Macy: Part II

Macy: Part II
By: Mia L. Hazlett
10/19/07

“Well darkie, wool-head, coon-face, nigga-baby, here’s $3.4 million for ya.” How ironic is that statement? It could only be made from Macy Grant Johnson from beyond the grave. A woman who has never positively acknowledged my existence is now leaving me her fortune….not to mention the 27 instant enemies. I mean I guess they have never really liked me and now they have 3.4 million reasons to add to their list. As if the will wasn’t enough, before I could leave the room the attorney gave me a small white envelope with my initials neatly printed across the front.

I was able to escape the room with my life. I think it was my mother’s glare that warned everyone there would be no drama today. What did this damn thing say? I want to open it on my way to the car, but there are some non-well wishers following us. My only fear is I will wait to the car and find out the note says, “Psych!” and these stragglers are waiting to take a picture of my reaction. I can’t put it past that woman. She would do something like that.

At home that evening I finally muster up enough courage to open the envelope. I gently tear the envelope open and take out the tri-folded piece of white-lined paper. I shut my eyes and pray to God for strength, “Please Lord don’t let this be a joke.” I unfold the 8 ½” x 11” paper and read the four words, “Because I owe you.” What does that mean? And leave it to her to be dead, so I can’t ask her. This cannot be a good thing. Not from a woman like her. I mean there is so much I could do with $3.4 million, but it just doesn’t feel Christian to take money from someone I don’t like. Still don’t like the woman and she’s dead. I guess walking around hating dead people isn’t exactly Christian either, but something inside is telling me not to sign for that check tomorrow. No good will come from it.

I decide to sleep on it and see how I feel in the morning. I wake with the same feelings, still hate her, still don’t want her money. I could just give it to my mother, but I can hear her now, “if she wanted me to have it, she would have left it for me and not you.” There is something so unsettling about this. My stomach flutters the whole drive to the attorney’s office. I don’t shut my car off immediately as I sit in the three-space parking lot. I could very easily leave and not come back, but $3.4 million is a lot to just walk…drive… away from. I turn my car off and say a quick prayer before getting out and making my way to the front steps of the office building.

The receptionist gives me a cheery hello and smile. I sit in the leather armchair and think to myself that I still have time to leave. Time to get away and never be found again by anyone in this family. Well that’s an impossible dream, because I would have to stay in touch with my mother and counting on her to keep her mouth shut to my whereabouts is useless. So I walk into the attorney’s small office when he calls my name. We share quick small talk and then he drags a large white cardboard box from out of the corner. Maybe I’m getting cash.

Instead of a wad of crisp green bills, he pulls out a stack of envelopes. My name…her name…is neatly printed across the front in blue ink. A weak stretched elastic is barely holding together the stack he has thrown on the end of his desk. I am beginning to assume that I am not here to sign for a check today. I am beginning to think that the first letter is going to hold the “psych” I have been waiting for. I think to myself that I still have a chance to bolt out of here and never look back, but I have to know what these letters say. They most likely hold the answer to, “I owe you.”

(to be continued)

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