The Lost Choice

by Andy Andrews

  “Here’s what I mean. Take, for example, a person who has literally changed the world with an invention. Often, a person like that might point to a particular book that directed or inspired him to his life’s work. Now, to whom do we owe the debt of gratitude for enriching our lives so significantly with that invention? The inventor? Or the author of the book that the inventor freely admits led him to a life of inventing in the first place?”

  George shifted in his chair and, crossing his arms, tapped his chin with a forefinger as if lost in thought.“Or do we thank the teacher who encouraged the child to become an author? Certainly, without the teacher, the book would never have been written. And of course, this was the very book that inspired the person who created the invention that changed the world.”

  With his finger still tapping his chin, George watched Dr.Washington from the corner of his eye and continued to think out loud. “Or is the world indebted to the old woman who created a scholarship fund so that a young person could go to college and become the teacher who encouraged the child who became the author of the book that inspired the person whose invention changed the world? Maybe we owe our appreciation to the man who drove the wagon . . .” George paused.

  Transfixed, Booker T.Washington—the man who himself had been a slave and whom many were already calling one of the greatest minds of the twentieth century—simply stared at his friend. Prompting George to finish his thought, he repeated his last words.“The man who drove the wagon?” “You know, the man who drove the wagon . . . that carried the lumber that was used to build the doctor’s office. Nobody ever knew! But the doctor’s office was where the woman’s life was saved who, several years later, bore the child who grew up to create the scholarship fund in the first place.” He smiled and stood up.“Yes,we definitely need to thank the man who drove the wagon, because he is the one who changed the world.”

  With that, George shrugged and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned one last time and said,“Or maybe somebody helped the man who drove the wagon, you think?” He smiled broadly, then added, “In any case, there’s more going on in Tuskegee,Alabama, than a bunch of people with too many peanuts. That ain’t the end of this story.”

  ALABAMA—JANUARY 1943

  “And when he emerged from his laboratory,” the speaker said in a clear voice,“on the morning of the tenth day, the uses and opportunities he had discovered for the peanut included glue; shaving cream; shampoo; soap; insecticide; peanut butter, of course; axle grease; diesel fuel; linoleum”— the vice president of the United States of America turned a page of his notes—“nitroglycerin; insulation; bleach; ink . . .”

  Dr. Frederick Patterson, president of Tuskegee Institute, crossed, and then uncrossed, his legs. Austin Curtiss, George Carver’s assistant,was seated beside him on the left edge of the new platform which had been finished just that morning by the Student Government Association. Patterson was slightly cool, but otherwise comfortable on this sunny, winter morning. Scanning the audience for familiar faces, he recognized more than a few, including Henry Ford and his wife, who were sitting on the first row. He directed his attention back to the vice president, who continued reading excerpts from a list of items that had eventually totaled more than three hundred,“. . . meat tenderizer; cooking oil; vinegar; evaporated milk . . .”

  For three days now,Tuskegee had experienced a deluge of people arriving by air, bus, train, car,wagon, and on foot. From all over the world, literally thousands had braved the dangers and inconvenience of travel during this terrible time of a world at war. The small town had neither the hotels nor the restaurants to care for the guests, most of whom had come uninvited. Therefore, many of them had simply waited patiently in the fields and streets, gathering in groups to talk quietly or occasionally build a small fire after dark by which to keep the January chill at bay.

  Every church and school building in Macon County— even the courthouse—had opened their doors to provide temporary accommodations for the families who flooded the tiny community. And they had all come to honor the man whose remains now lay in the polished oak casket placed carefully on a large table at the foot of the platform. At the age of seventy-seven, George Washington Carver had died in his sleep sometime during the evening of January 5. The crowd, some seated, but most standing, represented the world’s every age and race—for he had touched them all. There was a delegation from India sent by Mahatma Gandhi, who had sought Carver’s advice on building and maintaining his country’s agricultural system. Officials from Great Britain, Brazil, and Chile were in attendance. Even Joseph Stalin, who had solicited Carver’s help in exploiting the vast expanse of land in Russia, sent a representative to convey his respect. At the moment, all were listening in amazement to the list that punctuated a story they had heard many times.

  “. . . charcoal; textile dyes; wood stains; cosmetics; fertilizer; baby cream; tannic acid—and a sauce, butter substitute, and condiment that have become better known as Worcestershire, margarine, and mayonnaise.”The vice president deliberately set the list aside and looked up. He was a slim man of average height. His silver hair matched the dark-gray suit he wore. Pinned on his lapel was a small cutting of spruce. From his vantage point on the platform, he could see that many others in the crowd had also attached a piece of greenery to a jacket or dress as a way of honoring the man whose life had counted for so much.

  Removing his reading glasses, the vice president said,“As you may or may not know, I served this country as the secretary of agriculture for seven years. I have been in the unique position of being able to see firsthand the impact of Dr. Carver’s work. Every day, I think about the hundreds of thousands of children whose lives have been saved in West Africa due to the protein available to them now in the form of peanut milk, which he taught the world to synthesize.

  “He has made a difference in the war effort as well. Just last year, Dr. Carver authored an article that has evidently been printed and reprinted in every newspaper in America. You know the name of it.”The audience was nodding and smiling. “Nature’s Garden for Victory and Peace. Did you know that last summer, there were over twenty million victory gardens planted in our country?” There was an audible gasp from the crowd. “Statistics from the Department of Agriculture show that over 40 percent of the food consumed in our country this year will have been produced in victory gardens.”

  Austin Curtiss, Carver’s assistant, began to applaud. He was only twenty years old and had never seen anyone clap at a funeral before, but to his way of thinking, it was entirely appropriate. Dr. Carver had taken him under his wing as an assistant and had changed the boy’s life. Austin stood up . . . and for the barest of seconds thought he might applaud right by himself. But Dr. Patterson stood as well, as did every man,woman, and child in attendance, clapping and nodding their heads in approval.

  When at last they sat down, the university president briefly put his arm around the young man’s shoulders as the vice president continued. “Dr. Carver was a treasured individual to many of us here. Calvin Coolidge considered him a friend, as did Theodore Roosevelt and, of course, our current president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Harvey Firestone,Thomas Edison, and you, Mr. Ford . . .” He indicated the renowned industrialist on the front row. “All you men regarded Dr. Carver as an intimate friend, did you not?” Ford bobbed his head vigorously to indicate agreement.

  The vice president leaned forward on the podium. The ovation of a few moments before had somehow shifted the mood of this gathering from its somber beginnings to a more relaxed—almost celebratory—atmosphere. “Mr. Ford? I am curious,” he said with a wink.“Were you ever able to convince Dr.Carver to accept any of your money?” Ford shook his head and mouthed the word no as he took his wife’s hand and listened expectantly.

  “I didn’t think so,” the vice president said. “And what did he do for you and Mr. Firestone?” Answering his own question, he continued to speak to Ford. “Amazingly, the man developed a plastic material from soybeans that you w
ere able to use in your automobiles.”Taking the whole audience in his gaze, he said,“And in a piece of science that astounds me to this day, Dr. Carver created a process of extracting rubber from the milk of the goldenrod plant.” He paused, pivoted to shake his head in wonder at the two men seated on the platform behind him, then, as if in disbelief, repeated himself,“Rubber! . . . from the milk of the goldenrod plant.”

  The vice president paused and, lifting his head, spoke directly to a woman seated on the first row beside Henry Ford’s wife. “Mrs. Bounds, would you join me on stage?” Then, he turned to the men seated behind him and added, “Dr. Patterson? Mr.Curtiss? Would you also join us here at the podium?”

  The audience watched curiously as the vice president moved to the steps and extended his hand to a beautiful woman who appeared to be in her early forties. She had smooth, caramel-colored skin and wore a simple black dress. Helping her onto the platform, he spoke privately to her for a moment, then addressed the crowd.“You already know these two gentlemen. The lady who has joined us is Mrs. Bonnie Mae Bounds from Fordyce,Arkansas. She is Dr. Carver’s niece and only living relative.”

  As the vice president spoke, Dr. Patterson and Austin greeted Mrs. Bounds. Then all three directed their attention back to him.“Early this morning,” he said,“I had the opportunity to read Dr. Carver’s last will and testament. It was written on a single page of paper and in Dr. Carver’s own hand. While I will admit, it is unusual to reveal the contents of a man’s will at his burial, by the powers vested in me as an official representative of the United States government, I intend to do just that.” A murmur ran through the crowd as the vice president held his hands up in a motion to request patience and quiet.

  “There are only two provisions in the will. One is for Dr. Carver’s financial estate. Now, one might rightly ask,‘How much could his financial estate possibly be?’After all,we are talking about a man who never took a raise or a single payment for outside work.” He paused, looking over the audience whose attention was rapt.“So, how much did he earn? Quickly doing the math, one sees that during a term of forty-seven years and four months, Dr.Carver received 568 checks—each for exactly $125.That is a total gross earnings of $71,000.

  “From this amount, Dr. Carver gave to his church, paid his bills, helped the less fortunate, and saved what he could manage.” He turned to the university president. “Dr. Patterson? Dr.Carver wished to leave his estate to Tuskegee Institute. The savings, sir . . . money Dr. Carver would not spend on himself . . . total a bit more than sixty thousand dollars.” There was a gasp from the crowd.Tears quickly became evident on the faces of many as Dr. Patterson shook his head and said softly, “Thank You, Lord.”

  The vice president continued to speak. “The second provision in Dr. Carver’s will”—he paused—“was for this.”He held up an item that tumbled from his hand and dangled at the end of a leather cord, swinging in the winter sunlight, holding the attention of every person present. “Dr. Carver wore this around his neck. It was his father’s before him, who also wore it around his neck.”

  The vice president focused his gaze upon the lady.“Mrs. Bounds, Dr. Carver wanted you to have this.” He moved to the small woman and, in full view of everyone, talked quietly to her for a moment. Then, as she bowed her head, he carefully placed the object around her neck.

  The worn leather of the cord was smooth and cool against the bare skin of her neck as Bonnie Mae Bounds held her Uncle Gee’s food stone in her hands. She had not seen it since she was a little girl—he had worn it under his shirt—but now she looked at its shape and color, running a fingertip across the rough grooves as she listened to the vice president’s final words.

  “Today,we bury this wonderful man next to his friend, Dr. Booker T. Washington, and we will miss him. He began each day with an earnest prayer that God would reveal to him the secrets of the flowers, plants, soil, and weeds. He wanted only to put more food in the bellies of the hungry, more clothing on the backs of the naked, and better shelter over the heads of the homeless. His work is now done. But because he has shown us the way . . . ours is just beginning.”

  WHEN THE VICE PRESIDENT HAD FINISHED THAT morning, he shook hands with Austin Curtiss,Dr.Patterson, and Bonnie Mae and descended the steps to speak momentarily with the Fords. Finally, he stopped at the coffin and bowed his head briefly before being escorted to his car and driven away.

  Bonnie Mae had gone back to her seat beside Mrs. Ford and listened patiently as Dr. Patterson made his remarks and offered a final prayer. Afterward, the Fords had spoken to her—along with maybe a thousand other people who wanted only to hug her, shake her hand, or offer their condolences. She and her husband had not been alone for a single moment until they boarded the bus to begin the long journey back to Arkansas.

  Falling asleep almost immediately, she had not awakened until the bus was well into Mississippi. It was dark when she opened her eyes. She felt first for the object around her neck, then spoke quietly.“Jerold? You awake?”

  “Yes, girl,” her husband answered. “I been awake. But you was some kind of tired.”

  “I’m still wore out,” she said as she looked out the bus window. They were traveling on a rural highway, and occasionally, Bonnie Mae caught sight of a flickering fireplace shining through the cloth-covered window of some tiny farmhouse. Those are the kind of people he helped, she thought. “It’s just all so sad, Jerold. Uncle Gee was the last of my people.”

  “I know, baby,” he said to his wife,“but you can sure be proud. You heard the man today . . . right there in yo’ Uncle Gee’s house. Uncle Gee changed the world! Tha’s what the man said!”Then, as an afterthought, wanting to cheer her up, Jerold added,“And you done met the vice president of the United States!”

  She sat up straighter. “Yes, I did,” she said. “And he couldn’ta been nicer. When we was in Uncle Gee’s place with him today—me an’ the Curtiss boy—he told us all about growing up in Iowa. Did you know that his daddy taught Uncle Gee at college? And Uncle Gee took vice president Wallace all through the woods when he was a child. He said they collected plants together!” She was quiet for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, then said, “Do you know he told us to call him ‘Henry’? We didn’t do it, but he told us to!”

  “Bonnie Mae,” Jerold said, shifting in the uncomfortable bus seat to face his wife. “Bonnie Mae, what did the vice president say to you today? What did the man say right in front of ever’body when he gave you Uncle Gee’s food stone?”

  Her eyes brightened.“Oh, Lord,” she said.“I almost forgot. He was so nice. Right before he put it around my neck, he said to me, he said,‘Bonnie Mae . . . do you pledge to do somethin’ special with your life?’”

  EIGHT

  FORDYCE, ARKANSAS—OCTOBER

  DURING THE RIDE TO LUNCH, THE CHANDLERS listened in stunned silence as Mae Mae told them the story of her Uncle Gee and how she came to possess the food stone. Sitting in the backseat, Dorry’s journalistic instincts were “red-lining.” She took notes and drew circles around the name Henry Wallace, intending to do an Internet search when she got home. Secretary of agriculture and vice president under Roosevelt? She had never heard of him.

  It was ten minutes past noon as Mark held the door of Klappenbach’s Bakery for Dorry and Mae Mae. Dorry commented later that she felt as though she were accompanying the queen of England when they entered the restaurant. The hostess escorted them directly to a booth— and several of the people standing by the door actually clapped as they passed. As they made their way across the restaurant, Mark was amused to see a wave of patrons stand to greet the town’s most recognizable personality and call her by name.“Hey, Mae Mae!” a little girl yelled from the other side of the room.

  Everyone laughed as the old woman yelled back,“Hey, Sugar! Get yo’sef over heah and give yo’ Mae Mae a hug!” When the child did, the entire restaurant was watching and smiling.

  Mark and Dorry were astonished. “It’s kinda like being with Elvis,”
Mark observed, directing his remark to a waitress who stood with the Chandlers, smiling at the commotion the old lady was causing.

  When they finally sat down and their order was taken, Dorry said,“Mae Mae, you are a celebrity!”

  “No, baby,” she chuckled.“Mae Mae just old! The older Mae Mae git, the crazier these people act! I do love ’em though.”

  “You two keep talking,” Mark interjected as he slid out of the booth. “I need to speak with someone about a fax machine to send this drawing of the food stone to Dylan. Hopefully, it will be okay with them for us to hang out here and wait for Dylan’s call back. He has my cell.”

  Watching him go, Mae Mae said,“You got a sweet man. He’s like my Jerold.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dorry said. “Mark is a wonderful husband. And a wonderful father.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Mae Mae, Dr. Carver left the food stone to you. Did he not have any children?”

  “No,” she replied.“He never got married. Too caught up in his work. He wrote me one time ’bout how he was sweet on a lady teacher in Tuskegee, but I’m thinkin’ she got tired of waitin’ on the man! That was durin’ the same time them big Eastern newspapers was after him. They said he wadn’ a scientist ’cause he gave the credit to the Lord. They asked him how he made his discoveries and he told ’em how he’d get up every mornin’ in the dark. He said that God drawed back the curtain on what he was ’posed to do.An’ them newspapers ate ’im up fer it! Said a scientist got to have a better method than that! Look to me like that method worked out pretty good!”

  Mae Mae huffed.“All them criticizers . . . anybody build a statue of them? They in history books? The vice president of the United States of America come to their funerals?” Dorry was shaking her head. “I didn’ think so!” Mae Mae sat back with an audible,“Hmmph,” as if she were through, but began talking again almost immediately.