The Fugitivities, стр. 15

Lincoln Town Cars and the sunglasses of so many men in dark suits you would have thought a statesman were passing through. They had lined the street and spilled over into the parking lot of the Rite Aid, which faced the church. Uncle Vernon was buried just a few minutes away in the family plot at Greenwood Cemetery, a modest burial ground between Washington and Martin Luther King Jr. Avenues. They had a spot for him next to the elders, Earl and Liza, who rested together. After the burial, there was a reception at his aunt Ella’s house, and Jonah found himself pressed into a near-continuous embrace as paper plates piled high with a seemingly never-ending procession of sweet potato pie and oxtail and fried chicken and peas and greens and all the cake you could eat to feed the riotous laughter, tale-telling, well-wishing, and greetings and goodbyes. It was moving and exhausting all at once.

When they finally left a little after midnight, Jonah’s father, who’d had a bit to drink, asked him to drive, which he did, rolling very precisely within five of the limit at all times, the music soft and no words between them, all the way back to Atlantic City. When they got to the motel, instead of getting out of the car, his father rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. After a moment, Jonah took one from his own pack, and they sat that way in the motel parking lot, looking like a couple of gangsters. Jonah’s father looked like he had something to say, and Jonah waited for him to say it. Finally, his father took an envelope out of his coat and placed it on the dashboard.

“This is for you, from Vernon. He left you and all your cousins, each and every one of them, a portion of what he had, what he made for himself. That’s a remarkable thing. A great gift, and I don’t want you to take it lightly. There are a lot of ways to go about life. No matter which way you go, you’re gonna need money. And, more importantly, you’re gonna need to know how to handle money. When he was sick, your uncle decided to make some decisions about what he wanted for after he was gone. And he wrote it all out. Take that envelope, it’s yours. I have no control of what you do with its contents. But as your father, I’m asking—no, I’m telling you, son, think on it. Think on it careful now. Remember, this man worked hard for that money. Nothing came free to him in life. Nothing comes to no one free.”

With that, his dad stepped out of the car, leaving Jonah with the envelope. He thought about opening it there but felt no rush to do so. He exited the vehicle and locked it for the night, then headed toward the waterfront.

The boardwalk was eerily vacant. Down the shoreline, the lights of the Taj Mahal loomed in the murky distance like an anglerfish. A woman rolled by in a Power Chair, indifferent to his gaze. He had walked a bit down the boardwalk before he gave up and headed back inland. On Atlantic Avenue, he came to the Breezy Point, a tiki-themed joint just off the strip. It was almost as devoid of people as the boardwalk. The lounge area had big bay windows facing the Econo Lodge Riviera, and he took up a seat there. Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” was playing at a tepid volume on speakers behind the bar. A suite of large, muted television screens were running SportsCenter highlights, while the screen farthest away, at the end of the bar, showed a news story about a unit of marines getting ambushed in the Korangal Valley. A waitress appeared to take his order. A Braves tomahawk was visible above her tiki-themed apron, and she had a tattoo of an ankh on her inner wrist. She was too attractive for Breezy Point, but perhaps not attractive enough—or, rather, light enough—for the casino floor, especially at the Taj Mahal.

“What can I get you?”

“Do you have something not too floral but not too bitter—actually, forget it, do you have Budweiser?”

“Is that a question or an order?”

“Maybe both?”

She smiled forgivingly and walked away, leaving Jonah to turn his attention to the envelope in his hands. Inside there were two separate sheets. One was a letterheaded set of instructions to get in touch with Rhonda Rollins, a Philadelphia-based attorney. The other was a plain paper letter autopersonalized to his attention, evidently formatted in an outdated version of Microsoft Word. As he looked these over, the waitress returned with his beer. He thanked her and looked around. As far as Jonah could tell, he was her only customer. He could tell, too, that she was watching him examine the materials in his hands. It didn’t matter. He took a sip and began to read.

To my nephew, JONAH WINTERS,

If you are reading this, I have passed. Attached to this letter, you, like all of your cousins, will find instructions with my lawyer for how to retrieve the inheritance I have left you. Since I love all of you equally, it is my wish that you all receive equal shares. Since there are many of you, this means nobody is going to walk away with a fortune. I do feel it’s best this way. I would have liked to leave you each $10,000, but with the tax and the lawyers and fees that must be paid, it could not be that much. Instead, you are each receiving $6,500. Whatever you may think, this is a very great deal of money. If you are wise, any one of you can use it to build a company or start a family or get an education. Yet these are not conditionals. Only YOU can decide how best to use these funds. I believe in hard work, and I hope all of you do too. I believe