Chapter 3
He picked up the paper sack sitting on the floor under the window. He unrolled the wrinkled top and looked inside. Just the tin can and black plastic urn that were the former homes of his parents. Chance wasn’t too romantic, superstitious, or even nostalgic. He saw no reason to keep these things.
Just then, he remembered the yellow sheet. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, and certainly was puzzled that he had forgotten about the sheet. Though the distractions of last night had been frequent and intense.
For no discernible reason, Chance’s heart began to accelerate. “There’s no reason to get excited,” he admonished himself. “Probably just some coroner’s notes or funeral home stuff or something like that.”
But he knew that wasn’t it. The writing gave the lie to those thoughts: “Please Read.”
Chance looked in the mirror, trying to figure out why he was talking to himself. He set the lid down on the dresser, and rifled through the rest of the bag’s contents to ensure he hadn’t missed anything else. He crumpled the bag, and threw it in the garbage can. Then he removed it from the can, and pawed through it again.
The phone rang, making Chance jump in his excitement. It was Paul, inviting his late rising brother to breakfast, and perhaps he could get moving, since Paul had a flight out of Greenville this afternoon?
Chance listened and talked, but kept furtively glancing at the lid. He hung up, and started putting on his shoes. He noticed that it was important to look at the laces when you tie them, otherwise, you might be rewarded with a knot – like now.
Why was he avoiding looking at the paper? All kinds of things came through his mind, against his will. The first thing was about secret lock boxes with millions in inheritance money. Yeah, sure, in a movie or something. Besides, Pop used to joke that when it came to inheriting money, ‘Leave nothing to Chance.’
Could it be bad stuff? More instructions for the burial?
“You’re an idiot. Just look at the stupid thing.”
He walked solemnly over to the dresser, as if approaching a poisonous reptile. He lifted up the shiny silver lid, then carefully tried to pull off the plastic baggie from the lid. The bag ripped instead. After enlarging the rip, he slid out the folded yellow sheet.
On the under side, in a school teacher’s careful penmanship it said, “To Paul & Chance, At the Time of My Death – Mother”, capitalized as if it was a book title or something.
A quick thought flitted through his head unbidden. His mother’s writing had always been perfect. She taught grade school for many years, after all. Chance remembered the many times he skipped school and forged excuse notes with his mother’s signature. Hers was the easiest signature on the planet to forge. Just think of third grade penmanship class, and you had it.
Shaking his head again, he unfolded the paper. There were two sheets, with very neat, evenly spaced cursive writing on one side of each.
Dearest Paul and Chance,
You’re reading this because you found it in your Father’s urn. Thank you for following my wishes to be with him again
As I write this, it is June, 1982. I am at the house in Schriever. We will be leaving on the train tomorrow, to bury your Father in Travelers Rest. Paul, you are already here. Chance, you are due to arrive late tonight.
I knew this day would come, and dreaded it. I find it difficult to think clearly about what I need to tell you. Though your father and I discussed this many times, we never came to an agreement on what you should know about him.
Chance, you had many questions you wanted to ask. You sensed that Pop is – was – contradictory. Brilliant, but unable to hold a job. Constantly leaving us for months at a time, yet very involved with you when he was home. He imparted to you a strong sense of morality, yet was himself imprisoned.
Paul, you and Bruce fought frequently. You were angry at your father, and dismissed him from your life after his arrest. This hurt him more than you may understand. Your – quite understandable – attacks usually centered around his apparent inability to provide for his family properly.
I would like to tell you now, more about the man your father really was.
I met your father at FSU. You were told that he had dropped out. But that’s not the whole story. As a matter of fact, he was working for our government. This was in the 1950s; the Cold War was at its height. Bruce never told me exactly who he worked for, or what he did. I just know it was very secret.
Your father kept his real work hidden to protect us. He may have seemed to be a failure at most of his life, but in this area, he was successful. If he had not been circumspect, our lives – literally – would have been in jeopardy.
Do you remember the Jacksons? We were friends with them when you two were very young. Paul, I’m sure you remember a couple of their visits. What you don’t know, is that they are all dead. They died in 1965 in a car accident. Aside from Henry and Andrew, Drew Jackson was your father’s best friend.
Their deaths were no accident! Your father and Drew worked for the same people. After the accident, your father was in a frenzy for months. He impressed upon me the importance of what happened, and that we may be in danger ourselves.
Do you remember the time we lived in Jacksonville, in the apartment complex? I stayed at home and taught you two for about six months. You may not realize it, but we were in hiding. I don’t know what happened myself, but we fled Miami literally in the middle of the night.
Bruce was adamant. Under no circumstances was I to contact our friends or relatives. This went on for about two years. After which, things calmed down, and our lives became a bit more normal, and we moved to Ft. Myers.
He would never tell me what was going on. “For your protection,” he would say.
Through our many moves, as you must remember, we shed most of our possessions. One thing, however, has been a constant since about 1966: the Readers Digest speaker cabinet. Bruce always ensured that it wasn’t left behind. There is something in that cabinet that your father wanted to keep.
Today, I was going to open that cabinet and see what was inside. But, something happened yesterday, which frightened me, and now I think I will leave it in Mother’s storeroom. Those secrets can remain hidden for a little longer.
I love you both dearly, and couldn’t ask for two more loyal sons. I don’t pass on this burden to you lightly. My comfort is that, after so many years, that no one will care anymore, and therefore won’t wish to harm you. Dad would want you to know this. He would want you to know more about him. Perhaps now is the time.
Love,
Mother.
Chance looked up from the letter, and found himself sitting at the tiny table next to the window. His mind whorled with fragments of thoughts twisted together into a ball of confusion.
Certainly he remembered that cabinet. It was a mainstay of family furniture since forever. It had even survived the tornado, somehow.
He glanced at the yellow lined paper again, skipping around the words, but not really reading. What had happened that made Mom do this? What had “frightened” her back in 1982 after Pop’s heart attack?
In 1982, sixteen years had passed since the cabinet made its appearance. Now, in 2007, whatever it was had to be completely irrelevant.
The phone rang again. Crap, that would be Paul. Racing to the door, Chance did not pick up the phone. Instead he went straight to the dining room.