Death Duties

The other day, Amanda and I were walking to our local chai-beng stall for lunch. We took our usual shortcut from the condo through the neighbouring HDB block. We were chatting. Well, at least I was, rabbiting on about how I hoped my siblings and I never quarreled over our parents’ estate when they died.

            “Though history isn’t on our side,” I said, sidestepping a bra that had fallen to the ground from someone’s laundry above. “When my mother’s father died, they laid out his body in the living room where people came to pay their respects. Apparently, all the brothers and sisters were in the next room for the reading of the will.”

            “Wait, the body was in the living room?” Amanda said. She glanced up. “Who does that?”

            “Old-fashioned families. My grandparents were laid out at home.”

            “How could you ever sit in that room and watch TV again?” Amanda said. She glanced up again.

            “So anyway,” I went on, “my mother and all her siblings were fighting, accusing each other of getting too much money. My First Aunt said that because my grand-dad had given Mother a car for her graduation, the value of that car should be taken out of her share of the estate.”

“That’s harsh!” Amanda murmured. I caught her looking up again.

“Tell it. And then my First Uncle said, yeah, well, since Father sent you to Yale, should we take the cost of that education off your share too?”

“Good point!” Amanda said.

“They never spoke to one another again for, like, 20 years until the funeral of my Sixth Uncle Ben!”

            “Wow,” Amanda said, her neck craned upwards.

            This time, I looked up. Above me were neat parallel rows of laundry, the poles festooned with colourful sheets, tee-shirts and nighties. “Seriously, why are you always looking up? What is up there?”

            “I’m so scared something will come crashing down on me!”

            “Like what, a bra?” I giggled at the image of a Victoria’s Secret strapless braining Amanda and putting her into a coma.

            In response, Amanda steered me closer to the edge of the path, next to the parked cars. “You laugh, but did you not read about that guy who threw one of those rented bikes off his balcony? It’s a miracle it didn’t land on someone!”

            “That happened? Gawd,” I sighed. “That’s worse that those falling flower pots!”

Amanda tossed her luxuriant hair. “People always say I’m paranoid, but really, it’s just not safe to step out of the house, these days!”

            Later that weekend, somewhat coincidentally, we all found ourselves attending the wake of Amanda’s Aunt Pek Ching.

            “She’s in a happier place now,” someone whispered to her husband, Uncle Joo. He could only nod, his eyes red from crying.

            Next to me, Amanda sniffed. “Oh, please,” she murmured. “She had a house in Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower!”

            I was nudged in the ribs. I looked down to find Saffy staring up at me. She swiveled her eyes to her right. “Guess who just walked in?”

            I looked around, and then nudged Amanda. “Your Uncle Mark just arrived!”

            Amanda sighed.

            Uncle Mark spent most of his youth in San Francisco where he did hard drugs the way Saffy does deep fried chicken. Which is to say, with a committed ferocity not seen since the days of the Vikings. Of course, it’s all taken a toll on his brain, causing him chronic paranoid delusions. Lately, he’s convinced that the people in his head are accusing him of sleeping with someone called Janet. 

            “Who’s Janet?” Saffy wondered once.

            “There is no Janet,” Amanda replied. “His mind is gone!”

            Uncle Mark pushed his way to the front of the condolence line where poor Uncle Joo stood, sobbing. “Ay, Joo!” Uncle Mark’s voice penetrated to the far corners of the room like a souped-up Bose speaker. “It’s not true, you know, what they’re saying!”

            Uncle Joo sniffled into his handkerchief. “What?” he managed.

            Uncle Mark drew himself up. “They’re saying I slept with Janet! I never did!”

            Uncle Joo gasped. “You slept with Janet?”

            Saffy nudged me again. “Who’s Janet?”
            “Uncle Joo’s wife!” I hissed.

            Saffy’s eyes widened. “Her name is Janet? I thought it was Pek-something?”

            “Please keep up! Janet’s her Christian name!”
            “No, no! I never slept with Janet!” Uncle Mark was saying. Uncle Joo looked faint. “They’re all lying! It’s Jane, I slept with!”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone gasped. “You slept with Mark?”

“Wow!” said Saffy. “Didn’t see that coming!”

            Sharyn says you never have to look very far to find crazy rich Asians.