High School for the Performing and Visual Arts - Images Yearbook (Houston, TX)

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Yes, it is. Oh! he said and covered the mouthpiece. This is Channel A, he hissed to his wife, they want to send out a camera crew. l'll have to clean up the house, she began, but her hus- band was already back on the phone. Come on out, he breezed, we'll be waiting for you. Good- bye! Well, if you got to clean up, clean up, he told his wife, but make it quick. They'll be right out. Mrs. Portal got up from the breakfast table and smoothed her robe. l'll change first, she said, and went to the bedroom. While she was dressing, the doorbell rang. l'll get it, said Mr. Portal, and when he did he found a short man in a brown leisure suit. Mr. Portal? the man asked. Sure thing. l'm James Ford, Kirkville SUN- TIMES, and I wonder if you'd mind my coming in to talk to you for a bit? Not at all, said Portal. Come right in! O.K., Charlie, the reporter called back, Come on in! A nonchalant photographer crawled out of a white chevy and, wrapped in cameras, followed Ford into the house. Nice place you have here, Ford said, but I guess you'll be moving into something a little more elegant? Oh, sure, but we don't really know anything for sure yet . . . why don't we sit here in the living room to talk? Ford sat down on the coach, Por- tal sat in an armchair, and the pho- tographer busily took readings and set his cameras. Now then, Mr. Portal, began the reporter, when did you first learn of the inheritance? Well, it was iust at breakfast, when the phone rang . . started Portal, just as the phone obligingly rang. l'll get it, called Mrs. Portal, as she sidestepped the photographer on her way to the kitchen. Phone's been pretty busy ever since, apologized Mr. Portal. Well, these lawyers called and said that a Phineas P. Portal had died and left 31 million dollars to a cousin named William T. Portal, and that's me. Were the two of you close childhood friends? Well, actually Portal began, interrupted by his wife. Honey, it's the men from Chan- nel 9, and they want to know if they can come out and interview is US. Sure, tell 'em to come on. Now, as I was saying, Portal said as a flashbulb blinded him, l really don't remember this cousin too well, but I guess he knew a lot about the family to remember me. The doorbell brought Mrs. Portal running. Tell me how you felt, said Ford. Gosh, we just couldn't believe it. This has got to be the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. A tall man in a blue suit entered the room, followed by two men in blue ieans carrying large cases with a stylistic four emblazoned on the sides. Hi, said the tall man, l'm Bert Hodges from Channel Four.

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In the breakfast room of their home in Kirkville, Illinois, Bill and Mary Portal alternately laughed and cried on each other's shoulders as their scrambled eggs and bacon grew stiff. You left the phone off the hook, sobbed Mrs. Portal. Mr. Portal got to his feet, hung up the telephone and fell back in his chair. I can't believe it, he started for the thirtieth time, sud- denly interrupted bythe ringing phone. I'll get it, he said, and picked up the receiver . . . Hello? Mr, William T. Portal? asked a voice. Yes? I'm John Carmichael of the JOURNAL. I understand you've inherited quite a large sum of money. . H31 million dollars! whooped Mr. Portal. '. . . and we'd like to do a fea- ture on you. Now, who was it that willed you the money? 36 The Inheritance hy Biff Enoch A cousin, replied Portal, named Phineas P. Portal. Uh, hold it, he said and covered the receiver. lt's a reporter from the JOURNAL, he explained to his wife. Sounds great, Mr. Portal, con- tinued Carmichael. When did you find out? Not fifteen minutes ago, when some lawyers called, laughed Por- tal. lt's the greatest thing that ever happened to me! I never even heard of this guy, and he leaves me 31 million dollars! I'm rich! Mr. Portal, I wonder if I might come out to your home for an inter- view, asked Carmichael, sensing Portal's agitated state. Sure, fine, said Portal. lt's 3417 Lincoln Drive, just off 34th Street. Just come anytime - I'm not going to work today. I mean, he burst out laughing, what's the use now? O.K., great, said the reporter, l'll be there in about an hour. Oh, one last thing: How does your wife feel about all this? Mr. Portal looked over at his wife, who was wiping the tears out of her eyes with a breakfast nap- kin. She iust feels great! 3417 Lincoln Drive was a single- story house in the middle of the block on a narrow street in the mid- dle-class suburban area of Kirkville. Spring flowers surrounded the front of the house and encircled two large oak trees in the front lawn. Thick grass testified to careful weekend management, and it stretched from the Portal's drive- way to their neighbor's, whose own thick grass sprouted spring flowers, oak trees, and a single-story house identical to those of each resident of the block. By 9:30 A.M., most homes had already bundled children and hus- bands off for the clay, leaving wives to wash and dust and polish and cry at soap operas, by now, most wives had already cleared the breakfast table. In the Portal's, the eggs had hardened beyond repair. I'm going to have to take that phone off the hook, said Mr. Por- tal as he went to answer it. Hello?

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Bill Portal, said Portal, stand- ing. Come on in. I was iust talking with this man from the paper. . Go right ahead. We'lI need time to set up. Could I get a picture with the wife and kids? asked Charlie, the photographer. Oh, gosh! cried Mr. Portal. We haven't told Bill, Jr.! I'II call the school right away, said Mrs. Portal. She tried to shut the front door, but it was blocked by a man's hand. Excuse me, she said, looking out. l'm John Carmichael from the JOURNAL, said the man standing outside. I was supposed to talk to a William Portal? Oh, come in, said Mrs. Portal. He's in the living room. Carmichael led his photographer into where Mr. Portal was. Maybe if you sat over here, one of the TV men was directing. What about MY lighting? demanded Charlie. 38 We've got enough lights, said the TV man. What do you plan to do with the money? asked reporter Ford. Well, I haven't made any defi- nite pIans, said Portal. I guess I could do about anything I wanted. The phone rang. l'Il get it, called Mrs. Portal. John Carmichael, Kirkville JOURNAL, said Carmichael, try- ing to get Portal's attention. We talked earlier. . Oh yeah, sit down, directed Portal. I was lust saying to Mr., uh, Ford that I didn't have any defi- nite plans for the money yet. . The doorbell rang, and Mr. Por- tal apologized to the two reporters, and threaded his way around an increasing pile of lights, cameras and sound equipment. Could you show us your wall plugs? asked one of the techni- cians. Sure, hang on, said Portal, and went to answer the door. Mr. Portal? said the man who was waiting outside. I'm Fred Johnson, Chicago TIMES, and I wonder if I could talk with you for a moment? 3417 Lincoln Drive was a single- story house in the middle of the block on a narrow street that was now choked with an assortment of cars, vans, trucks, and trailers. Spring flowers and thick grass alike had now been trampled by the assembly of news media now packed into the Portal home. It was 3:30, and most wives had already cleared away lunch. A fly settled on the eggs in the Portal kitchen, until he was dis- turbed by Mrs. Portal rushing to answer the phone. Hello, she said desperately, then called into Mr. Portal, Honey, it's for you! Mr. Portal got up from the dining room table, which was now blos- soming with a centerpiece of micro- phones, and came into the kitchen. Hello, he said wearily. Bill? Who IS this? I don't know any cousin John. This is cousin John.