Writing for a Friend

The coffee did not aromatize our home the same way it did before – the way it had done for over a decade. It was the same brand mom had bought for years … And that dad had brewed the same way, using the same coffee machine (not technically, but same difference), he had always used from the beginning of time (again, not technically, but same difference). Nor was there something different with nor in the water.

Hope was gone … It made the coffee tasteless.

Sure, the pandemic had affected everyone, albeit at different degrees. But it had really taken a toll on dad. It was not the quarantine orders nor all the bullshit from those that choose politicking as a career. To him it was all the same - regardless of the figure head – some promises would be kept, and some promises would be broken.

I did not see or hear him cry, but I was told that dad cried.

Dad was told, that for his own sake, he should not visit my aunt … And definitely should not come within arm’s reach of her, once she was back home. I did hear him say, “Go fuck yourself” … To the physician’s assistant (PA). Dad normally did not lose his cool, but my aunt had been sick for the last few weeks (with the virus) and we all knew … We all fucking knew … That, this was perhaps the last time we would be able to bring her home.

Dad tried to stay positive – in a literal sense, he kept trying, but could not do it.

In truth, everyone felt completely helpless in terms of alleviating my aunt’s suffering. We all did what we could, otherwise. As soon as restrictions were lowered, I went out to find some contract work. Fortunately, for me, there were a lot of people in my neighborhood that needed some extra help – or maybe they knew what my family was going through and “found” things for me to do for them. Either way, I could not be more grateful.

Dad had a difficult time finding work. It was a good thing he owned his own company and made his own schedule (dad is a plumber). He is in that special category of taxpayer, known as “the afterthought,” in congress – the sole-proprietors on tax forms. “They have their own business, so they must be doing well, right?” So say the people that have never had their own business and believe, foolishly, that things must always be UP with “those people.”

“Do you have to tell them?” Mom had asked dad, when he decided to tap into my college fund to pay the bills.

Dad got angry, “What the fuck do you mean? Do I have to tell them? If someone working in our home could inadvertently expose you …. Or our family! To this shit! Wouldn’t you want to know?”

I had only heard dad snap like that towards me once:

I remember asking, “Dad, why is it that African-American guys don’t like to work for a living?”

Dad’s face had turned red hot, but his voice had remained calm:

“I don’t recall raising you to be racist son … Whoever you’ve learned that from, unlearn it … And quick, I don’t want to hear you speak that way again, you hear?”

“Yeah, dad.” I had said quickly, “Sorry.”

“I’m taking you with me to a job-site next Saturday, so you can meet some of these African-American guys that don’t like to work … We’ll see how long you can go doing the work that they do, day in and day out buddy … You’ll learn something about working men, son.”

“Okay, dad.” And I did learn something that weekend. It was something that I had heard over and over and over again, more so every February 1 through March 1, that any woman and any man should be judged “by the content of her or his character” and not by the color of her or his skin. I had to see it to believe it … I remember, I had felt ashamed (at first), but then proud that I had learned this lesson early in my life and that I had learned it well.

It was dad’s inheritance – a 1968 Dodge Charger.

My aunt had inherited grandpa and grandma’s house … My uncle had inherited a 1972 Dodge Challenger. Both vehicles were in amazing condition, the house was not. In addition, my aunt had taken a loan against the house to put her husband through rehab, once again. It was all for nothing; her husband cycled through the same self-destructive steps every two years or so: clean, a friend offered just once, just a little on occasion, recreational, I don’t have a problem, I live only for this, hospitalized, rehab.

It does not matter in which step he was in last year when my aunt died, it only matters that he was not there when his family (his children) needed him the most. Fortunately, cousin Mark had been helping with the bills while attending college. When my aunt got sick, he started looking for full-time work – he settled for three part-time jobs. It is for time to tell, whether my cousin Mark did the right thing by working more hours instead of being with his mom the last months of her life. But I’ll tell you this, if you ever tell him that he didn’t do the right thing, “I will find you, and I will kill you.” And if I don’t, dad surely will.

Cousin Mark stepped up and became something his biological father will never be - the man of the house.

It took a heavy toll on dad, I did not see it, but I overheard Mom mention it to a family friend at the remembrance service we held at my aunt’s house. The sheriff had stopped by to express his condolences … He told dad, that aunt Sylvia was “the kindest, most honest and hard-working woman he had ever met.”

Dad used my college fund to pay off most of the mortgage remaining against the rightful owners of aunt Sylvia’s house (my cousins).

Dad had suggested to my uncle that they could both sell their classic cars (hopefully to a collector) and they could make more than enough to help the kids out – and help cousin Mark stay in college, whenever college classes resumed.

My uncle said something along the lines of, “I didn’t tell her to marry that deadbeat husband of hers … And I sure as hell won’t sell anything of mine just so he can snort the proceeds up his nose.”

Dad explained that only the children had rights of survivorship … My uncle still refused. Dad says he lost both his sister and his brother on the same day. He also says that if my aunt’s husband ever shows up again, he is going to do what he should have done a long time ago (he has offered no specifics on what that “doing” might be).

I saw the little black book, with a used bow on it, sitting next to the cake when I got home. I had told mom and dad not to do this … But my cousins were there and also some friends. And though things were definitely not back to normal, it sure felt like everyone there wanted to play pretend just for a couple of hours – we tacitly agreed, that it would not do us much harm and that it would just be a few hours. We were not naïve, we just wanted one good memory to hold on to for the next few months. I smiled and thanked everyone and hugged my cousins as many times as I could.

People think and will think that my dad cried because he felt forced to sell his most priced possession at a discount; that he cried because he lost money in that transaction. That’s stupid; dad cried because he wanted to believe that, against all evidence to the contrary, that just maybe … If he had sold his car for just a few thousand dollars (earlier) … That maybe he could have found a “natural medicine” or (“fuck it”) some chemotherapy treatment that miraculously killed the virus … That maybe aunt Sylvia could have survived. Though he knew he had done everything he could, and the doctors had done everything they could, dad could never accept that – he would never.

Dad wanted to control his grief.

It was until the end of the night, that dad had me open my gift … By that I mean, literally open my gift (the little black book). Everyone had thought it was a peculiar gift, but no one had said anything. Dad felt it was not right for me to open it while my cousins were still there, so we ate food and we ate cake and dad got a few beers – to welcome us boys, jokingly, into manhood. Dad told me and cousin Mark that he was proud of us both. Cousin Lisa was helping out at home too … She made sure that her younger sister logged on to her virtual classroom every day, and cousin Lisa did her part to keep the house clean and everyone fed, just like aunt Sylvia would have wanted.

Dad told cousin Lisa that he was really proud of her too … He did it quickly because he did not want to cry in front of her.

Inside the black book was a ledger … The first entry was the beginning balance of a bank account. I noticed my name prominently displayed directly above the bank account number. The balance was more than enough for books and a few years of tuition. I waited for an explanation patiently.

Dad explained that he was going to give cousin Mark a similar notebook the next day – with a slightly greater amount.

“Dad, we have to get your car back,” I said.

“No son, that was my father’s inheritance to me … And you know what he said to me when he gave it to me? He said, ‘son, some day you’ll understand that this is just a car.’ And I think I did … I think you understand too.”

“Dad, why didn’t you tell us … You had this money?”

“Ha!” Dad blurted out, “Because up until last week I did not have that money … That’s your grandpa’s gift to you … Your inheritance.” Dad paused to give me time to understand what that little black book was and where it came from. And then he finished explaining, “I kept getting a phone call from a lawyer saying he was with my father’s estate, and I just thought ‘bullshit’ …. Dad’s been gone a long time.” Dad paused again to admire grandpa’s wisdom, “He invested that money in low risk long-term bonds … You know? In one of those trust things … But the trustee could not pay it out to us until all our children turned eighteen. You know? The age of majority. Or, if one of the siblings passed away … Your aunt Sylvia, you know? That was grandpa’s orders.”

“Oh,” Was the only thing I could say.

“I mean, we all knew there was some money … Because grandpa and grandma did tell us about the trust, but I just didn’t think there would be that much in there.”

“What about uncle Be-“ Dad stopped me before I could finish saying his name.

“He has his money … You can still talk to him if you want son, he’s your uncle, but for all intents and purposes … [sigh] he’s not my brother anymore.”

Dad was still hurt … But he loves his brother the same he loved his sister … The same I love my cousins. I hope the coffee isn’t tasteless much longer.