by Tina Martin
When I see Darnell calling, I pick up my cell and answer it right away. “Hello.”
“Hey, baby. I went by the spa today. Stacey told me you left early. Everything cool?”
“Um...yeah.”
“So why’d you leave? I was planning on taking you out to lunch today?”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, I bet you were going to take me out to lunch so I could end up paying again. “I got an unexpected phone call, Darnell. My father passed.”
“Oh my gosh,” he says. “Wait, didn’t you tell me he was a millionaire?”
I frown. I just told my fiancé that my father passed and I don’t get an I’m sorry, babe or is there anything I can do to help or a simple are you okay. He goes straight to the money.
“Seriously, Darnell. My father dies and you’re asking me about his money?”
“Geneva, don’t try to get all in your feelings now. You didn’t even like your father. You couldn’t stand the man.”
“Still doesn’t mean I wanted to see him dead. And—”
“Okay, okay...I’m sorry for your loss,” he tosses out.
“Thanks.”
“Now, do you want me to come over there? I have about two more hours left at work and I can stop over afterwards. What would you like for me to do, Geneva?”
The nerve of this jerk. Men can be so insensitive sometimes. All of them. And it can’t be a good thing that I have to continuously keep chanting to myself: remember the good things you like about him, in order to keep from throwing this engagement ring in his face.
“I can’t talk to you right now. Goodbye, Darnell.”
“Wait...what do you want me to do?”
I want you to tell your boss that you have to leave work to be with your semi-grieving fiancée. “Do whatever your heart tells you to do. Bye.”
I hang up the phone and stand up from the couch. I can’t be too mad at Darnell because he was right about some things. My relationship with my father wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all and the downspin of our relationship started when my mother died. I was fourteen. It was the year I was to begin my first year of high school but she died that summer. From what I remembered about the circumstances, she had cervical cancer, wasn’t aware that she had it and by the time the doctors found out, there wasn’t anything that anyone could do. Even with all the money my parents had, there wasn’t a doctor who could save her life.
My father took it hard. One good thing I can say about him is, he loved my mother. In fact, he loved her so much that, when she died, he became angry and evil. Before mom passed, I was a daddy’s girl. After mom passed, I tried to stay away from my father as much as possible.
We moved from Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin to a fifteen-acre ranch in Winston-Salem when I was around six years old. My father left his egg farm behind and ran it as best as he could from our new home. That’s how he made his millions – in the egg business.
In Winston-Salem, he started up another business, offering boarding services for horses. My mother was a veterinarian and at one point, she had a separate business from my father. But when we moved, they began working together, seamlessly blending their passions.
When she died, my father turned to alcohol to ease the pain of losing the love of his life. And he was so mean to me. He made me do chores that most teenagers didn’t have to do. I had to cut grass, feed horses, mop all the hardwood floors in the house and vacuum the five, carpeted bedrooms on a weekly basis. It’s not like he couldn’t hire someone to do that for him. He wanted me to do it. And I had to cook his dinner when I came home from school. That was difficult for a teenager to do, especially since I already had to struggle to study for tests, do homework and maintain good grades. Then I had to come home and cook dinner...
And don’t get me started on allowance. I was lucky if I got a dollar at the end of the week for all the work I did around that house. And he’d walk around like a czar inspecting the floors I’d mopped, intentionally finding something wrong so I could mop them all over again.
Torture. Just plain, torture.
I remember having to borrow money from Wyatt just to be able to pay for my cap and gown. And my father didn’t bother coming to my high school graduation. I recall him being so sloshed that when I finally made it home from the ceremony, he was sitting in a rocking chair with his legs crossed. I will never forget what he said to me that day in his slurred, drunken speech:
“I see you got dat stupid-lookin’ gown on. And why you got dat square cap on yo’ big head, gul? What you trying to prove?”
“I graduated from high school, Dad. Most parents—”
“So what? You still ain’t got nothing. That gown will never make you as rich as me.” He giggled. Then the giggle turned into wicked laughter.
I’ve never been one to argue with him, especially when he’s drunk because it’s a lost cause, but I can’t bite my tongue this time. “Well, that’s good, Dad, because I’m not trying to be as rich as you.”
“You can’t be, even in your wildest dreams. I got mo’ money than Gill Bates.”
“You mean, Bill Gates,” I said, withholding laughter.
“Who gives a crap?” he slurred.
“Okay, um, well, you definitely don’t have more money than Bill Gates. He’s a billionaire, Dad.”
He rose up out of the rocking chair, smelling like hard liquor and the stench of a man who hadn’t had a good bath in days. Just inches away from my face, he said, “You callin’ your deddy a liar, gul?”
Just the smell of alcohol on his breath was enough to intoxicate an infant. But drunk or not, I’d had enough of being terrorized by my father and I was looking forward to leaving this home for good. The graduation didn’t mean a thing to him, but it was everything to me.
“Answer me, gul!”
“I wasn’t calling you a liar, Dad.”
That’s when he cranked his hand back and slapped me with it. He hit me so hard, I fell back onto the couch. I sat there, holding my face, tears bubbling in my eyes. I knew my father’s alcoholism was due to my mother’s passing, but I couldn’t deal with it anymore. So I snapped, gathered myself and jumped off of the couch, and using his inebriated state to my advantage, I pushed him on the floor and yelled, “Enough! I have had it in this house! You need help, Dad!”
“I don’t need nothing!” he yelled, still lying on the floor where I had pushed him. “Get out! Get out of my house! And take dat raggedy gown on outta here wit’cha.”
I turned around, walked out of the house and ran into one of the empty horse stables. Since people around town knew my father was an alcoholic, they stopped boarding their horses here a long time ago, which was great for me because at least now I have somewhere to lay my head without being in his house.
_____
I shake my head. I remember sleeping many a nights in the upper loft of a horse stable. I was there so often, I’d had a twin mattress, blankets, a battery-powered radio, flashlights and even a little snack bin. It was my sanctuary. A hideaway. It was the place I used to spend with the only friend I had in school – Wyatt McDowell.
Growing up in a mostly all-white community, I was an outsider. A lot of the kids didn’t like me, told me flat-out that I didn’t belong there, but not Wyatt. He would come over to the house, help me with my chores, something my father didn’t like. But over the years, he accepted Wyatt as my friend and didn’t mind that I spent so much time with him. However, when he was drunk, he’d send Wyatt away. Wyatt would beg me to come with him, but I wouldn’t. Some nights, when my father was in a drunken rage, Wyatt would stay with me in the stables. He would hold me and tell me that everything was going to be alright. That he would always protect me.
I sigh and rub my hand across my head. The memories I have of my father haunts me so much that sometimes, I forget he used to be a man that I admired and looked up to. And now, he’s dead...
I take my phone from the table and check the voicemail that Mr. Price has left for me. When I play it back, I hear:
Hi, this is Preston Price calling back. Seems our call was disconnected earlier. I’m sorry about your father’s passing, Mrs. Knight, but as executor of your father’s will, I will need you to be at my office on Wednesday at 2:00 p.m. Also, you may want to pack some extra clothes, because, most likely, you will be here a while. Again, I’m sorry and I look forward to seeing you here. Wednesday. 2:00 p.m.
_____
Ain’t that a shame…
Instead of simply leaving his belongings to his only child, my father had to hire an executor. He probably cut me out of the will altogether. It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, we didn’t part ways on good terms. I left his home three months after I graduated from high school and never looked back. Ten years later, I’m forced to do just that – look back.
CHAPTER 3
“I was so worried about you,” Stacey says as I invited her inside of my apartment. “I brought dinner...figured I’d bring you some good ol’ comfort food.”
“And what’s that, Stacey?” I ask, watching her set a bag on the table, then she sits on the couch.
“Fried chicken, collard greens, corn bread and mac and cheese.”
“Thank you. It smells delicious, but I don’t think I can eat a bite of it.”
“You can,” she says, opening her Styrofoam, takeout container and begins eating and smacking loudly, her way of encouraging me to eat.
Her plan, though annoying, actually seems to be working. I can feel my stomach growling right now. I take my food container, and start on the macaroni first. “So, my dad’s accountant is the executor of his estate. He told me I needed to come to his office on Wednesday for the reading of the will.”
“And what about funeral arrangements?”
“I don’t know. I need to call him back to find out what’s going on with that since I have no one else there to call.”
“So tell me...how do you feel about all of this, Geneva?”
“I don’t know. I feel bad that he’s dead, but the man who I knew after my mother died...that man wasn’t my father. He was someone else...someone I didn’t recognize. And now, I don’t know how to feel.”
“Well, I guess you can just go and get it over with, you know.”
“And that’s another thing...if I go, what’s going to happen to the spa?”
“I’ll still be here to look after things.”
“No, Stacey. I think I should close the spa while I’m gone. I don’t want you there by yourself.”
“It’ll be fine, Geneva.”
“No it won’t. I can’t ask you to run this spa on your own. And you know what else Stacey? I honestly don’t even know why you’re working for me. It’s not like I can pay you a sufficient salary.”
“Girl, please. Do you really think I’m worried about a salary? I work because it gives me something to do. I’d be going crazy sitting at home alone.”
“But you don’t have to sit at home. You could be doing some really cool and interesting things.”
“Like what?” she asks, then takes a sip from a straw.
“Well, you could take a sewing class. Cooking class. You could start your own business.”
“Nah...I’m good. And I didn’t come here to talk about me, girl. I’m here for you. Now are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod since I’d just bitten into a piece of chicken. “I’m okay. But there is something...Mr. Price mentioned in his voicemail that I should pack some extra clothes. And the way he said it sounded a lil’ funny.”
“Funny?”
“Well maybe weird is a better word. Why on earth would I need some extra clothes if I’m just going to the reading of the will?”
“I think you need to call that man back...have a conversation with him because, like I said before, who’s taking care of the funeral arrangements? And where’s your father’s body?”
Body...the word takes on a whole new meaning when you’re using it to refer to a deceased person. I frown thinking about seeing his lifeless body. I don’t even think I would want to see it.
“Listen at me being insensitive. I’m so sorry, Geneva. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“Stacey, it’s fine. Okay. And you’re right. I’m going to call Mr. Price back tomorrow morning since his office is probably closed by now.”
“Okay,” she responds, placing her plate on the table. “Has Darnell been by?”
“Not yet,” I say, glancing at my watch. The time was close to seven. “He mentioned something about coming by after work but it wasn’t definite.”
“And here it is seven o’clock. Doesn’t he get off work at five?”
“Sure does, but like I said, it wasn’t definite. He actually asked me if I wanted him to come over.”
“He asked you?” she says with raised eyebrows.
Just then, my doorbell rings. I glance at Stacey.
“Speak of the devil,” she says, standing, taking her purse and throwing her plate in the garbage can. She takes her cup with her. “Let me get out of here. Call me later, okay.”
“Will do, Stacey. Thanks for dinner by the way.”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER 4
Stacey steps out.
Darnell enters. He speaks to Stacey, but she doesn’t say a word. Darnell shrugs it off and presents me with a white Calla Lilly bouquet of flowers in a clear vase. “I’m sorry, Geneva.” He hands the vase to me and says, “Thought you might like these.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the flowers to the counter near the sink. “So I thought you were going to be over right after work?”
“Um...yeah. I got held up. And you never did confirm whether or not you even wanted me to come over so I didn’t think it would matter.”
He walks over to the couch, takes a seat and reclines like he’s exhausted.
I walk over, sit next to him and he places a hand on my leg.
“I thought about what I said earlier and I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish I could take it back. I was having a rough day and I should’ve been more supportive of you rather than being a jerk.”
I know he’s truly sorry and deciding not to dwell on the matter, I let it go. I have bigger things to worry about.
“So I have to be in Winston-Salem on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday? Why so soon?”
Because my father just died. Duh. I give Darnell the side-eye. Sometimes I have no idea where his brain is. “His accountant called and told me to stop by his office on Wednesday.”
“Accountant? If you’re meeting an accountant, then this must be something pertaining to the will.”
“It is. Well, at least I think it is.”
“You think your father left you any of the money?”
“I honestly don’t know, Darnell.”
“You don’t have any siblings, right? Who else could he leave it to?”
“I don’t know. He could leave it to anyone he so chooses,” I say, frustrated. “A charity, an old friend...I don’t know.”
“Listen, baby. I’m not trying to sound greedy or anything like that, but if he did leave the money to us, I mean you, then do you know what that would mean for our family?”
“Our family? We don’t have a family.”
“You know what I mean, Geneva. Our future family. Our future children.”
Short of rolling my eyes, I ask, “What would it mean, Darnell?”
“That we get the house we want in Bankhead. We wouldn’t have to work anymore. We could vacation, go anywhere we want in the world without having to worry about whether or not we can afford it. We will never have to worry about money ever again, baby.”
“Darnell, now is not the time to think about that.”
“It is. You’re the one who always said that you couldn’t wait until the old man croaked so you could finally get your reward for putting up with his abuse for so many years. Now, your time has come, sweetie.”
Darnell pulls my leg up on the couch so that my foot is in his lap. He’s massagi
ng my feet like he never has before. Actually, he never has before. This is a first, and it feels so good, I almost forget where I am and what’s going on.
“How does that feel, baby?”
“Good,” I respond, looking at him.
A smile touches his lips. “I’ll do the other one in a moment.”
“Alright.” I sigh and feel my worries drifting away, well at least for a moment in time. I even close my eyes, pull in a breath and just let go.
“How much is your father worth again?” he inquires.
“Ah, I don’t know,” I respond lazily. “Seven or eight million.”
“Wow,” he says, and I feel his grip on my foot become tighter. “I hope he left it all to you, baby. That would be a blessing for us.”
A blessing? I can’t think of my father’s money as being a blessing. I mean, after all, he is dead. And when I left home, I told my dad that I didn’t need any of his money to make it in this world. I wanted to be my own success story. I didn’t want people to view me as a spoiled brat who inherited her father’s money and feigned success. I do have some pride and dignity, and I’ve never been the type to look for a handout.
At the same time, I can’t deny that I told Darnell those things. And maybe he’s right. I have been through the wringer with my father. I deserve this money – every dime of it. All the days I spent cooking for him, cleaning like a maid, doing lawn work, cleaning the pool – you name it, I was responsible for doing it. He didn’t give me any allowance back then. He didn’t even pay for my cap and gown or my prom dress. And then there was the time he slapped me to the floor. He was drunk, of course, but that’s no excuse for child abuse. And he’d hit me so hard, he busted my lip. The next morning, he had no recollection of what happened. He thought I’d been in a fight at school.
For a long time, I was convinced that my father didn’t love me. When I finally left that awful house and went to college on a grant, I thought about going back to visit him a few times, but each time I tried, I would remember all the bad things he did to me and I never went back. Never.
