Essex
Sleep didn’t come easily last night, and that’s her fault. As I tossed and turned, all I could think about was how she was alone in that apartment with practically nothing. I know how it is to start from nothing and the joy of being able to afford a place to live and take care of one’s self, but I don’t like this for her. She deserves more than this.
Sitting in the car at my parent’s home on a Sunday, I have this heavily on my mind – how I could make Quintessa’s life so much better – but she doesn’t know me yet. Doesn’t trust me. She knows the old me but doesn’t know I’m really that person. She’s not particularly fond of the new me. The baller me. The man with it all. What’s frustrating is, I have no clue at this point how to reintroduce that person to her.
My phone rings. It’s my mother calling. I answer, “I’m outside.”
“I know you’re outside. Are you just going to sit in the car the whole time, or will you be joining us for brunch?”
“I’m getting out now. Bye.”
Walking up to the house – the only thing my mother has ever requested I buy for her and dad – I let myself in and head to the deck where I know they are. It’s a warm, bright spring morning. Besides the feeling that’s pulling me to rescue my princess, I’m feeling good. That’ll probably all change once I sit down to eat with my mother. I love her, but she has her ways. I usually spend most of our time together trying to deal with them.
“Son!” Dad gets up holding his back for support. I’ve been telling him to see a chiropractor, but old people are set in their ways – or maybe it’s just my stubborn parents. Perhaps it’s where I get my attitude.
I lean over to offer him a sideways half-hug and follow up with a pat on the shoulder.
“Hey there, Stewart,” Mom says. She refuses to acknowledge me as Essex. Says that’s not what she named me. It used to bother me back in the day, but I’ve accepted it from her – no one else.
I lean down to kiss her on the temple.
She says, “Go on, sit down and get yourself a plate of this food. I don’t care how much money you pay them people around your house—they’ll never make a meal as good as your mother.”
I take a flimsy paper plate and put some eggs, sausage, grits and biscuits on it. My mother is a good cook, but she has the habit of cooking the same things over and over again. With a chef, I get to have a variety of foods and try new things to shake up an otherwise mundane routine. I want to enjoy life and that means adding a little spice to it. It also means trying to please my parents, although I know they don’t approve of my choices.
I take a plastic fork and begin eating. I can feel their eyes on me like they haven’t seen me in ages. It has me thinking back to the last time I was over here. Last November – almost five months ago. Five months. My parents live fifteen minutes away from me and I haven’t visited them in five months. I must say I’m embarrassed by that.
Mom says, “So, what’s been going on? How have you been? I saw you on the news a few weeks ago talking about your charity event. People around here can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s a big deal, Mother.”
“How’s that? Explain it to me.”
“This year, people will come to the charity and bid on artwork from local artists. However much money is raised, I match it and submit it to the charity of my choice. This year, it’s going to Nourishing America.”
“What made you narrow it down to that organization?” Dad inquires.
I shrug. “The statistics. There are about eleven million children in the United States alone who are food insecure.”
“Back in the day, we ain’t hear nothing like that?”
“Nope. Sure didn’t,” Dad cosigns.
“What does that mean, Stewart?” Mother asks.
“When a person is food insecure, it means they don’t have food or don’t have enough food to eat to nourish their bodies.”
Dad says, “When I grew up, we always had something to eat. Now, was it always what we wanted? No. Most of the time, it wasn’t. But when you’re hungry, a big pot of beans or rice always did the trick. Why can’t people afford beans and rice these days?”
Who knew my philanthropic efforts would come under scrutiny from my own parents? I respond, “I don’t know, Dad, but I don’t believe in letting kids starve because their parents are irresponsible.”
“Now that I agree with wholeheartedly,” Mother says. “So, hooray for you, son, for doing something for these children. Lord knows there ain’t enough people out here trying to help other folks, especially the ones with the most. Don’t make no sense. One man has billions of dollars in the same country where people are out here living in tents or paying by the week at some sleazy rundown motel. It just ain’t right.”
“It surely ain’t,” Dad says.
Mother continues, “And it’s the people with money who won’t spare some loose change for a homeless person. It’s always the folks who have less who give the most.”
Dad says, “That tells you about their heart condition, doesn’t it?”