The Manila Folder

The Unhappy Task

Get your ass in here, Ray; were the first words I heard approaching the house that was once the family home. The last time I was here was three days ago, and everyone was dressed in black. Even then, it seemed more welcoming than now. Then, the family gathered with kids running outside, uncles and aunts sitting on the front porch, trading tales of yesterday, and friends dropping in with food, drinks, and pleasant conversation. It had the atmosphere of Christmas, Thanksgiving, and July 4 all rolled up into one. I’m still full on Aunt Ada’s sweet potato pie. Man, can she cook. Now, it’s blue jeans and old t-shirts.

The house has to be sold and my family, at least some of it, has assembled to clean it out before the crew arrives to repair and renovate it. My heart isn’t in it, because there are so many memories here, but my head understands the reality that makes it necessary. The house is just a house and no one lives here anymore.

Walking up on the porch, I threw the front door open and saw the living room devoid of furnishing. The sight of it forced a violent memory to the forefront of my mind, which unsettled me greatly.

While attending college, I worked weekends at a local hospital. One Friday, a young man was struck riding his motorcycle and was deemed brain dead. The next morning I arrived behind the grieving family. With a gentle voice, a few kind words, a form to sign, the body was released to be harvested.

It struck me, both the body and the house gave me the same sensation after being sliced, carved, and dissected of all its usable bits.

You know you don’t cuss in my momma’s house, I answered in a confrontational tone, stepping through the door.

Momma ain’t here, neither is Daddy, so I’ll cuss all the hell I want, Richard shot back, standing in the empty space with his hands on his hips.

Your job is to clean out Daddy’s library, keep what’s important, and discard everything else. The rest of us will do everything else, so your hands are free. Got it?

I don’t work for you Richard, or didn’t you get the memo. So, don’t tell me what I have to do. I already know.

SHUT UP! Both of you! Regina shouted, walking down the stairs with a large lamp in her hands. Nobody wants to be here, but we have to do this. Richard, I thought you had to pick up something from the hardware store. And, Ray, we need you in father’s library to clean out his records. As unpleasant as this is, it is necessary.

Honey, let’s do what we have to and go home, Agnes urged, pressing me toward the room in the back.

I’ll pick up something for lunch, Richard said, storming out of the house.

Ah, the Reynolds family, an amalgam of chaos and confusion. How could all of us be the product of the same parents, but with so many differences? I have my suspicions that Richard may have been adopted.

My father was the late Reverend Samuel K. Reynolds. His history was simple. Joined the military right after high school with the intention to see the world. Too young for Vietnam, he was sent to Thailand in the closing months of that war. There he met and married our mother.

My mother was a kind and loving woman, who showered her family with attention. She was the only child of a town elder with the duties of mayor; therefore, she received an inordinate amount of attention and praise for anything she did. Thus, she was raised with a sense of entitlement, which she transferred to us, her children. A narcissist she wasn’t, but demanding she could easily be. She demanded the best of us as well as for us, with emphasis on money and property. A thousand funny things could be told concerning her, but the best would be how her children were named.

My parents were traveling through Virginia in route to Little Rock, when she fell in love with a twenty-foot RJ Reynolds logo. She decided, on the spot, that all of her children would have the same initials as that RJR logo.

My father realized a military career wasn’t in the cards for him, so he left for college upon his return to the states. He earned degrees in political science, economics, and history. His intention was to go on to law school, but settled for a business of fabricating parts for the automotive industry. He never aimed to own a business—just sort of backed into it.

Dad postponed his entrance to law school twice, both due to mother being pregnant. In the interim, he took a job as a department manager in the fabrication shop. This led to successive promotions and eventually, shop manager. Again, when he was ready to leave for law school, his boss died, the business was closed and put up for sale. At the last minute, no doubt with urging from mother, he bought the business. Twenty-two years later with the business doing well, he accepted a calling into the ministry. Placing much of his life on hold, he left Richard in charge of the business and began preaching at a small local church.

As for children, Richard James was first. Looking the image of my father, Richard is tall and lean. Today, he has graying hair hidden behind cheap off-the-shelf hair dye. His clothing is straight off of a Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine cover, but with everything else, he’s cheap. Take him out to dinner and he’ll buy off the dollar menu. Take him to a movie and he’ll only go to a matinee with a senior citizen discount. He’ll never buy a car until the last one falls apart. And, he only buys his clothing accessories from the thrift store. Wearing a two-piece eggshell white walking suit with complementing brown sandals, he can be an imposing figure. Although the white socks are a bit too much.

Richard has an attractive trophy wife of twelve years with the all-American family comprised of a boy, Richard Jr. and a girl, April. Surprisingly, being his children, they are well-mannered and well-behaved.

As I said, Richard took over the business from Dad after college. Within a few years, he had more than tripled the workforce, while doubling the profits. Because of his efforts, Dad gave him the business with the understanding that funds would be made available to the rest of the family for college and a good start in life. That he did, and more.

Two years younger than Richard is Regina JoAnn. After earning her master’s degree in business management, she moved into real estate. Mother said, Own what God only made once: land, and Regina took it to heart.

She began by earning a real estate license, before moving on to flipping properties. She buys, renovates, and puts them up for sale. Those she doesn’t sell, she leases to renters. Along with her husband, Regina has over a hundred properties up for sale in no fewer than three counties with another eighty or more leased. Today, she is looking at renovating the family home to either add it to her leased properties or sell it outright.

Regina is the image of our mother, small in frame and stature. She has a Jamaican husband, whom no one in the family trusts. They have two kids of their own, Ethan and Evelyn; however, not as nice or polite.

I came along two years after Regina. Born Raymond Jacob, I am called Ray for short. Richard was just getting the hang of the business, meaning, I had to work my way through college. Afterward, I did what Father wanted to do, go to law school. Within six years, I had my own successful law practice with a concentration in contract law. Today, I have two partners and four associates. I am married to a Puerto Rican beauty named Agnes and we have three children, two boys and a girl.

There was a lull in the growth of the family for five years after me. Then came Rebecca Jean and Renee Jocelyn, twin girls. They came along just as business was booming, and they were spoiled in the process. Mother lavished on them what she never had for the first three.

Rebecca completed college, married and had a child, divorced, and married again. She now works as an overeducated secretary in an auto parts store for her current husband. Not saying she’ll get a divorce from him, but they are having marital problems and the lack of money is the key.

Renee had a child, Joshua, prior to completing high school. Father adopted him and the family rather raised him. She started college, but had to drop out because she had another child. She never did get past an associate’s degree in college. Right now, she works third shift as a part-time worker down at the plant for Richard.

That’s all my family now, dysfunctional, needy, greedy, and materialistic.

My father’s library is a converted bedroom on the main floor at the back of the home. Richard got it first, then I moved in, before Renee ended up with it. However, when I left the house, the twins were forced upstairs and Father took the opportunity to convert the open room into his study and library. I have always believed that Dad did it because Renee was slipping boys through the window at night.

Small, but comfortable, it is lined with built-in bookshelves on three walls, floor to ceiling. Each shelf is filled with a menagerie of books and assorted papers. I hate going in there. Psychologically, I know it’s my unwillingness to enter the room that’s behind my anger toward Richard. I hate being pushed to do what I dislike doing, and Richard just pushes too much.

In this small room, Father kept all of his personal belongings, business records, sermons, books, and personal notes. It was his private diary he kept locked behind the shut door. He enjoyed his privacy, his personal time alone with his thoughts. Going in there, I’m violating his privacy. Rummaging over his material, I’m committing a sin of which I can never be forgiven, because he’s no longer here to give absolution.

With a knot twisting in my stomach, I enter the room. With a how dare you, I take a seat at his desk and slowly begin to peer through the pages of his work. In truth, I want the room and the whole house to remain as it was, so I can remember things as they were.

Ray, we need to get into this room to pull the furniture out, Regina announced three hours into my cataloguing.

Well, I can’t finish this in just one day. He had forty-two years of records here and you want me to go through in a few hours, I replied, still uneasy with the work, as she stood in the doorway.

Pushing past her came Richard barging in.

That’s what we all decided. Tag, you’re it. Richard spoke, poking me in the shoulder. You’re the legal genius. Take it home with you, go through it, document by document, keep what we need, and get rid of the rest. Simple.

Biting my tongue, I rose to confront my brother, but before I could, Regina stepped in between us.

Take it home, Ray. We can finish up here, Regina responded.

I don’t hate my brother; I’m rather impressed by him, his work ethic as well as his dedication to his family. He is a natural born leader with a skill to foresee difficulties years into the future. What I can’t stand is his arrogant approach to talking with people. He can make you feel like slime he scrapes off his shoe when entering a room.

While he is older, taller, and grayer, I am younger, stronger, and smarter. We’ve come to blows before with a quick victory in my favor. Nothing serious, but just like today, Richard poked me once too often. My martial arts training played a pivotal role against his sedentary lifestyle. In public, he enjoys me playing the doting little brother; I guess he feels I should play it all the time. However, today, I don’t feel like it.

Hours later, I was sitting in my basement in a padded folding chair with stacks of empty boxes tucked under the stairs, a mountain of books forming a half circle around me, and a mass of documents stacked neatly in three piles.

How far have you gotten Ray? Agnes asked, walking down the steps with a sandwich in one hand and a soda in the other.

I’ve emptied the boxes and made neat little piles of everything. Now, all I have to do is sort through it all, I answered, reaching out for the plate and glass.

How long will that take?

Days. This is no simple task. All it takes is one error on my part and we all could end up in trouble.

Need some help?

Yes—no. I appreciate it, but you won’t know what to look for and it would take me longer to teach you than to look through it myself.

I could go through it and hold up anything important and you could tell me whether it was important or not, Agnes said, pulling a paper out of a stack of books. Like this?

Do you know where that came from? I asked politely, with one of those wife-go-away headaches coming on. And, can you put it back?

Ray, you know I can’t. So, what you are telling me is to leave you alone.

If you don’t mind. I promise, I’ll finish as quickly as I can. Tomorrow is Sunday; I’ll work on it then.

Tomorrow, you are to take us to my parent’s house. You know the kids are looking forward to it.

Then it’ll have to wait a few days, I replied, weaving my way around the piles of books and heading up the stairs with Agnes in tow.

Two days turned into two weeks, before I returned to my father’s material. I took a week off from work just to finish it.

Still at it? Agnes asked, venturing down into the basement once again.

I was three days into my week. I’ve sorted the books. No first editions, but a few I’ve added to our library. The others, I’ve thrown away or saved to give away. Right now, I’m working on Dad’s documents, I answered.

What’s with the large letters?

I’ve divided everything into four categories. This medium pile, ‘A,’ is business records. The ‘B’ stack of smaller documents contains probate material full of deeds, titles, and vehicle registrations, while ‘C,’ the largest pile, contains his theological works. It includes sermons, Sunday school notes, and his Christian education lesson plans for the last ten years. I’ve contacted Rev. Green and he agreed to take them off my hands, I replied.

Who’s Rev. Green? Agnes asked, thumbing through a stack.

Reverend Solomon Green, pastor of the 32nd Street Baptist Church, and the one who performed the eulogy. He said he had some young ministers who would love the material.

What is this stack?

This stack with the ‘D’? It contains his personal writings.

Reaching quickly for the large manila envelope that sat on top, she inquired, You mean like a diary, a private diary?

No. Nothing as personal as that, but stories, plays, and narratives of his own design. I’ve been amazed by what I’ve found.

I didn’t know your father wrote?

I didn’t either. He would tell us stories when we were children, but I never thought he wrote anything down, especially to this degree. I answered.

What’s all in here? Agnes asked.

Several Christian church plays, nine to be exact. Seven screenplays having nothing to do with church. Several books, he never attempted to publish. Forty-two anecdotes, seventeen short stories, and a host of treatments. I tell you, I’m stunned.

Have you read all of them yet?

No. I haven’t finished sorting and alphabetizing them yet, but what I have is in the folder in your hand, I pointed out.

Taking it from her, I thumbed through it until I came to a list of poetry. Let me give you an example. This one, entitled Yes, Dear.

Yes dear, I know dear.

I have been totally unreasonable.

Huh dear? The trash dear?

Not now, dear, that’s impossible.

Ah, dear! I love you too dear.

But let’s talk about that a little later.

What dear? How long dear?

Sixteen weeks dear, then the playoffs.

Yes dear, I know dear.

I’ll be back dear, right after the Super Bowl.

That sounds like you during the fall. You can’t keep your head away from television and football, Agnes smiled.

I got my love for the sport from him. He had the computer at the church outfitted with a network device that allowed him to watch football while he worked on his sermons. But listen to this one. I was really impressed by it. The title is IF I.

If I were possible what wonders could I see?

Could I stand where Moses stood, at the parting of the sea?

Or peer through Joshua’s eyes, as a nation came to be?

Could I see a giant slain, or a place called Galilee?

If I were possible, what wonders could I see?

If I were possible, what wonders would I see?

A Trojan horse, a brilliant force, or ships sailing three?

Would I ride the wind at Kitty Hawk, or dare to dream to be free?

If I were possible what wonders could I, would I see?

If I were possible, what wonders should I see?

Should I climb Mount Olympus top, or visit Hades low,

Cling to earth or off to Pluto go?

Should I visit a far-flung star, that only I know,

Or dare to tread where few will ever go?

Or should I find a planet, where lakes of honey be?

If I were possible what wonders could I, would I, should I see?

But ‘If’ is never possible, for in reality,

It is the greatest question, and the greatest possibility.

But somewhere in my mind,

Is a world I like to be,

A world that answers the questions,

What wonders could I, would I, should I see?

That was good, Agnes said, surprised as well.

This one will really surprise you. He also wrote about love.

Sexy, sexy huh?

Sexy no. He was a preacher, so you can bet he wrote of the emotion and not just sex. I replied tactfully. Just listen to this one entitled Fear Is.

Fear is a nightmare come true,

A hungry lion escaped from the zoo.

A tiger, a bear, and a mad dog too,

But nothing will ever compare

To the thought of losing you.

Ah, short and sweet, Agnes agreed.

But how about this one, I remember it pinned to a picture of Mom on his desk. It is entitled My Motivation.

My eyes have only one focus,

My mind only one thought,

My heart only one desire;

That’s you, Love Sam.

Uh, Agnes cooed. No wonder, your mother had five children. With words like that we could have had nine.

What? Three isn’t good enough?

Practice makes perfect. Remember that when you come to bed tonight. And, bring Dad’s poetry with you. she winked, sashaying up the stairs.

"Sure. I’ll be up in a minute, but I’d like to read for a while without any