The Lifesaver

Ben Rich’s children and their families are gathered at a funeral home for his viewing. Kathy, the oldest, was called first about Ben’s death and then she called her siblings. They came home from several states to plan his funeral and sit with him during his final hours tonight.

Although Ben looks dapper in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie, the clothes loosely fit his gaunt frame and he appears older and more frail than his children remember. His hands, bony and wracked with arthritis, hold a rosary. Ben has lived a full life of 95 years and his children and friends of the family have gathered to pay their respects.

Ben was widowed several years ago. He was not very close to his children. They viewed their father as mysterious, and as a stranger in their home. Tonight, among the strangers coming to view their father’s body, amid the strong smell of funeral home coffee and flowers, they will say goodbye to a man they barely knew.

During a break in the viewing, they gather in the vestibule near a table full of pictures of Ben. Some of the photos are of Ben near his bar-b-que grill or in his military uniform. Other pictures are shots of Ben with his family and with his wife.

“Does anybody else feel they really didn’t know dad that well,” Kathy asks her brother Robbie and sister Jen.

“I always felt that way,” Robbie replied, “he was around but he wasn’t around, know what I mean?”

“I do!” Jen says, “I mean he was there but I didn’t know him. Not like I knew mom.”

“He didn’t share his affection,” Kathy said, “and he wasn’t mean or a drunk. Just… distant.”

“Seems like he led kind of a boring life. Working and not really doing much when he was home,” Robbie remembers.

Ben Rich‘s job often took him out of town for weeks at a time and away from his family. Ben’s wife, Francie, went to the Parent Teacher Conferences, school pageants, Little League games, swimming lessons, and chaperoned Homecoming dances without him. Although their marriage ended a few years ago when Francie died, they never let their children see the struggle an absent parent can cause.

As the children were talking, an elderly African woman, dressed in a colorful dashiki, and a younger man, dressed in a business suit; enter the funeral home. They look weary, like they have traveled a great many miles.

“Is this the vigil for Mr. Ben?” the woman asks.

“Benjamin Rich, yes,” Kathy replies, “can I help you?”

“You don’t know me. Or my son. I’m Obi Monifa-Tandoon. This is my son, Dayo. We knew Mr. Ben. He saved our lives,” she said.

“Welcome,” Jen said, reaching to shake their hands.

Obi, carrying an 8 x 10 picture in a frame, hands it to Kathy. Dayo, carrying flowers, hands the arrangement to Robbie.

“When we heard Mr. Ben had passed, we had to come,” Obi said.

“Where are you from?” Robbie asks.

“Nigeria,” Obi said.

“Yes, we travel many miles to arrive here,” Dayo said.

The children look at each other, puzzled. Robbie shrugs his shoulders as if to say ‘you ask her.’

“Obi,” Kathy asks, “how did you know our dad?”

“This you, your son, and dad?” Jen asks.

“Yes. It was taken in 1967 in Libreville, after your father saved us,” Obi replied.

“Your father was a very great man. Dayo was only 2 years old. The condition in Nigeria had become dreadful. The Igbo’s in Nigeria were being persecuted and millions died. Dayo and I were running and hiding as the army were killing as many people as they could. I worked at the building where your father was stationed. He was leaving the country and offered to drive us, hidden, to Libreville in Guinea, where we would be safe.

“Many times he was stopped. Many times he gave them money, or food, so we could continue our travel. He was threatened by the army but he never allowed them to find us. He saved us when millions were being killed. We owe our lives to Mr. Ben,” she said breaking down in tears.

“What was he doing in Nigeria in 1967?” Robbie asked.

“Mr. Ben said he worked for Uncle Stan.” Obi replied, “that is all I remember.”

Robbie laughs. “I think you mean Uncle Sam?” he states.

“We knew he worked for the government,” Kathy said. “But he never said what he did. He always had maps and almanacs and listings of name and numbers.”

“CIA, maybe?” Robbie asks.

“Has to be,” Jen replied.

“Thank you for coming all this way, Obi,” Kathy said.

“We were just talking about how we really didn’t know dad very well because he was gone a lot when we were growing up,” Robbie said.

“I can assure you when he was gone from you, he was doing good somewhere in the world,” Obi said.

Obi and Dayo walk to Ben’s casket to reflect and say a quick prayer over him. She starts to cry when she sees him. They extend hugs to the children and one final touch and blessing to Ben.

“Goodbye Mr. Ben. We owe you our lives,” Dayo said.

Obi reaches in her bag for a rosary. Handmade and white in color, she places the beads on Ben’s chest, tears streaming down her face.

“Rosary beads for you, Mr. Ben,” Obi said.

“She made that for him. They’re camel bone beads,” Dayo said.

“Thank you, Obi,” Jen said. “Would you stay for a rosary at 7?”

“Sure,” Dayo replies.

Obi and Dayo take seats in the middle of the room. The children go to the vestibule to talk and to greet more people.

“Wow! Like WOW!” Jen exclaims.

“I’ll say. Eye-opening,” Robbie adds.

Two old men, one with a cane and one with a walker enter the funeral home. Both men wear Veteran’s caps, which they remove.

“Is this Benjamin Rich’s wake?” the first man asks.

“Yes it is,” Kathy responds.

“May we see him, miss?” the second man asks.

“Sure,” Kathy tells the men, “come in.”

The men shuffle to the casket with their mobile assistants. They tear up when they see Ben. The first gentleman reaches in his coat pocket and removes a small box, like one would have when proposing marriage. He opens the box, takes out a medal, and lays it on Ben’s chest next to the prayer beads. Both men salute Ben.

When the men are finished and turn to sit in the assembly, the children need to know their story.

“Did you know our dad?” Robbie asks.

“Son, your dad was the bravest, toughest son-of-a-bitch we have ever known. He saved our lives and the lives of our platoon in the Pacific,” the first man said.

“We had just arrived on the island in January and by April the Japs had mostly taken over. Your dad, Georgie here, and I held our ground as best we could at Hospital but the Japanese forces were too great,” the second man said.

“We knew we had to get out of there,” Georgie continued, “but to where? The whole place was involved with the enemy. So Jack and your dad and myself planned to fight our way to the beach picking up the rest of our platoon along the way.”

“We fought as best we could, picking up men as we went, hand to hand and armed fights, until we came to the beach,” Jack explained. “We had run out of ammunition so what did your dad do? He goes back into the oncoming Japanese, hand fighting, using their weapons to hold them off until we could be picked up.”

“We and forty other Marines escaped but your dad didn’t,” Georgie said. “He ended up on the death march and suffered greatly. You see, we owe him our lives, and so do forty other fellows that made it.”

“That’s an incredible story,” Robbie said. “He did say he was a POW in WWII but he never talked about it.”

“Thank you for coming and sharing,” Jen told the men.

The neighbors and friends of Francie were among the many visitors to the funeral home. Ben didn’t have too many friends, but he did enjoy a couple of friendships with the spouse’s of some of Francie’s friends, and some sent flower arrangements or plants which surrounded the casket.

The Rosary was said at 7 and people had the opportunity to share their memories about Ben when it finished. The children struggled to share some insight of their home-life and memories of their father. Gus, Ben’s friend from down the street shared how he and Ben would challenge each other as to who could grill the better steak. But the last person to speak was a stranger to all of the people in attendance.

A man approaches the podium near Ben’s casket. Dressed in a pin-striped black Brooks Brothers suit, Italian shoes, and sporting a nice tan accentuated by his bone white goatee; the man obviously has some money. He takes the microphone in hand.

“My name is Paul,” he began, “Paul Linkhaler. I knew Ben from my time as a stockbroker on Wall Street. In October of 1987 we faced a complete melt-down of the market. Jobs were lost overnight and the recovery was slow at best. I was on my last dime, on the verge of eviction from my Fifth Avenue apartment, and was destined to be homeless or take my life that night.

“I went to a bar for a last shot of Wall Street courage and sat down next to Benjamin Rich. We started talking and I told Ben my plight. He didn’t know me from Adam but he did something for me I have never repaid him for until today. Ben took out a little black book full of scribbles and notes from his pocket and placed ten $ 100 bills in it. He said, ‘use half to carry yourself until your next payday, but invest the other half in a little company called Microsoft. And keep putting money in it.’ Well, I did. And I kept putting money in it. So I have something for the family of the man who saved my life.”

Paul reaches in his suit jacket and hold up a little black book, “That same little black book Ben gave me years ago and $ 20,000. The initial $1,000 plus another $19,000 for interest. I am also donating $250,000 to a charity of the family’s choice in Ben’s name.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.