The family was so mind-bogglingly rich that of course they couldn’t help fighting over money. The old man, the grandfather—or was it great-grandfather?—had made a pile in bauxite or tungsten, some exotic extractable that no one remembered, but there were stories—lots of stories, legends, myths—about the old man’s genius for turning a buck, and genes like that didn’t simply fall from trees. They all had it, that genius gene. The god of DNA wanted it so, and on-the-sly blood tests always made sure.
Mom and dad divorced quite some time ago. “Serial marriers,” said that wag of a poor cousin, and the family tree became a thicket that sorely needed pruning. The children went off to find themselves on half a million a year. “Awfully quiet around here,” said mom, who’d been gifted in her halcyon sexual past with a shoal of diamonds that spelled out Work Is For Suckers. They all knew the meaning of the phrase per stirpes. Didn’t everyone? Trust funds made for steady income and minimal contact, though it was never enough. Income, that is. “It’s not about the money!” the kids screeched at least three times a day. It was all about honor, integrity, a square deal, not to mention your own kids’ inheritance. You owed it to the offspring to fight for your share; the psychology of being chumped was quite damaging, and once the first lawsuit started it was all in. “The domino theory proved at last,” cracked the cousin. Lawyers begat lawyers, who begat PR consultants, who begat certain phrases that got tossed around like lye-laced water balloons. “It’s tragic.” “It’s so unfortunate.” “I love my [brother, mother, father, sister], but….”
When mom died of something wasting and horrible the kids sucked it up and came to church, because she was, well, their mother, and the PR flacks insisted. Open casket, incense, choir, the works. As each kid walked up to say good-bye and see what lay in store, they gasped. The good stuff, Mom was covered in it: the Mogul emerald, the palm-sized butterfly brooch, the Work Is For Suckers diamonds, they were all going down with the ship. Dad watched from the front row, immensely pleased. He knew the kids would not object, not here, not today. No scenes. But tomorrow everyone would be screaming for their lawyers.