This manuscript was handed me by my father on his deathbed, saying it would explain everything. He pointed at several large binders and told me they contained all the information about his various investments along with the legal ownership papers. They had all been placed in my name to avoid probate and inheritance taxes. Now, it had been apparent, though none of us admitted it out loud, that the old man was failing. But handing me stuff like a will was creepy.
In a scene eerily like the one that opened his tale, he gave me the ring and fell back onto the bed. The damn thing began to glow with a weird pulsing light and I swear burned my palm even though I found no marks on my hand to show it later. I stuck it in my pocket. My father, his eyes closed, smiled and I heard very quietly, "Elizabeth." Then nothing, not even a breath. I called in the nurse my father had hired to watch him. She shook her head and pulled the sheet over him. “I guess that makes you Lord Northam,” she said.
“Oh Yeah!” I almost laughed at the ridiculos idea even though I was too stunned for any emotion at the moment. “I’m American. I know my dad was born in Britain but that’s ridiculous. At least, I think it is.” I mean, doesn’t the State Department make you give up titles and crap like that?
“Ridiculous or not, that’s what he said. Your dad told me many things as he waited for this, kind of clearing his mind I guess. Lots of girls he loved, uh huh.” She smiled and shook her head as if not quite believing what the old man had said. “He told me that the ‘Lordship’ was mostly companies and stocks anymore. He even sold off the Manor in England because of the taxes, so it is all money and investments. You’re rich,” she said.
“What?”
“Talk to his lawyers. He said he left you everything,” she said. “I told him he could adopt me but he just laughed.”
I smiled inwardly, since we have all had that dream. Could it be true? I felt the ring hum in my pocket and looked at the binders. I knew he hadn’t put everything in his will because that would have been traceable. The old man was wily, I knew that. These last few years, he had let me in on a few things that reeked of being over the line, numbered bank accounts, things like that. I was willing to bet those binders were the only way to trace all of the investments. How many names did he use? How many countries did they mention?
That evening, I pulled out the testament and read it. I was stunned, disbelieving, intrigued, lustful, aghast, and skeptical. You name the emotion; I felt it, and the ring, as I read his words. I pulled the ring out of the desk drawer where I had thrust it to get it from my sight. It truly was an ugly thing and the stones completely undistinguished. I had seen better looking crap come from a Cracker Jacks box.
I must admit, with trepidation, (and why should a twenty-first century man fear an ugly ring? Haven’t we progressed beyond such demons and witches of the mind? Don’t we live in an age of reason?) I slipped the ring on. I felt nothing and I have to admit I sighed in relief.
I knew my family was comfortable; after all we lived in a nice section of Manhattan and owned a nice condo, but it wasn’t Central Park West. I had gone to a private school and then on to Columbia, but rich? We never did the things that rich people did. We didn’t jet set off to Monaco. We weren’t invited to the parties. I’d never met Donald Trump.
I wore the ring the next day and had a grand time telling everyone at the office that I was now a Lord and the proper form of address was, Your Lordship. We all had a good laugh. I was wearing it when I ran into Jessica, a tall statuesque aloof blonde whom I had lusted after for years. In this age of sexual harassment, I had never dared approach her for a date as even a hint of sex can bring the wrath of the thought police and lawyers.
She had heard the story and wanted to see this ugly ring. I showed it to her. As she stared at the ring, I felt somehow connected to the ring. A strange feeling swept into me. As Jessica looked up, I felt my mind surge and I said, “Why don’t you join me for dinner?”
She looked surprised, then a smile came to her face, “I’d love to. Friday?”
“I’ll pick you up.” And the date was set.
After Jessica left, I stared at the ring, now so banal. I would see if this ring really did have the powers my father had written of. Could I be rich and with a magic ring? This is the Twenty-first century. Things don’t really happen like that, do they?
I began to wonder what life would be like in the year 2500. Could I really live till then? I picked up the testament of Jeremy Northam and held it. Truth? What is truth? Only time would tell. But I knew I would not make the mistakes of my father. I do love women, all of them, and I will show as many as I can my love. Maybe if I use it enough I could make it till 2700. How many women can you love in 700 years?
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Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2012