Chapter Eight
Kwame
The Bequest
The crunch of gravel and rumble of the tires drag me from a deep sleep and I wince against the ray of the late afternoon sun pouring through the window. I peer through partially open eyes until my vision comes into focus.
A flare of dread clears the heavy fog of fatigue and I straighten in my seat to stare at the gleaming white and gold gate our car has stopped in front of.
They rise out of the ground like a celestial portal. The bold bullion-gold crest at the center of it, though, is an instant reminder that beyond them is the house that had been my personal hell.
At least I found heaven last night…before she vanished like a thief in the night. I don’t know how long she’d been gone when I finally came out of the bathroom, but I’d still been able to smell her on the bed.
I went after her but I had no idea what floor she was on. And it was obvious she didn’t want me to find her. So I let it go. It was a better night than I expected and would remain the bright spot of my time in DC.
I know today is what happens when someone dies and has assets to distribute. I understand that my parents come from a matrilineal tribe and I am my mother’s natural and legal heir. But it feels wrong to be dividing up her life into pieces when she wasn’t done living it.
“It’s going to be okay, I’ll be right beside you.” Next to me, my aunt Alice squeezes my hand. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone.
She’s watching me with a frown that forces deep furrows between her brows.
My smile falters. “What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.” She turns a pointed glance downward and clears her throat.
I follow her gaze to our still linked hands.
I chuckle sheepishly. “You remember.”
She strokes my thumb with hers. “Of course I do.” Her frown curves up into a smile that is half reproach, half affection. “I may not have given birth to you.” She squeezes my hand. “But for as long as you’ve been able to, you’ve reached for my hand when you were worried about seeing your dad.”
I sigh and relax my hand beneath hers. “I can’t pretend I’m happy to be back. This house was never a happy place for me. But I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” She gives my hand a pat and then folds her hands in her lap. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”
There’s a quick knock on the frosted glass partition in front of us and Alice touches a button above us to open it.
“Do you have the code for the gate or do I need to call up?” Ian, our driver asks when the partition lowers.
There’s a couple seconds of silence before I realize Alice is looking at me.
“I don’t know the code anymore.”
“Of course you do. It’s nineteen eighty-seven,” she says and then shakes her head. “I can’t believe you forgot that when it’s the year you were born.”
“He never changed it?” I watch the driver punch it in with a skeptical eye.
“Of course not,” Alice says, but I don’t miss the way her posture relaxes when the gate starts to open. “Your father is a creature of habit. He wanted you to be able to come home whenever you were ready.” She pats my leg and casts me a smile.
“Yeah, as long as I agreed to live exactly as he thought I should,” I remind her.
Her smile falters.
“Sorry, I know you love him. But you have to understand that he’s never even given me that chance.”
Alice is my dad’s younger sister and has lived with us since I was born. Despite the acrimony between me and her son, Oz, she has always been my soft place to land. But her hero worship of my father clouds her vision and frustrates me.
“Oh, Kwame… Some people just don’t know what to do with love. Your mother saw it as a weakness. Your father is scared of it.”
“What about me?” I ask before I can think better of it.
“You?” Her hand covers mine and her fingers curl around my knuckles to squeeze the fist I’ve made. “You’re afraid to trust it.” She speaks softly but the truth of it echoes through me like a sonic boom.
“It’s not your fault,” she says before she lets go of my hand.
But it is my problem. One I’d like to get over so that I don’t end my final days surrounded only by things money can buy. I want to trust it. I want to be trusted.
The car lumbers through the entrance and begins the nearly mile long drive to the main house.
I open the window and the breeze rushes in and brushes my skin in warm billows that carry the phantom smells of my youth—fresh cut grass, the bitter green sap mingled with the sweet honey of the blooming cherry blossom trees that line the drive.
Even after it ceased to be the haven it once was, it remained as much a part of me as I am of it.
The green lawns were fertilized by the skin of my knees, my sweat, my tears.
I thought I’d live here one day. Instead, it’s a symbol of everything I don’t want my life to be—walled off, large and empty.
For most of my life, it was a signal of my father’s success and a legacy that I would one day be the steward of. It was sewn into every article of clothing, every piece of luggage, embossed on stationary, the gold flatware, the sheets we slept on at night.
It’s a gorgeous spring day and the lavender, germaniums, hyacinth, and roses are putting on a show.
But for me, they can’t compete with the herbaceous copse of trees that frame the outline of the main house.
Native American Beech, White Oak, Red Oak, and the Tulip Poplar that my mother dedicated her time here restoring stand like sentinels on the terrain that only cedes it’s rich, rugged run when it comes face to face with the Potomac River.
The house sits fifty yards from its banks and the current becomes audible as we approach the tile-paved circular drive at the front door.
As a boy, the river was my playground. The long-forgotten cabin on the edge of the property that had been my private retreat is the only thing about the house I miss.
The car rolls to a stop under the cream portico that covers the house’s main entrance.
The driveway was designed to accommodate thirty cars at a time. On the nights of my father’s infamous parties, hundreds of cars streamed through and the army of valets made sure that each guest heard the “Akwaaba” that greeted them as the herald to an evening they would never forget.
Today, six black SUVs are parked ahead of ours and there is no one waiting to greet us.
The driver opens Alice’s door first. “I’ll be right in,” I say, “I just need to make a quick call.”
She hesitates for a moment but doesn’t push back. “They’re starting at one o’clock sharp. I promised your father I’d get you here on time.”
“You’ll keep your promise. I’ll be right in.” I turn my attention to my phone until she closes the door. I watch her until she slips inside the front doors.
That’s something she wouldn’t have done three months ago. This estate operated like a well-oiled machine and my parents didn’t have a single security breach or press leaks because of her.
As much as I wish she was still here as the new era of the house’s life begins, I’m glad she doesn’t work here anymore. She deserves a life dedicated to her own happiness and wishes.
We all do.
I knock on the privacy glass and it comes down again. “You have a minute?” I ask Ian in a playful reproach.
“I thought you were making a call.”
“I just said that so we could have a minute.”
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and the corners crinkle with his familiar smile. “You know your father doesn’t like it when we talk to the passengers.”
“He’s not here. And since when was I a passenger?” He’s been driving for my family since I was a kid.
“You became a passenger when you were gone long enough to forget that he’s always watching.” He nods at the rearview mirror where a green light blinks.
I shake my head and expel a humorless laugh. “What a waste of money and time. I bet he has someone whose sole job it is to watch these. Has he ever caught anyone?”
“I don’t know if he’s looking to catch anyone so much. More like to make sure he’s got receipts if he needs them.”
“Yeah, for all the people who are out to get him.” We share a smile in the rearview. I glance at my watch. “Better get going, Nice to catch up.”
“No problem. Do you want me to go back to the hotel to get your luggage and bring it over?”
“No, I’m not staying here. Could you wait and take me back when I’m done? I have a flight to catch tonight.”
His eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror. “Does your father know that?”
“Not yet.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Eight tonight.”
He grins. “You’re not wasting a second, are you?”
I return his smile. “Nope.”
He nods. “I’ll wait in the valet lot. Just send me a message when you’re ready to leave.”
He waits until I’ve stepped through the threshold before he starts the car and rolls slowly down the drive.
I stand at the front door of the house and wish I still loved it. Wish I could call it home again.
I used to be so proud that my family owned such an important piece of American history. I thought I would raise a family here one day.
Leaving had been like cutting out a piece of my eighteen-year-old heart. Now, I’m sure it was the best thing that happened to me.
The nausea I was sure I’d feel once I got here doesn’t come.
I search my memories for flashes of that last night but it’s like the wind has carried them away.
All I hear is the shriek of my mother’s laughter and the baritone of my father’s voice when he sang Bob Marley at the top of his lungs and me sitting between them watching the river roll by.
I step into the gargantuan foyer of my childhood home and am assailed with memories. It’s as opulent as I remember. Gold leaf and marble, crystal and silk adorn nearly every surface of the structure.
My father acts like this house is his magnum opus. But it was my mother’s eye for art and knack for myth-building that made The Palms the famed estate it became under their notorious ownership.
As I get further away from the front door, the sound of voices reaches me and some of the trepidation I’d felt all morning comes back.