by Carol L. Wright
When I got the email from an unknown “attorney,” addressed “Dear Samuel Giffords,” I didn’t give it a second thought. Next to Nigerian princes, a fake inheritance from a long-lost relative was among the most popular scams out there.
But when I took another look, I realized that “Henry Giffords of Johnstown, Pennsylvania” rang a distant bell.
My father grew up in a family of miners in one of the soot-covered coal towns of Western Pennsylvania. He hated it. After my one and only visit to my grandparents, he turned to me and said, “Now do you understand why I never want to go back there?” As soon as he was old enough, he’d left home, worked his way through Penn State, and got a tech job in Connecticut. That’s where he met Mom, where I grew up, and where I still live.
When I was eight, my father moved out and pretty much disappeared from my life. I never knew too much about him, let alone any of his family.
But after Mom died last year, I had the odd thought that maybe I was an orphan and didn’t know it. Out of curiosity, I started tracing my family tree. I soon discovered genealogical research is a deep rabbit hole into an endless warren. I never found an obituary for my father, so he might still be alive somewhere. One thing I knew for sure—he wasn’t in Pennsylvania coal country.
The lawyer’s mention of Pennsylvania got me wondering. Pulling out my family tree, I checked for a Henry Giffords. His name wasn’t there, but I did have relatives from Johnstown.
Still doubtful, I Googled the lawyer’s name. Her name turned up, listed as a specialist in trusts and estates in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. This scammer did their homework. Then I checked for obits for my supposed deceased relative and found a Henry J. Giffords whose father’s name was Hiram Giffords—both from Johnstown.
I had a Hiram in my tree. And Hiram isn’t all that common a name.
My Hiram died in the Johnstown Flood of 1977, at the age of forty-nine. This Henry died three months ago of black lung at sixty-three. If it was the same Hiram as in my records, Henry was my second cousin—the son of my father’s first cousin. We shared great-grandparents.
I dimly remembered meeting some relatives on that Pennsylvania trip so long ago. The grownups didn’t pay much attention to me; they just talked to each other. But I remembered they had a nearly grown-up son. He played with me, tossing a ball around, even though I wasn’t very good at catching. Or throwing, for that matter. And he made me laugh without laughing at me. Could he have been Henry? The ages matched, but in my innate skepticism, I still suspected a scam.
I went to bed and dreamed about Henry J. Giffords. Was he, or wasn’t he? I woke up several times, only to plunge back into the same dream.
Waking early, I was still tired, and still asking the same question. How could I be sure? And if I wasn’t sure, I didn’t dare answer that email. Yet, my subconscious clearly wanted to know, even if I tried not to care.
I settled down at my easel with my cup of coffee, as usual. As a freelance artist, I was happy for the commission and needed to finish the work to get paid, but I couldn’t concentrate. I had to figure out a way to resolve this.
Checking my phone app, I discovered that if I left after lunch, I could get to Johnstown before dark—six hours away—and put the matter to rest. So, I focused on my work for a couple of hours, packed an overnight bag, and headed west.
I’m not usually this impetuous, but curiosity had overcome my inertia. As I navigated the interstate on-ramp, I considered whether I was extremely crazy or merely eccentric. “You’re unique. An original,” Mom used to say of my artistic temperament, as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world. Maybe she was just relieved I wasn’t like my dad.
The mountains just past the New York border momentarily took all my attention. I’d have to paint them someday. Maybe an autumnal mountainscape. A trucker blared their horn as I drifted out of my lane. My heart pounding, I tried to focus on the highway, not the scenery. Still, crossing the Hudson River to Newburgh, I dared a few quick glances at the shore’s cliff-like walls overlooking the wide water below. I understood the inspiration for the Hudson River School style of art.
Two hours later, after passing Wilkes Barre—do you say it “Wilkes Bear” or “Wilkes Barry”?—I was soon engulfed in tree-covered mountains. My restless night caught up with me and I needed a bit of stimulation to stay awake. Unfortunately, among the mountains, the radio didn’t offer me much company, so I started singing to myself. One guy gave me a weird look as he passed. Yeah, Mom. I’m unique.
Road signs told of upcoming exits: Mile Run, Jersey Shore (really?), and many miles away, Penn State. I thought about taking a detour to check out my father’s old school but couldn’t spare the time if I wanted to make Johnstown before dark. Maybe I’d swing by on my way home. If I felt like it.
Crossing into a valley, idyllic farmland spread out before me with red barns, silos, and gently rolling hills. Could my brush do it justice?
By the time I got to Mile Run, I needed a cup of coffee. Exiting south in search of a Dunkin’, I ended up pulling into a convenience store to top off the tank. My stomach grumbled when I saw a sign: Country Kitchen. I asked the guy at the next pump, “That place any good?”
He shook his head. “Died of Covid,” he said. “Too bad, too. Great Amish cookin’ there.”
“Amish?” I asked. “Aren’t we pretty far from Amish country?”
He squinted at me and chuckled as he returned the nozzle to the pump. “You-uns aren’t from around here, are ya?”
I shrugged.
“All Amish don’t live in Lancaster.” He screwed his gas cap back on and grabbed his receipt. “They ran out of farmland to divide among their sons and have spread out all over Central Pennsylvania. South of town is all Amish farms.”
I felt the tug of the tourist, wanting to catch sight of a horse-drawn buggy or brightly colored quilt.
“Too bad it’s Thursday,” he continued.
“Why’s that?” I asked as he opened his car door.
“Next market day isn’t ’til Wednesday. You’d get your fill of Amish food there.” He laughed, revved his engine, and drove off.
I grabbed a large coffee and a power bar in the store and got back on the road, more eager than ever to see Johnstown. Other than a couple historic floods, I didn’t know anything about it, except that it was still two-and-a-half hours away. Maybe there were Amish there too. I imagined a bucolic paradise and hearty food.
My GPS told me to take the Bellefonte exit, which serendipitously was the one for Penn State. Exit signs enticed me to side roads into town, but I didn’t want to go too far off course. Then, rising above the roadside berms, I spied the top of a vast stadium. Beaver Stadium, the signs said. I’m no sports fan, but I was pretty sure their team’s name was Nittany Lions. So where’d the beaver come from?
From the position of the sun, I knew I’d have to hurry to make the remaining hour and a half before nightfall. More exits flew by: Bald Eagle, Tyrone, Tipton. Getting off the highway at Hollidaysburg, I wound my way the several miles to the motel parking lot, arriving just before sunset. All I wanted to do was get a meal and a bed, but I had something else to do first. The obituary told me where Henry was buried. If the surrounding graves matched up with other family names, I’d have to believe he really was my distant cousin.
After registering, I headed back to the car. Flicking on my headlights, I hoped the dusky sky was bright enough to see my way around. Even in this light, I could tell the town was no rural beauty. It looked old. Worn out. No signs of gentrification or even consistent maintenance.
GPS led me to the cemetery gate. It was locked.
On my way back to the motel, I grabbed a pizza and six-pack of Rolling Rock beer—going native. As I ate, I found a 2020 article on my phone that said Johnstown had the worst quality of life in the state. More scrolling told me opioid addiction and the crime rate were rising while the population was declining. No wonder my father didn’t want to live around here. Why did Henry?
The next morning, I was surprised to find I’d slept well. Good. I had things to do. The first was to stop by that lawyer’s office and see what she knew. And if she really had emailed me.
I grabbed a coffee and Danish at the breakfast bar, then headed for the car. It wasn’t hard to find the law office in a dying strip mall.
“Would Attorney Friedman have time to see me?” I asked the expectant receptionist. “My name’s Samuel Giffords.”
She held up a finger, then punched a key on her phone. “There’s a Mr. Giffords here to see you about—” She raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“I think she emailed me about an estate she’s handling. Henry J. Giffords?”
“About the Henry Giffords estate?” She nodded, hung up, and escorted me down a shabby hallway into a small office. A sixty-ish woman sat behind a desk covered with file folders.
“Thanks, Doris,” the woman said, grabbing a folder and waving me to a metal chair.
After reviewing the file, she squinted at me over her glasses. “Are you Samuel Giffords?”
I nodded and clasped my hands across my middle, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. “I got an email from you, but I’m afraid I don’t know any Henry Giffords.” I shifted in the hard seat. “Are you sure I’m the person you meant to contact?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Well, I didn’t expect you to turn up in my office, but yes, you’re the right heir.”
Heir. Weird. I opened and closed my fists. Maybe this inheritance would amount to something. I wasn’t a starving artist, but money is money.
She went to a filing cabinet and drew out a box the size of a Rubik’s Cube with an envelope taped to the bottom. When seated, she leaned towards me. “I tried to contact you by mail,” she said, “but my letters were returned. Your cousin had an address in—” She checked her file. “Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Oh yeah—I moved to Danbury three years ago.”
“Well, thank goodness your cousin had your email. Of course, I’ll need to see some ID.”
“I feel funny inheriting anything from him,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I didn’t even know him.”
“Too bad,” she said. “He was a mensch. Never got rich, but a pillar of the community. Someone you could always rely on. Generous to a fault. Made living here better for everyone he met. What savings he hadn’t given away went to the spouse, but he left you this.” She picked up the box.
This was no scam. Scams hold out hope of millions if you’ll only give them a substantial finders’ fee first. Then they disappear.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
“The inventory only says, ‘family memento.’ Maybe the letter will explain.”
After signing for the bequest, I took my inheritance to the car and opened the box. Under tissue paper lay two lumps of coal. One small, one a bit larger. Hard, black, and shiny. What the heck?
Henry must have written the letter near the end. His cursive was small, shaky, and nearly illegible. It took me three or four readings to make it out. He said:
Dear Sam.
You’re the last of us Giffords as far as I know. I never had kids of my own. My dad gave me these little treasures when I graduated high school. He got them from his father when he was the first in our line to graduate. Even when you were a little tyke, I was pretty sure you had the smarts to finish school. (But I wonder if you ever learned to throw straight. Hehe.)
I thought of the twinkle in that teen’s eyes when we played catch. He was right. I was no athlete, but I got my arts degree, so yes, I finished school. I read on.
Our great-grandfather brought the small one with him from Yorkshire, and the bigger one was the first rock he mined in Pennsylvania. He kept them as a reminder of his roots and an anchor to his new home. Even if we never owned a piece of ground, he said, we would still own a piece of our two homelands.
I felt a tear prick my eye. These folks were the salt of the earth. And they were my family. Part of me. I should never have judged them all by the behavior of my father. How I wished I’d known them. His letter went on.
I know we didn’t keep in touch, but when I got sick, I looked you up online and found your address and email. I probably should have written but didn’t know what to say. I just wanted a Giffords to have these. Maybe you can pass them on if you’re lucky enough to have kids of your own.
Your cousin Henry
I read it again before starting the engine and heading toward the cemetery. The gates were open, and a directory sent me to the right section. Strolling among the headstones, I found Hiram and his wife, Jane. Harley and Eleanor Giffords rested nearby. They matched the names I had for Hiram’s parents. Disturbed ground indicated Henry’s final resting place. Only the foundation for the headstone was present. The marker must still be at the stonemason’s.
I held the coal and knelt by Henry’s grave.
“Thank you, cousin,” I said. “I’ll treasure them.”
Then I looked at Hiram’s and Harley’s graves. “And thank you, sirs. I hope to make you proud.”
Walking back to my car, I found another Giffords not far from Henry’s family. Hannah and Elmer. My grandparents. The parents my father left behind, reunited with the son he left behind. We had more in common than I’d ever realized.
As I headed home, I knew this wouldn’t be my last visit to the coal region of Pennsylvania. And next time, I thought, I’ll bring my son.
Carol L. Wright is a former book editor, domestic relations attorney, and adjunct law professor. She has stories in each of BWG’s “Sweet, Funny, and Strange” anthologies. Her debut mystery, DEATH IN GLENVILLE FALLS, was named a finalist for both the 2018 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award and for the 2018 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Her latest publication, APPLE, TABLE, PENNY . . . MURDER, is a novelette that was a finalist for both the 2024 Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the 2025 Chanticleer Book Awards. Carol is the author of several short stories in various literary journals and award-winning anthologies. Many of her favorites appear in A CHRISTMAS ON NANTUCKET AND OTHER STORIES. She is a founding member of the Bethlehem Writers Group, a life member of Sisters in Crime and the Jane Austen Society of North America, and a member of Pennwriters and SinC Guppies. She lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania. You can learn more on Carol’s website, or by following her Facebook page.