything from her—I didn’t—but I don’t get why she would give everything to everyone else in the family and not me. I don’t know,” he looked down at his lap, kneaded his hands, and said, “I just feel like she must have been mad at me, or something.”

Bitters took his time before answering. He had plenty to spare now. Mal waited. He was too patient and polite to rush the old lawyer. After a time, Bitters said, “Malcolm, you must realize that you are the one person left in this world that meant anything to your grandmother. She often spoke of you with the highest regard. Her last words on this earth, to me, were, ‘I hope this isn’t too tough on Mal. I love that boy so much, Bitters. See that he is taken care of…’ And then she left your world.”

When Bitters offered nothing more, Malcolm said, “I don’t understand, Mr. Bitters. Why would she not leave me anything? I mean, like, not even some toys or something. Or maybe a letter saying goodbye? I don’t care about her money. It’s like she forgot about me.”

“I assure you, Malcolm, your grandmother did not forget you. All I can tell you is to give it some time. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

When Bitters offered nothing else, Malcolm thanked him, grabbed his coat, and walked slump-shouldered through the dark room towards the door. He turned to wave goodbye to Mr. Bitters, but the lawyer had already left.

10 Years Later

January 2, 2021

Malcolm Sanders returned home from Africa. He had volunteered for the Peace Corps as soon as he graduated from high school. He had always wanted to help others and decided that joining the Corps was a good way to do that and enhance his resume before his freshman year at college. His Gramma would have been proud.

He had long since forgiven his Gramma for omitting him from the will. He figured she had her reasons and someday, when he was older and wiser, he would understand the reasoning behind them.

As he approached the walkway to the tiny studio apartment he shared with his girlfriend, he noticed a package sticking out of his mailbox slot. It was a plain, manila-colored shipping envelope. He figured it was probably the ear buds he’d ordered on-line a few days ago. When he removed it from the slot, however, it felt too heavy to be just ear buds. And it was cold to the touch, despite an unusually warm January day.

The envelope was addressed: Master Malcolm Sanders. There was no return address. Seeing his name with the title of “Master” seemed so formal and foreign to him. It reminded him of his Gramma’s lawyer. He couldn’t recall the old guy’s name.

He continued up the walk with his mail and entered the apartment. Darcy wasn’t home yet. He had the place to himself. He sat at the couch, kicked off his sneakers, and placed the envelope on the battered wooden coffee table.

Malcolm studied the package. The middle of it was raised and appeared to be concealing something rectangular. He lifted it by the edge and peeked underneath. Nothing out of the ordinary. The only other remarkable characteristic, aside from the protruding rectangular shape within, was how battered and worn the envelope seemed to be. It looked old, and the ink that comprised the address was quite faded. The postmark in the upper right-hand corner read January 1, 2011. That was weird.

Malcolm ripped open the package and dumped its contents onto the table. Three items rested before him: A rectangle sealed in thick, black plastic; a plain, white envelope; a newspaper clipping folded in half. Mal opened the envelope first.

It read:

Dearest Malcolm,

I hope you are well, Mal. You were the apple of my eye and the light of my life. I didn’t leave you anything in the will when you were a boy because, at that age, I feared anything material would spoil the kind, gentle, forgiving soul that I know you are. Now that you are old enough to understand, and no doubt responsible enough to handle it, I’ve arranged to have your inheritance forwarded to you. It is in the box that should have accompanied this letter. I know you will use it wisely. I love you, Mal. I always have. As for the rest of the family … well, let’s just leave it at that.

Eternally yours,

Gramma.

Tears welled in Mal’s eyes. Gramma hadn’t forgotten him after all! All the questions and all the hurt fell from his soul in that moment. The part of him that had felt empty for years was now filled.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, placed the letter on the table, picked up the rectangular box covered in plastic, and ripped it open. It was a plain, silver-colored box. There was a lip clasp on its front that was easily pushed up, revealing the contents inside. It was a large stack of hundred-dollar bills. Malcolm couldn’t believe his eyes. He counted the stack. There were two hundred of them! Twenty! Thousand! Dollars! The first thing he thought of was making a donation to his favorite charity. Not all of it, of course. He was generous, but he wanted a Play Station 5 … badly.

Lastly, he unfolded the newspaper clipping. It was an obituary listing.

It read:

James Fillmore Bitters

August 2, 1923 - January 1, 2011

Beloved husband of Elise Morganstern Bitters

Beloved father of James Fillmore Bitters, Jr.

Devoted curator of the Gertrude Sanders Charitable Foundation.

James Fillmore Bitters leaves behind three grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.

Something about the obituary struck Mal as odd. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He went into his room, dug out a box he kept buried in his closet, and rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for.

Malcolm was always a sentimental sort. He could never throw away anything he’d received as a gift. This included the calendars his Gramma would always give him at Christmas. He found the one he was looking for and opened it to the first month of the year for 2011. Every day of the year was marked with an event. He liked to open up the calendars once in a while and reminisce. Any date would do. Mal would flip them open, close his eyes, and let his finger land on a random date. Today, only one date concerned him. January 2, 2011. The date of the reading of Gramma’s will. The day after James Fillmore Bitters had died.