Chapter 10 - The Gala of Retribution
The town’s annual Harvest Gala was usually a quiet affair,
held in the community center to raise funds for the local library.
But this year,
it was the stage for my final act.
I knew Mason and Harper would be there.
They had been seen around town,
trying to garner sympathy from our old neighbors,
painting themselves as the victims of a "senile mother's whim."
I dressed with care,
wearing a suit Arthur had bought me years ago that I’d never had an occasion to wear.
It was sharp,
expensive,
and made me look exactly like what I was:
a woman in full possession of her faculties.
When I walked into the hall,
the room went quiet.
I saw them near the punch bowl—Mason in a suit that was starting to look rumpled,
Harper in a dress that was a season too old.
They looked like people who were losing.
Mason saw me and his face hardened.
He began to walk toward me,
his voice raised just enough for the surrounding people to hear.
“Mom?
What are you doing here?
You shouldn't be out alone.
You know what the doctor said about your evening episodes.”
He reached for my arm,
his fingers ready to play the role of the dutiful,
worried son.
I stepped back,
my voice clear and ringing.
“The only 'episodes' I have,
Mason,
are the ones where I remember how you tried to extort your Uncle Arthur.”
The silence in the room became absolute.
Mason’s face drained of color.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,”
he stammered.
“You’re confused again.”
I pulled the black ledger from my purse.
“This is Arthur’s diary,
Mason.
It’s a detailed account of your threats,
your attempts to break into his house,
and the $50,000 you tried to steal from him.”
I turned to the crowd,
to the neighbors who had known me for forty years.
“My son has spent the last month telling you I’m losing my mind.
He’s done this because he wanted to hide the fact that he’s a thief and a predator.”
Harper stepped forward,
her face a mask of fury.
“That’s a lie!
That book is a forgery!”
“Then perhaps you’d like to explain this,”
I said,
handing a copy of the police report Arthur had filed to the woman standing nearest to me.
“It’s a matter of public record.
My son was nearly arrested for trespassing on the very farm he now claims is his birthright.”
Mason lunged for the book,
but two of the local men,
friends of Arthur’s,
stepped in his way.
“That’s enough,
Mason,”
one of them said,
his voice low and dangerous.
“You’ve said your piece for weeks.
Now it’s your mother’s turn.”
I looked at my son,
really looked at him,
and saw the fear behind his eyes.
He wasn't a mastermind.
He was just a small,
greedy boy who had underestimated the woman who raised him.
“I’m done,
Mason,”
I said,
my voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear.
“I’ve donated the city house to a local charity for battered women.
I’ve put the farm into a permanent land trust that you can never touch.
And I’ve instructed Mr. Sterling to hand over all of Arthur’s records to the District Attorney for an investigation into your attempted extortion.”
Mason’s knees seemed to buckle.
“You’re ruining me,”
he breathed.
“No,”
I said,
turning away.
“I’m just stoping the sacrifice.
You should have checked that decimal point before you started your plan,
son.
Because $850,000 buys a lot of justice.”
I walked out of the hall,
the cool night air hitting my face like a benediction.
I didn't look back.
May you like
I didn't need to.
The story of the "stupid mother" was over.
