Seize the Day (9 page)

“Uncle Donovan, you told me you were coming much later today. How you get here so early?
Why
are you here so early?”

“The same reason you're here earlier than you said you'd be.”

I saw a family resemblance in the two men, but no family connection. No family love. Walter Jr. did not show any sadness that his father was dead, either.

“So what's going on here?” I asked. “Neither of you really cared about Walter. That's obvious. If you did you would have shown some semblance of remorse about all this. But you're here looking for his money?”

“Uncle Donovan, you really should not be here. You haven't talked to my dad in years. You claim it was about his behavior off his meds. But I ain't stupid. You thought your wife liked him so you stayed away.”

“Where you get that from, boy?”

“Boy? Boy? I'm a man. And I got it from your wife, that's who.”

“What?”

“Yeah, at the family reunion about three years ago. She said she felt responsible that you and my dad were not talking. I asked her why and she said you came up to them while they were on the dance floor with an attitude at some party years before. But the reality was that she had her arms around my father. She said she was drunk and flirting and you held it against
him
, not her.”

Donovan threw onto the desk a pile of papers he had in his hand. I could tell Walter Jr. had been waiting to share that bit of news for a long time.

“My dad didn't want your wife. He introduced you to her. If he wanted her, he probably would have tried to get her instead of introducing you to her.”

“My wife is my wife. That did happen, but Walt and I were already having issues. That just sealed it for me.”

I couldn't help but interject.

“I don't get people,” I said. “If your wife was flirting with Walter, why were you mad at him? You should take that up with your wife, don't you think? If you know your brother wouldn't try to get your wife—if he introduced you to your wife—why would you be angry at him to where you don't communicate with him?

“On top of that, you knew he was bipolar. So when he's reaching out to you for the last few years and you're just ignoring him, don't you think that affected him?”

“Walter Jr. is as much at fault as me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn't think I knew, did you? I know you went to rehab for cocaine use about two years ago. I know your father paid for it and he was worried about you. I know you broke into this house and took his flat screen TV and sold it for money, that you took his Apple desktop computer and sold it. That you robbed your own father to get money for drugs.

“And after you got arrested, my brother bailed you out and sent you to rehab. He didn't press charges and you did not have to do jail time. But you broke his heart. You know Walt was a do-gooder. He taught you the same thing. But you became a crack head and broke his heart.”

I thought I was standing inside a soap opera. I didn't know what to say.

“My dad and I made peace with that. We talked it out and made peace.”

“If you made peace, why weren't you seeing him or in contact with him for the last few years?” I asked. I figured that since I was in the middle of it, I might as well get clarity.

“My wife didn't want me to. She believed my dad was a reminder of a bad time in my life and that to move on. I needed a fresh start.”

“You're joking, right? The man who brought you into this world, who bailed you out of jail and sent you to rehab to get your life in order…that's the man you need to stay away from? How weak is that? How weak are
you
?”

Ordinarily, I would not speak so candidly. But my life was coming to an end and I knew it. I had no time to be subtle.

“You can't judge me; you don't know me or my life.”

“Man, look: I can give you my opinion based on being here right now and what you just said. Why you think you're entitled to your dad's money after being so wrong to him—both of you—is sad.”

I turned and walked away. I could hear them talking then arguing with raised voices and by the time I got to the front door, I heard rumblings upstairs, as if they were fighting. I didn't bother to look back or go back. I had seen and heard enough.

W
alter's brother and son made me think. They made me think about what's going to happen when I die. Who will be upset about me being gone and who will be searching for money and things?

That's what the doctors said: “Get your affairs in order.”

I didn't do as well as Walter. I didn't have millions in investments to leave for anyone. I had a $400,000 life insurance plan that was earmarked for my daughter. That was about it. But it was more than enough to pay for the funeral, any bills I would have remaining and leave her with some money to live relatively comfortably.

When I got home, I was convinced I needed to lay all that out in a will. Reading Walter's last will and testament gave me shivers…and direction. He knew exactly what he wanted. It was dated almost three months before he hanged himself. He had planned it for a while.

There is enough in my savings to bury me. The account information is in my nightstand next to my bed, under The Bible. I don't need or want a grand funeral. I don't deserve one. But put me in the ground at Lincoln Memorial Cemetery in Suitland. I have already paid for the plot and name plate. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. I would like Candice Mattison of Ballou High School to arrange the service. Candice is smart and organized and would keep out people I don't want there.

Seventy-five percent of the money that I have earned through investing is to go to research of the bipolar condition. My lawyer, Randolph Watson
, has all that information and knows what my desires are there (minus his fifteen percent). My realtor, Monica Cooper, is to sell my properties, with the earnings going to Ballou High School for students who graduat
e and need money for college. Set up the fund and call it: The Ballou Graduation Fund. Mr. Watson has started the paperwork.

Of the remaining money at Fidelity Investments, which should be a
round four-hundred-thousand dollars, my son, Walter Jr., is to receive five thousand a month for eighteen months—unless he fails random drug tests I have arranged with a private company through my lawyer. Any failed test would end any contributions forever.

My brother, Donovan, whom I used to admire, will receive a one-time payment of one hundred thousand dollars to be used only for his son Everett's college education. Those monies will be disbursed by Mr. Watson to the school Donovan identifies as Everett's college of choice. The checks will be sent to that college by Mr. Watson or someone in his office only. No check will go directly to Donovan.

Candice is to receive a lump sum payment of two hundred thousand dollars for being genuine and kind to me—and everyone. Calvin Jones, I wish I could give you more life. You deserve it. You don't even know how much it meant to me for you to invite me to golf or to dinner or anywhere
. With my son and brother turning their backs on me, you picked up their slack and kept me going. The best part is that you didn't know I was hurt
ing or sick. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry about me when you have so much to worry about with yourself. Wherever I am, I'm glad to not be conflicted anymore with my feelings and what I was doing. Thank you for
…
everything. Two hundred thousand dollars goes to Calvin Jones to help you live out your life.

• • •

And that was that. I was not struggling for money but Walter set me straight. Not just with the money, but with how I had to get my affairs in order. When doctors told me I was dying, all I could think about was living.

I had to get busy so my daughter would be financially all right when my time came. I had to make sure the drama Walter Jr. and Donovan were going through did not happen with her.

I decided I would draft all that on my bus ride from D.C. to Atlanta. I would have about twelve hours to kill and I couldn't sleep them all away. In fact, I wanted to stay up most of the time, and look out of the window and appreciate what God has created, stuff I did not pay attention to in the past.

Funny how you change when you know you're gonna die. Everything matters. And nothing matters.

I called and left a message for Walter's attorney, letting him know I had the will. I also told him I wanted to be there when he read it in front of Donovan and Walter Jr.

When I checked my voice messages, I had one from Johns Hopkins telling me to come in for a checkup and asking if I had seen a therapist. I appreciated that they followed up with me, even though I told them I was going another route for treatment. I didn't call back.

Instead, I called my daughter, Maya. I wanted to get my visit organized to Atlanta so I could meet with the holistic specialist. I felt OK, for the most part, but that episode scared me so much that I needed and wanted to do everything possible, as soon as possible, to be OK.

She did not answer her phone, which was not unusual before I was diagnosed with cancer but completely not like her since the diagnosis. She even answered my call once while she was in the shower.

It was OK, though, because I didn't have any concrete plans. I had to attend Walter's funeral service, but I wasn't sure when Candice would arrange it.

“Oh, Calvin, I'm so upset,” she said. “I read about Walter's suicide on the Internet this morning. How could he do that? I don't know if you know, but he and I talked sort of frequently. He shared with me that he is…was…bipolar. He talked about strange things sometimes. I could tell when he wasn't feeling quite right. But he never—I don't think—talked about killing himself. “

“I had no idea, either, Candice. I was the one who found him in his garage and—“

“What? Oh, my God, Calvin. You found him? That had to be horrible.”

“I was stunned and hurt. Can't get the image out of my head of him hanging there in his garage. The reporters were looking to interview me. But I didn't want to have to describe it or how I felt. It was an undignified way for Walter to leave this earth. I can't pretty that up and I don't want to dirty his name. So I'm saying nothing.”

Candice and I talked for almost an hour. And if a conversation or experience was enriching, you learn something about
yourself
. I was a little frustrated that so many things had come to light as my life light flickers, but it was better to have learned than to not have learned at all.

Listening to Candice talk about surviving divorce and providing for her two children by working a second job after she left the high school and how it was never an option to
not
do what was necessary for her kids made me realize the strength I had in me, too. I knew I would do all that Candice did to provide for Maya. I just had it easier than Candice.

And because of that, I sometimes looked at myself as privileged and maybe even docile. I taught kids, yes. And I cared about them deeply, yes. But because I never had to struggle, would I have inside of me what it took to grind it out? I listened to Candice talk about her love for her children and it was the same unbending, unconditional love I had for my child. For Maya I would have worked extra jobs, too, if necessary.

And then Candice forced me to look at myself. Doctors told me I was going to die in a few months from cancer. I could have curled up in the bed and whittled. Or I could have let them shoot me up with chemo and rested in the bed and faded away.

But I decided to live. And in that decision I actually lived and did more than I had before the horrible news. I didn't view it as a race against death, but so much was happening that I was occupied with thoughts so vast that I often pushed aside my imminent demise and kept pushing forward. That took special strength.

I hung up the phone with Candice with these words: “I'm glad we got to talk. I understand why he liked you so much and trusted you so much. You should feel good that you were a good friend to a good person.”

She said: “It's hard to take credit for doing what you're supposed to do. I do know the kind of world we live in—people are looking out for themselves. So, thank you. But thank you for being a friend to Walter, too. He liked you. It wasn't that he didn't like a lot of people. He just didn't see anything in most people. He saw something in you.”

I was glad to hear that, but it made me sad, too. I wished I could have had a notion of the turmoil within this man who was a wonderful teacher and who cared about his students. Before I could completely sadden myself, Maya called me back.

“What's wrong?” she said when I answered.