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He groans through a yawn, presses the heel of his hand to his bleary eyes and rubs them slowly.
He’s oozing fatigue, and it’s catching because I’m starting to feel weighed down by my own as I watch him. He looks old. And I’m very aware of the fact that time is not on his side … or any of ours, really. But, he folds his gnarled, spotted hands over the middle of his infamously large beer belly and leans back in his chair.
“The last two weeks have been … difficult.” His voice is weighed down by all the things we’ve faced this week.
Difficult.
Memorizing the first nineteen lines of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Olde English for class last month was difficult.
Having to live without someone you love and knowing you’ll never hear their voice again isn’t difficult. It’s impossibly hard.
I wish he would get to the point so I can go
back to my room and put on some music and try to sleep. My father loved Elvis. I used to think it was such an odd thing for a boy from East Texas—who grew up sucking at the teat of Wednesday night Bible study, Friday night football, and Sunday morning service—to love music that my grandmother used to call the Devil’s seduction. The night he died, I played one of his albums on repeat and fell asleep to “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Now I can’t sleep without listening to it.
“Your father was like a son to me. That I have outlived him and his father …” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to feel about it, Hayes. But the one thing I know is that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’ve had a real difficult time finding reasons to be grateful for my advanced age, son. But today, I’m glad I’m here—because you need someone,” he says solemnly.
This time, his lips only quirk when he attempts to soften the graveness of everything.
“You don’t have to smile. I don’t even try,” I say. We’re familiar bedfellows when it comes to sitting across from each other with grim sadness between us.
When my father’s brain tumor returned so aggressively—and within weeks of his surgery—it was Swish who told me it was time to get ready to say goodbye. He was dead two weeks later. In so many ways, my life feels like it’s come to a screeching halt.
I haven’t been to school. My stepmother has taken my brothers and gone to her parents’ in College Station. And my uncle Thomas and his newest future ex-wife have moved into the wing that belonged to my father. I don’t know how he can stand to be in there. The last time I walked into that part of the house, it smelled like my dad, and I couldn’t stomach being there. I can’t imagine sleeping in his old bed, breathing air that smells like him. I miss him so much.
“I was raised in a different time. And your father, God rest his soul, reminded me so much of his father,” he adds,
“They weren’t anything alike,” I interject and lean forward because I want to see his agreement with my own eyes.
Instead, all I see is pity.
“They weren’t,” I insist.
He sighs. “I know your grandfather was ruthless at times.”
“All the time,” I mumble.
“People tell all sorts of stories about him. Your father didn’t speak highly of him. Thomas only speaks of him in hushed tones of reverence. The truth of the treatment his legacy deserves is somewhere between those two. But, he did what he had to, to preserve the family’s traditions of service. As did your father. And you will, too. Remember that you’ve been raised to honor and preserve your family’s money and their name. Your grandfather was the first Rivers to serve the family’s business in a purely figurehead capacity. Your father expanded some of the roles, but they both saw to it that the family’s businesses were run by people who’d done more to prove themselves worthy than just inheriting it. So, as chairman of the board, the title your father held—and that you will hold—is still an important one because you’re in charge of the family’s personal fortune. You’ve seen the reports in Forbes?” he asks.
“Yes, I have no idea if they’re true. I mean, do we really have twenty billion dollars?” I ask.
“There is no ‘we.’ It’s just you. And it’s much more than that,” he says, and my jaw drops.
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes, you,” he says mirthlessly.
“Holy shit.” I sigh and lean back.
“A lot of that comes from your ownership in Kingdom stock. But Hayes, the trust doesn’t give you access to the any of it until you’re twenty-five. Until then, your guardian has control over it, and the trustee has control over him.
“The will says that in a case where the heir is too young to assume, a regent or guardian is appointed. It would have been your mother. But …” He purses his lips.
So, I finish his sentence for him. “But, she’s dead, too.”
“Yes, she is,” he says with a new heaviness in his voice. “Your great-great-grandfather Rivers was obsessed with the idea of establishing his own dynasty. Unfortunately for Thomas, it means his inheritance and importance to the family is much smaller. But now, as your guardian, he’ll also be the acting chairman,” he says grimly.
“So, it’s only until I’m thirty?”
