Seize the Day (8 page)

“You don't have to be. Just let me in and you can go on about your business.”

It was astonishing that it took Walter killing himself to get his brother to visit. Money: the stimulus of the greedy.

I decided I would tell Walter's son about his uncle coming to town. Why should Donovan get the money, if there was any to be gotten? But that call to Walter Jr. was equally disturbing.

“My uncle is a trip. He thinks he should get something before me? I'm his son.”

“What about a funeral?”

“Who said he deserves a funeral? He offed himself. I don't think he wanted a funeral. Who would come anyway? He didn't have any real friends—except you, I guess.”

“You really don't know your father—didn't know your father. He touched a lot of young people's lives over the years. Dozens and dozens. Hundreds. He was loved by his students. He taught them and helped lead them on the path to success. That's a big deal, Walter. You can't deny that about your father. That would be wrong.”

“What's wrong is that he didn't do that for me. He was there. I mean, there were a lot of times when he didn't take his medication. And that's when he wasn't a good person to me.”

“What did you do to help him? You abandoned him, from what I can tell. His e-mail said you would not return his calls. He raised you. And then you get to a certain point and instead of helping, you abandon him? That's wrong.”

“Easy for you to say; you weren't there.”

“What I know is that when people you love are in need, you don't abandon them. Worse, all you—and your uncle—are talking about is his money. I don't hear any grief in your voice. No plans to remember him for the good man he was when he was healthy. It's all about money for both of you.”

I thought I made some inroads with him because he didn't respond for a few seconds. But then he said, “What time can you meet me at his house?”

I knew then that I needed to go to Walter's place and search for paperwork before either of them did. Wasn't sure what I would find, or what I would do with whatever I found. But I was going to look. Walter deserved that.

And so I went. Even though it was daytime and the sun was out, entering his house felt like walking into a horror movie. A man, my friend, was found dead here…by
me
. I could almost hear creepy music as I entered the house. The hardwood floors cracked and the door hinges squealed. My heart pounded as if I were a kid walking into one of those haunted houses.

Cancer and dying from it was not on my mind. All I could think of was Walter jumping out from behind a wall, walking dead, and scaring the wits out of me. Finally, once I entered the kitchen, I got a grip.

Come on, man. Stop trippin'.

I gathered myself, took a deep breath and got it together. And although I was finally poised enough to do what I came to do, I still had mixed feeling about going through Walter's belongings. I felt like he was watching me.

Then it hit me:
If he's watching me, then I need to do right by him.

And my fear and discomfort vanished and I started poring through his stuff. The kitchen drawers were full of utensils—except one closest to the refrigerator. It was one of those “junk drawers” that most people had, a space filled with a mix of bills, letters, scissors, pamphlets, Chinese restaurant delivery menus, coupons and any other thing that did not merit its own assigned place.

A lot can be learned going through peoples' things. I learned that Walter had a Macy's credit card that he hardly used; he was up to date on his cable bill, but late on his gas bill. He wrote checks for $300 six times to Candice Mattison, a secretary in the Main Office at our school. That told me Walter was a good man, as I suspected.

Candice had fallen upon hard times after she got a divorce from her husband of seventeen years. She was convinced he had money to provide her alimony. But she could not prove it, and so she eventually lost her house. She never said anything about how bad things had gotten, but we all noticed that she began bringing her lunch to work and that she became more withdrawn.

I found a letter from Candice to Walter. And it confirmed my suspicions:

I cannot thank you enough for your help. I would never ask you (or any
one) for money. But your blessing has really helped me get back on track. For you to do this for me, I just can't believe it. But you're amazing. I don't know what I can do for you, but if there is anything, please let me know. THANK YOU!

Walter never told me he had helped Candice. But when I thought about it, I wasn't surprised. He was quiet and almost shy at times, but anyone paying attention could tell he had a good heart.

After going through the drawers downstairs, I went to his office, which was about as neat as a work area as I have seen. If there was something to be found in there, I should have been able to locate it. Everything was filed alphabetically. It was so orderly that I took a seat and took my time going through the paperwork because I didn't want to disturb too much how Walter left things.

I learned pretty quickly why his son and brother were seeking information on his money—Walter was independently wealthy. He had stock holdings worth more than a million and real estate valued at close to that. You never would have guessed by his attire, the modest home he lived in, the 2006 Toyota Camry he drove or the unassuming nature he presented.

I was floored by the numbers. Why would he teach at a tough school in Southeast D.C. when he could have lived a life of luxury?

I found the answer in a letter from Candice to Walter.

I'm amazed that you do what you do—for me and for your students. You have every right to move to the islands and relax. But when you told me that only helping people gives you fulfillment, I was blown away. I just hope you focus on that and not the negative things that come up in all our lives.

You have too much to offer to consider “going away,” as you put it. I only hope and pray you mean leaving the school and finding others to bless with your mind and generosity. I know you're troubled at times. Thank you for sharing that with me, by the way. But you're a good man with a good heart, no matter what anyone says or how anyone might make you feel. Remember that.

It became clear to me that Walter had shared more about his life and condition with Candice than me. I hadn't spoken to her since I found Walter hanging in his garage, but surely she knew about it because it was one of the lead stories on all the local news broadcasts. I refused to speak to reporters…out of respect for Walter.

As I picked up Walter's last will and testament, I heard a noise downstairs. It was not my imagination. I quickly gathered the will and other documents, folded them vertically, slid them into my back pocket and covered them with my shirt.

“Hey,” I yelled out as I approached the top of the steps.

“Hey,” a voice yelled back.

I became frightened. I had no idea why, but my first thought was that it was Walter, back from the dead, coming to get me for going through his belongings.

My fear did not prevent me from moving slowly down the steps. I tried to mask my fear.

“Who is that?” I yelled in a demanding voice.

“Who are you?” came back the voice. It sounded like Walter's voice, and I could tell he was moving closer to the stairs.

Before I could get to the bottom, he slowly emerged from around the corner, and my heart pounded so hard I literally could hear it. I saw his foot first—a brown loafer, to be exact. I held my breath as he came into view. And I almost passed out when I saw him.

It was
Walter
…or at least that was my first impression. He looked just like him and it jolted me so that I took a step back up the stairs. How could this be? I was so scared I could not move another inch.

Our eyes met for several seconds before he said, “You're Calvin, right?”

My lips would not move. I was looking at a ghost and if I could have mustered the strength to run through a wall I would have.

“I'm Donovan, Walter's brother,” he added, and a relief came over me that was so strong I had to sit down on the steps.

“Man, what the
fuck
? You didn't tell me you were coming this morning. And you didn't tell me you looked just like Walter. You just scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Walter.”

“Oh, man. I'm sorry.”

I placed my head into my shaking hands. Without lifting my head, I said, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to figure out the financial situation,” he said. “I wanted to get here before my nephew.”

I slowly raised my head then. I was angry. His brother was dead and he flew from California so he could “figure out the financial situation.”

“There is no financial situation to figure out. What needs to be figured out are his funeral arrangements.”

“Yeah, we'll get to that. We'll get to that. But there are other matters to tend to first.”

“I don't understand you—or your nephew,” I said. I did not care if he was offended or thought I was out of line. What could he do to me? I was already dying.

“This seems like nothing but greed to me. You didn't talk to your brother, even though he tried to communicate with you, and even though you knew he was ill. And now that he's killed himself, instead of feeling bad about not being there for him, you rush out here to find out about money? What kinda shit is that?' ”

“Man, this is none of your business,” he said, obviously angry, but a little embarrassed, too.

“Guess what? It sure the hell is, because I found him. He wanted me to find him. And he e-mailed me. He reached out to me, probably because the brother he helped raise and his son that he
did
raise abandoned him. So based on Walter reaching out to me, I very much have something to do with everything.”

I didn't really believe that. It was family business and I wasn't family. But I was there and I believed Walter did not want his brother for sure and maybe even his son to benefit from his hard work. I was anxious to read his will; it would tell the story. But I was not going to do it in front of Donovan. I wasn't even going to let him know I found it.

“The bottom line,” he said, “is that he was my brother and his son and I are his only surviving family. So, whatever he does have is left to us. It's just a matter of how much it is.”

He spoke so coldly and dispassionately. There was no compassion for his brother. It was a business trip for him.

It made me angrier. “Don't you have any shame? Don't you feel any sadness for your brother? Don't you feel at least a little guilt for not being there for Walter? Don't you feel a little responsible for him hanging himself?”

“Don't put that on me!”

I had regained my composure and stood up—it was more a show of manhood than it was anything else. I wasn't going to take his shit sitting down.

“You should take some responsibility,” I yelled back.

“You don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Donovan responded. “He was sick. He took his meds a lot, but he needed to take them all the time. When he didn't, he was a different person. He could become violent or totally silent or just so strange you didn't know what he would do.”

“But he wasn't a different person. He was your brother.”

Donovan turned away and took a seat at the kitchen table. “You don't understand,” he said.

“All I know is what I've seen. And all I've seen and heard from you is that you want money, your dead brother's money. There's no remorse that he was so distraught—medication or no medication—that he killed himself. You haven't asked any questions around his death. It's like you've been waiting for him to do this.”

Donovan lowered his head, and right away I was convinced I was right. He couldn't even fake it. And I didn't want to be around him anymore.

“I'm gone. You can look around and see what you can find. Your nephew should be here in a little while. You all can scavenger hunt together.”

I made my way to my car and drove off. In my rearview mirror I saw another car pull up. I stopped and through my mirror saw that it was a younger version of Walter…his son. He, too, arrived earlier than he had indicated he would, obviously seeking to get a head start on his uncle. I wanted to keep going, but I felt like Walter's spirit told me to go back, to meet his son and to gauge his mindset.

So I put the car in reverse. I parked up against the curb just as Walter Jr. was getting out of his. He waited for me to get out.

“You're Mr. Calvin?” That surprised me. That was a show of respect to call me “mister.” It made me immediately feel better about him.

“Yes, Walter, right? I was just leaving; you got here just in time.”

“But we were supposed to meet in like an hour from now.”

“Well, your uncle is in there and so I figured you all were good.”

“Uncle Donovan is here? See, this is what I'm talking about. He told me he was coming later today.”

“And you told me you were coming later, too,” I said.

He didn't respond. “I don't know what's up with either of you, but he's in there and I'm gone. Lock the door when you're done. Call me later and let me know what you find—and the funeral plans.”

“No, wait. You should come in. If it gets ugly, I might need you to pull me off of him.”

“You think I want to be in the middle of your drama with your uncle?”

“You
are
in the middle of it, remember?”

Maybe I wanted to see them beat each other up, so I went in. Donovan was upstairs, rifling through his brother's belongings as if he were in a panic. He was startled when his nephew and I walked in.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I was trying to leave, but your nephew wanted me to come in.”