The Pecan Man(44)

“I don't think that's enough to get me the kind of scholarship I'd need. Mama doesn't make much money and...oh, sorry, Miz Ora, I didn't mean any disrespect. I just don't think we can afford it, that's all."

I don't know why I just assumed Patrice was preparing for college. When I was in school, I spent the better part of my junior and senior years researching, visiting and applying to schools I thought I might want to attend.

“Patrice Lowery! You mean to tell me you wrote off college that quickly, with no attempt whatsoever? Don't you want to go to college?"

“Well, yeah, of course I do. I just don't really know how to go about it, I guess."

“What did your guidance counselor say about applying?" I asked.

“She never said anything. She helped me choose courses at the beginning of each year, but we never talked about college."

I could feel the fury rise up in my throat. I wondered how many other promising students were falling through gaping holes in the school system. I wanted to lash out at someone and I almost picked up the phone that very minute. But then it occurred to me that I had done nothing to help her either. Besides, I knew what my meddling had done in the past. I was determined to be more deliberate in any future acts.

“Patrice...honey. Promise me one thing, would you?"

“I'll try," she answered wisely.

“Promise me that, from now on, if you ever want to do anything in your life - anything at all - you'll ask someone for help if you need it."

“Okay," she said vaguely, as if she thought I was a little off my rocker.

“What were you planning on doing after high school?"

“I was just going to work, I guess. Mama needs help with the girls and I want to buy a car. They said I could go full-time at the grocery store whenever I wanted."

“Okay, that's what you planned. Now, what do you want? If you could make your dreams come true just by dreaming them, what would you do?"

Patrice looked down then, as if she were embarrassed by her own thoughts.

“Promise you won't laugh?"

“Cross my heart and hope to die."

“I always wanted to be a lawyer."

Sweet Jesus, here we go again.





Twenty-five





Walter Beckworth was a planner. His attention to detail and thrift were unrivaled in my book. When he died, I had little to do except open the file marked Funeral Arrangements and follow his instructions. Our caskets, plots and headstones were already purchased, the funeral home pre-paid. There was a page marked “Songs for Memorial Service" with separate columns for Walter and me. We never actually discussed these plans, but under my name he included all my favorite hymns, as if I had chosen them myself. “How Great Thou Art", “In the Garden", “My Jesus, As Thou Wilt" and “Abide With Me" were all listed there in Walter's precise and patient hand.

Of course, in his line of work, Walter was well-insured and I lacked for nothing before or after his death. I lived comfortably and easily continued to pay Blanche a decent salary for keeping my home. Truth be known, however, I had no need for a full-time housekeeper now that I was no longer involved in the day to day business of being Walter's wife.

Patrice's dream changed all that. When I exhausted all the avenues I could take to get financial aid for a bright young black woman who excelled in school, I found that the task was more difficult than I imagined.

And so it was that, at the arguably ancient age of 58, I went back to work. Walter's foresight allowed his insurance agency to continue to run long after his death. His plan was to give me time to sufficiently recover from the loss of my husband before I decided what to do. At that point, I could sell, dissolve or continue to run the company as I saw fit. Quite frankly, when his Last Will and Testament was read, I laughed out loud at that declaration. What did I know about running an insurance agency and what would possess Walter to include such an option? The only questions I have now are: how did he know? And how did I not know my own husband like he knew me?

Patrice applied and was accepted to the University of Florida’s pre-law program. Aside from the small academic scholarship she was awarded, the money came straight from a scholarship fund I set up through the agency. The fund is still operating today and continues to help deserving young women achieve their goals. In all the charitable work I ever did, the food lines, the Christmas baskets, the donations made with smug satisfaction, this was the thing of which I was most proud.

Patrice knew only that I found a scholarship for her and she was beside herself with joy. So was I. Blanche, of course, worried about everything. Would Patrice have a place to live? How would she eat? Who would pay for clothing and other incidentals while she studied? I read the award citation out loud to her and filled in details as needed. In a way, Patrice was the test model for the future recipients of the scholarship. Anytime Blanche came up with a question, or financial issues arose, I amended the trust fund to accommodate the needs.

The tuition, room and board was covered in full and an additional stipend paid so that the recipient's job, for the duration of her academic years, was to earn her chosen degree.

For the next twenty years, which seems hard to believe given my age, I went to the office three days a week and paid myself an additional salary which went exclusively to the scholarship fund. I resumed my community involvement, as I had done when Walter was alive, though now my networking was aimed specifically at fundraising for the non-profit portion of the agency.