So, the stocks. 

Let’s start with Indy’s Maryland property, which took me two years to sell.  

Just as I had a buyer, Indy went to Marion’s bar in Nepal. 

Now, I knew the property was only in Indy’s name. Of course I did. Willie and I reviewed Indy and Willie’s finances years ago. 

So I knew they never got around to putting the property in both of their names.  

When I was 29 years old, I registered my own birth certificate with the state because Indy and Willie never got around to doing that, either. 

How can anyone possibly have time for joint property ownership and birth certificates when they’re busy collecting vials of mercury and skipping out on taxes?

Come on, guys. Do you think it’s easy dodging both the IRS and the EPA? 

As the responsible adult in this equation, I consulted with the proper authorities regarding Indy’s sole ownership of the Maryland property. What would happen if Indy predeceased Willie? 

No sweat, I was told. Indy’s will leaves all assets to Willie. The Maryland property automatically becomes hers. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. 

What I learned upon Indy’s departure to Marion’s bar in Nepal was the Maryland property automatically becomes Willie’s like Harold and Kumar automatically got to White Castle or Marty McFly automatically got back to the future. 

As in, I had to call — call, like it’s 1987 — the Orphan’s Court of Queen Anne’s County, Maryland, which gave me a half dozen pages of documents to complete. 

They also needed Indy’s will. 

And Indy’s death certificate.  

I also had to get Indy an Employer Identification Number through the IRS.  

And open an estate account at the bank.  

And bring a notary to Willie. 

And pay the back taxes because if you’re not ordering birth certificates or paying federal income taxes, you’re really not paying property taxes. 

Then and only then was the property in Willie’s name.  

And I needed it in Willie’s name so I could sell it. 

Once sold, the money was legally required to wait in Indy’s estate account for six months while Queen Anne’s County made sure only Willie was entitled to it. 

“You worked so hard on this,” Willie often said over those six months. “I want to give you some of the money from the sale.” 

Each time Willie made this offer, I told her I wasn’t interested. Between you and me, I’d surrender every cent to have Indy back from Marion’s bar in Nepal.  

But I’ve read Pet Sematary.  

Like, twice.  

I know that’s a bad idea. 

Willie persisted. Sometimes, she wanted to give me 10 percent of the sale. Sometimes, it was half. A few times, she offered me the whole shebang. 

When the six months were up, I closed the estate account, transferred the money to Willie’s checking account, and told Willie to write a check to her retirement account for the entire sum.  

I had a pretty little annuity all picked out for her. 

But Willie was adamant. A portion was mine.  

Time is precious when you’re sandwiched between kids and parents. So I capitulated. 

Willie wrote me the cutest check I’ve ever received. 

I earned $1.40 a day selling that property.  

This all brings us to a few weeks ago. I found a check and a letter in Willie’s apartment. They were from Indy’s life insurance company. 

The letter said the company’s rather paltry check, made out to Indy, had been issued three times — yet never cashed.  

So I called the life insurance company.  

“Why,” I said, “are you sending money to a man you know is in Marion’s bar in Nepal? You paid out his life insurance!”  

That was when I learned — not from that long-ago financial conversation with Willie, but from Indy’s insurance company — that Indy purchased stock in the company.  

Like the Maryland property, he made this purchase before he met Willie. And like the Maryland property, the stock holdings are only in Indy’s name. The check, also singularly made out to Indy, was dividends from that stock. 

And I — obsessive that I am — closed Indy’s estate account the moment I legally could. I put Willie’s bank account solely in her name before she’d been widowed a month. 

Which is to say I couldn’t deposit a dividend check in Indy’s name because I have exactly zero bank accounts in Indy’s name. 

I could spend all day psychoanalyzing the paperwork-averse Indy and Willie creating someone so militant about paperwork.  

Instead, I told Indy’s insurance company I needed that dividend check issued in Willie’s name. 

“Of course,” the agent replied. All she needed me to do was produce Indy’s death certificate.  

Also the certificate I had from probating Indy’s will in Queen Anne’s County, Maryland. 

And fill out six forms.  

And have them medallion certified. 

“What,” I asked, “is medallion certification.” 

And no. That sentence does not get a question mark, Grammarly. 

The agent directed me to a website where I could download the necessary forms. 

“Your father,” she said, “also owns stocks in one of our subsidiaries. They have separate documents you’ll need to transfer those stocks to your mother’s name. Would you like that phone number?” 

Would I?  

There’s a conundrum, here, right? Those stocks — they might provide enough funds for me to take care of Willie. I could keep Willie in her apartment. I could do so much for her.  

Or those stocks could be worth $1.40. 

Maybe I should just turn the paperwork over to Willie. 

I’m sure she’ll get on it. 

Eventually.