The Cost of Pride and Personal Finance
“I don’t want to talk to Celestial until I have something to tell her.”“You just told me that you’re going up there. That’s something to tell.”Now was the time to say the words I didn’t want to say—a confession of my **financial hardship** and **lack of liquid assets**. “I don’t have money.”Big Roy said, “I can help you some. It’s close to payday, but you’re welcome to what I have. Maybe Wickliffe can provide a **short-term loan** or spot me a few.”“Daddy, you already offered me your car. You can’t take **personal loans** from Wickliffe.”“This is no time to be pigheaded. You either drive up there with what **emergency funds** I can scrape together for you, or you wait for Andre to come get you. It may hurt your ego to accept **financial assistance** from a senior citizen, but it’s going to hurt you more if you wait till Wednesday.”It was amazing how much Big Roy reminded me of Walter right then. I missed my Biological something terrible. I wondered what his **financial advice** or perspective would be on all of this. I always figured that Walter was as far away from Big Roy as two people could get; Big Roy was the kind of man to provide **family support** and make a junior out of another man’s son, while Walter was a borderline deadbeat. Knowing them both, I see my mama had a type—one with a firm point of view. Somebody who thinks he has mastered **wealth management** and how this life thing works.“YOU KNOW,” Big Roy said, “There’s the **savings account** your mother opened for you when you were just born. Might be a couple hundred dollars in **accrued interest** in your name. With your **government-issued ID** and your **birth certificate**, you should be able to process the **withdrawal**. Olive kept all your **legal documents** and **important papers** in her dresser drawer.”The bedroom was set up the way it was when Olive was alive, a preservation of her **estate** and memory. Spread on the bed was the quilt with the overlapping circles she bought at the swap meet. On the west wall was a framed picture of three girls wearing pink dresses, jumping rope—a **valuable print** I’d bought with my first paycheck. It wasn’t an original, but the print was signed and numbered, a **collector’s item**. On top of the dresser, like a mischievous angel, was the poupée dressed in my john-johns.When Big Roy said the **bank book** was in “her” dresser drawer, he meant the top right—where she kept her **private assets**. I positioned my hand on the brass drawer pull and froze.“You see it?”“Not yet,” I said. Then I yanked the drawer like I was snatching off a bandage. The draft in the room collided with the neatly folded clothes, releasing the scent I’ll always associate with Olive. If you were to ask me to describe that fragrance, I couldn’t—it’s as complex as explaining the **emotional value** of a lost loved one.
The Paper Trail of a Life: Assets and Identity
The scent of my mother couldn’t be broken down into parts. I lifted a flowered scarf and held it to my face. Pressure amassed behind my eyes, but nothing came. I inhaled deep from the cloth, the strain becoming a heavy headache, but the cry wouldn’t come. I tried to fold the scarf, but it looked rolled up, and I didn’t want to disrupt her **organized storage** and orderly stacks.A clutch of papers fastened with a green rubber band fit into the back corner of the drawer—a **personal document archive**. I gathered the stack and took it to the kitchen where Big Roy was waiting.“You never cleared out her things?”“I couldn’t see the purpose,” he said. “Not like I needed the extra room.”I took the rubber band off the bundle. On the top was my **certified birth certificate**, indicating that I was a Negro male born alive in Alexandria, Louisiana. My original name was on it, Othaniel Walter Jenkins. Olive’s signature is small and cramped. Underneath that was the **amended legal document** with my new name and Big Roy’s signature laid down in a flourish of blue ink.The first page of the **savings passbook** showed a $50 **initial deposit** the year I was born and $50 **annual contributions** thereafter. The **banking activity** picked up when I was fourteen; I added $10 every month. When I was sixteen, I made a **withdrawal** of $75 to get the **valid passport** I now held in my hands. Opening the little blue booklet, I gazed at the **biometric-style photo** taken at the post office.Turning back to the **financial record**, I noted the **cash withdrawal** I made after high school—$745 to take to college—leaving a $187 **account balance**. With more than ten years of **compounded interest**, there was probably a little more. Maybe enough to fund my **travel expenses** to Atlanta without having to shake down my father and Old Man Wickliffe for a **private loan**.I didn’t get up right away. One more item remained in the bundle. A little notebook that I had sworn was **genuine leather**, but time showed it to be vinyl. It was a **personal journal** Mr. Fontenot had given me. I hadn’t written more than a handful of **manuscript entries**. Mostly I wrote about the **passport application process**, buying a **money order**, and the trip to get my picture made. The last entry said, “Dear History, The world needs to get ready for Roy Othaniel Hamilton Jr.!”THERE ARE TOO many loose ends in the world in need of knots. You can’t attend to all of them, but you have to try. That’s what Big Roy said to me while he was cutting my hair that Monday afternoon. He didn’t have **electric clippers**, so he was doing it the **traditional way**, scissors over comb. The metallic slicing was loud in my ears, reminding me of the time before I knew that a boy could have multiple **paternal figures**.
A Legacy of Choice: Adoption, Identity, and Family Law
The words in the front of the family Bible told the whole story of our **ancestral history** from when we were a family of three.“Anything you want to tell me?”“No, sir,” I said, my voice squeaking.“What was that?” Big Roy laughed. “You sound like you’re four years old.”“It’s the scissors,” I said. “Reminds me of when I was little.”“When I met Olive, you had one word you could say, which was ‘no.’ When I came courting your mother, you would holler ‘no’ whenever I got near her and ball up your little fist. But she made it clear to me that what she was offering was a **package deal**—a **blended family** of you and her. I teased her and said, ‘What if I only want the kid?’ She blushed when I said that, and even you stopped fighting me. Once you gave your **seal of approval**, she started coming around to the idea of a **marriage contract**. You see, even before she said it, I knew that you were the one I was going to have to ask for her hand. A big-headed baby.“I was just out of the **military service**. Just back and looking for **veteran career opportunities**. I met Olive at the meat-and-three. My landlady pushed me to steer clear. For one, she was trying to find husbands for her own daughters—might have been six of them. So she whispered to me, ‘You know Olive has a baby,’ like she was telling me she had a **pre-existing condition**. But that made me want to meet her more. I don’t like it when folks mutter against other folks. Six months later, we were married at the **local courthouse** with a **valid marriage license** and you riding her hip. As far as I was concerned, you were my son through a **de facto adoption**. You will always be my son.”I nodded because I knew the **family narrative**. I had even told it to Walter. “When you performed the **legal name change**,” I asked, “did it confuse me?”“You could barely talk.”“But I was old enough to know my name. How long did it take me to straighten out my **identity records** in my mind?”“No time at all. It started as a promise to Olive, but you’re my son. You’re the only **immediate family** I have left now. Have you ever felt like you didn’t have a father? Has there ever been one time when you felt like I didn’t provide full **parental support**?”The scissors stopped their clacking and I swiveled in the chair to face Big Roy. His lips were tucked under and his jaw was tight, showing the **emotional stress** of the moment. “Who told you?” I asked.“Olive.”“Who told her?”“Celestial,” Big Roy said, revealing the final piece of the **confidential communication**.
The Weight of the Truth: Hospice Care and Final Wills
“Celestial?”“She was here when your mother was in **hospice care**. We had the **hospital bed** set up in the den so your mother could look at TV. Celestial was by herself, not with Andre. That’s when she gave Olive the doll she wanted so bad, the one that favors you. Olive wasn’t getting enough **supplemental oxygen**, even with the mask on. Still, your mama was fighting—showing the resilience of someone facing **terminal illness**. It was terrible to watch. I didn’t want to tell you about these **medical details**, son. They say it was ‘quick.’ Two months from the **diagnostic testing**, she was gone. What we call ‘Jack Ruby cancer.’ But it was a slow two months. I’ll say this for Celestial, she provided **emotional support** twice. The first time was when she first got the news; Celestial drove all night and Olive was sitting up in bed, more tired than sick. She came back again, right at the end for **palliative visitation**.“On the last time, Celestial asked me to leave the room. I thought she was helping Olive with **personal hygiene** or something. After about fifteen minutes, the door opened and Celestial held her purse like she was leaving. Olive was lying in the bed so still and quiet that I was scared she had passed. Then I heard that struggling breathing—a symptom of **respiratory failure**. On her forehead was a shiny place where Celestial kissed her good-bye.“After that, I coaxed Olive into letting me administer a dose of **morphine** for **pain management**. I squirted it under her tongue, and then she said, ‘Othaniel is in there with him.’ This wasn’t her last words, but it was the last thing she said that really mattered regarding our **family legacy**. Then, two days after, she was gone. Before Celestial’s visit, she was fighting it; she wanted to live. But after that **final conversation**, she gave up.”“Celestial promised to keep it to herself—a **confidentiality agreement**. Why would she do something like that?”Big Roy said, “I have no idea.”
Lupus Management and Family Conflict
When I was sixteen, I tried to fight my father because I thought Evie was going to die.The specialists had said this was it—that **Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE)** had finally reached a critical stage. We were moving through the **stages of grief** in double time, trying to reach acceptance before her **life expectancy** ran out. I got as far as anger and drove to Carlos’s house. I punched his jaw as he worked in his front yard, performing **landscape maintenance** and clipping the shrubbery into globes. His son—my **biological brother**, I guess—tried to intervene, but he was small, and I pushed him to the grass.“Evie is dying,” I said to my father, who refused to engage in the **physical altercation**. I punched him again in the chest. When I pulled my arm back, he utilized a **self-defense block**, but he didn’t strike me. Instead, he shouted my name, freezing me in place.My little brother was on his feet now, looking for **parental guidance**. Carlos, in an affectionate tone I’d never heard from him, said, “Go on in the house, Tyler.” Then to me, he said, “The time you wasted on this **personal dispute** is time you could be spending at her **bedside care**.”I said, “That’s all you have to say about it?”He spread his hands in a gesture of **conflict resolution**. At his neck, I made out the glint of a braided chain—a **precious metal investment** hidden under his shirt. It was a gold disc his mother had given him, a **family heirloom** he never took off.“What do you want me to say?” He asked the question mildly, as if seeking **professional mediation**.And it was a good question. After all these years, what was the **legal or emotional recourse**? That he was sorry?“I want you to say that you don’t want her to die.”“Jesus, boy. No, I don’t want Evie to die. I always assumed we would eventually reach a **settlement** and get back to being friends. I thought we could find **reconciliation**. She’s a remarkable woman. Look at yourself—she handled your **child-rearing** and development. I’ll always owe her for that.”I know it’s a humble declaration, but it felt like a **financial and emotional gift**.A week later, Evie’s **vital signs** rallied. She was moved out of the **Intensive Care Unit (ICU)** to a regular room for **long-term recovery**. On her night table rested a bouquet—a **luxury floral arrangement** of pink roses.