Chet
I stood in the back corner of the comfortable hospital room that had my dying father as its centerpiece. Liver disease. He said it was natural causes, but I would bet the doctors would blame his drinking habits. Not an alcoholic, though. Mother would never label him as such. She would just call it an occupational hazard.
She stood closest to him, her tall and slender body draped in a navy, blue blouse, and slats. Her white hair was neatly combed and folded into an updo at the top of her head. Her nails were perfectly groomed. Even though she had been in this room for the better part of the last several days, she looked as if she had just stepped out of her office back at the Dallas Tribune.
She gazed down at my father, who, himself looked as if he were desperately trying to hide his illness. He a wore cashmere sweater, punctuated with a Rolex watch. His beard was neatly trimmed and his bald head moisturized. He was tucked into satin sheets, the book he had been reading, Machiavelli’s The Prince, lying leisurely just by his hand.
Mother had one hand on his bed and the other on the arm of the priest from our local parish. My parents donated about half a million dollars a year to his church. So when they called him for a bedside service, I’m sure he didn’t hesitate. I let my eyes flicker shut, wanting to pretend that I had been listening for the entire duration of that prayer, and not just the ending.
“Thank you.” Mother’s voice was like a knife slicing through the tension in that room.
“Great,” I said, then clamped my mouth shut. The word was, ‘amen.’ I rolled my eyes at Mother’s disdainful look.
My father gave a short wave of his hand. “Chet.”
I nodded, an open expression on my face.
My mother waited precisely three seconds before impatiently waving me over.
I didn’t want to leave my place on the edge of the room. His bed was right at the center. In the spotlight. I hated being stared at. “Yes.”
I expected my dad to smile at me, or widened his eyes, or at least acknowledge me, considering he had summoned me in the first place, but he barely bat an eye.
“Give me some space, Nance.”
My mother nodded eagerly and motioned for the priest to follow her out.
The door barely shut behind them before he gazed at me. “Take a seat, Chet.”
“Are you sure you have the energy for a lecture?”
“I definitely don’t have the energy for insubordination.”
I slid a chair to his bedside and sat. I had to pick my battles, especially now. “What did you want to discuss?”
“The company.” He made a difficult move to turn his entire body to the side, putting the full force of his beady gaze and strong jaw on me. I hated that look. “Look, you’re my only son. And therefore, the only one who can have it.”
I huffed a breath. I couldn’t say I wasn’t at least a little surprised.
“Of course there are several more qualified men to take this team to where it needs to go.”
“Then why not save me the trouble?”
“Our family snatched this team and made it one of the most successful in the league. It is just as much what makes you a Blackwood as the blood in your veins. It is your duty to take it and you will.”
“Understood.” It was the man’s dying wish. And I barely had a dream of my own to hold onto. I had been told what to do ever since before I could remember. By the time I had realized I might have to decide what to do with myself, my father had been handed a death sentence by a team of very experienced and very reliable doctors.
In an uncharacteristically swift movement, he took my hand in his. The iron, yet wiry grip caught me by surprise. The last time he had held my hand was my college graduation, almost twenty years ago now.
“This is my life’s work. It is everything to me.”
“I know.” There was something ghostly about his hollow cheeks.
“I’ve never been a religious man. But I have to have faith in something.”
“Of course.”
“You are irresponsible, impulsive and cannot finish something to save your life.”
I blinked, but I was far too old for his little statements like that to bother me. He was dying, so the least I could do was give the man a chance to finish.
“But you’re all I’ve got,” The way his voice cracked at the end of that made my heart drop.
“I know.”
“So don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.” I felt compelled to make that promise to him, even though I had no idea how I was gonna see it through.
He pointed at the ceiling. “I’ll be watching you.”
When he said that, it gave me the first glimpse of what it would be like to say goodbye to my father. The idea that he wouldn’t be around anymore was not one that I had given myself any time to think about. I went through the motions of the funeral services, all taking place in a Catholic church in downtown Dallas, as per tradition. I followed the coffin down that aisle, outside and on to the graveyard.
My mother clutched my arm for dear life, her thin fingers digging into my skin. “Women always live longer.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t like how vulnerable she sounded. I was in my forties and should have gotten used to seeing my parents vulnerable, but burying a father is not something you get used to. “That’s true.”
She swiped her hand across her face, drying a tear. “But I thought I’d be eighty when it happened. I thought I wouldn’t have anything else to do but wait for my death.”
Words could not describe how much I did not want to talk about this. “I’m sure everything will be okay, mother.” But even as I spoke, it felt as if a rock was lodged in my throat.
She dug her fingers even deeper, as if that were at all possible. “Only if you follow in his footsteps.”
I groaned. I just wanted to get through this day in one piece. “We’ve been over this, mother.”
“No.” We both stopped. We had reached my father’s grave. People were slowly gathering around us. Grave. Wow. I had never buried anyone in my life. And now I had to do this.
“Please,” She hissed, leaning ever so slightly up so that she could speak without anyone listening. “You’re all I have left of him.”
My mother cried through the rest of the ceremony, in such a way that made it impossible for me to think about anything else other than the sound of her tears. We buried my father and then made the short walk back to the church, where we then got in our cars and went back to my childhood home for his wake.
The next Monday morning was full steam ahead. I had a board meeting with the directors and shareholders, men I had only really seen at social gatherings, galas, games, birthdays, holiday parties. Now I was sitting at the head of their table. My masters in business and finance from Wharton felt like the knife I had brought to a gunfight. These men were all years beyond me and motivated by decades of interconnections and ties that I could never claim.
I watched their lips move as discussions of profit, stadiums, budgets, and coaches filled the room. I should have paid more attention to the lessons my father had given me in his office on Sunday nights. I should have taken my school assignments more seriously. I should have paid more attention at the drafts and the games.
I should have just said no.
But now my father was dead.
And it was too late.