The Sloan Inheritance
“…if you adopt my parrot, Sir Winston, and keep him in the living room for the rest of his natural life. And you must never, ever cover his cage.”
I stared at the lawyer, dumbfounded. “A parrot? Thatâs it?”
“Mr. Sloan was quite specific,” the lawyer said, sliding a photo across the desk. It was a large, grey African Grey parrot looking suspiciously grumpy. “He said Sir Winston was the only creature on earth who understood him. If you refuse, the entire estate goes to the State. If you agree, the house, the money, and the bird are yours.”
I hated Mr. Sloan. He had called the cops on me for playing jazz at 2 PM. He had sprayed my cat with a hose. But $400,000 was life-changing money. I could fix my car, pay off my loans, and finally travel.
“Iâll do it,” I said. “How bad can a bird be?”
The next day, I moved into Mr. Sloanâs large, dusty Victorian house. In the center of the living room sat a massive brass cage. Inside was Sir Winston.
“Hello, Winston,” I said sweetly.
The bird cocked its head, dilated its pupils, and shrieked in a perfect imitation of Mr. Sloanâs gravelly voice: “LINDA IS A WITCH! LINDA IS A WITCH!”
I froze.
“GET OFF MY LAWN!” the bird screamed. “TACKY GARDEN! TACKY GARDEN!”
My jaw dropped. The old man hadn’t just left me a pet; he had left me a recording device of his hatred. For the next two weeks, it was a nightmare. I couldn’t watch TV without Winston critiquing my show choices in Sloan’s voice. I couldn’t eat dinner without hearing, “CALL THAT A STEAK? LOOKS LIKE LEATHER!”
I was ready to give up. I called the lawyer to say I couldn’t take it anymore. The money wasn’t worth the harassment from a ghost in a bird’s body.
But that evening, as I was packing my bag to leave, a thunderstorm rolled in. The house creaked, and thunder shook the windows. Suddenly, the usually aggressive Sir Winston went silent. He hurried to the bottom of his cage, trembling.
“Itâs okay, Winston,” I sighed, walking over. “Itâs just noise.”
The bird looked up at me with wide, fearful eyes. Then, in a very different voiceâsoft, shaky, and quietâhe spoke. It was still Mr. Sloanâs voice, but one Iâd never heard before.
“Sheâs so happy, Winston… Look at her flowers. They’re beautiful. Why can’t I just say hello? Why am I such a bitter old fool?”
I stopped packing.
The bird fluffed his feathers and continued, mimicking a whisper. “I wish I had her energy. Iâm just… so lonely. Sheâs a good neighbor, Winston. Better than I deserve.”
Tears pricked my eyes. All those years, while he was yelling at me over the fence, he was actually sitting in this living room, talking to his bird about how much he regretted his behavior. He didn’t leave me the bird to torture me. He left me the bird because it was the only way he could finally tell me the truth.
I unpacked my bag.
Six months later, Iâm still in the house. I used the inheritance to renovate the place, and I planted the biggest, brightest rose garden the neighborhood has ever seen. Sir Winston is still here, too. He still insults my cooking sometimes, but now I just laugh.
After all, I know what he really thinks.
