Men of Conviction

Men of Conviction

He lay dying on the bed so extravagantly placed in his room. It could have been used for royalty. Struggling to reach for a glass of water, the sweat poured down his forehead with every finger touching the glass. Slowly he propped his head up to sip some of the clear liquid dribbled down his chin on his chest. It was his maid who took the glass from him to put it back on the nightstand. Everyone close to him (rather he would admit it or not) was present: his girlfriend, her stepson, and the writer of his will.
His son was running late. There was a void to be filled before he passed-before the future was determined without him being there. Andrew, his son, left when he was 17 years of age with the heart of a poetic conquistador. The man remembered how his son was on the last day. He was looking around at what was then the modest wealth of his father, and wanted to earn his own along with his own life. Andrew was the spitting image of how his father was at that age, and like any parent, he wanted to protect his son from the tortures life brought. His experience now had brought him to his deathbed, and there wasn’t enough money in the world to save his life now. The last time they saw each other was Andrew’s mother funeral. The bitterness was still there. They hardly spoke to each other.
“Can I get something, dear?” His girlfriend asked already holding the tears for the funeral.
“In ten years you have never asked me that question. No, but thanks for being so kind.” His words were long and drawn out in sighs.
His girlfriend leaned against the wall staring at her the man waiting to die.
“We hadn’t had breakfast, Bernie. Would you like Lolita to make us breakfast?” The stepson asked.
The maid stood at attention waiting for the request.
“Lolita is fine here. If you’re hungry you can fix your own breakfast.”
The stepson shrank back to the wall with his mother, beside them was an original Picasso hanging on the wall in a decorative frame.
The man breathed steadily as he gazed upon the writer of his will. “Thank you for waiting. My son-“
He was interrupted by a figure dressed in layers from the could; his face chapped, and eyes resembling that of alley cats when a car flashes its high beams. This one didn’t flea but felt uneasy at the riches that could only be seen at a distance in his wanderings.
“Well, dad I would be lying if I said you looked well. Why did you wait this long to write the will?”
“Ahh you know me,” he talked in last breathes, forcing everyone in the room to move closer, “always waiting to the last minute. What have you been doing with yourself, Andrew?”
“I was laid off at the factory but I got a job as a full time window washer. It doesn’t pay as well but still it was opened.”
“I’ve had a few factory jobs back in the day.” His eyes fixed proudly on his son.
Andrew’s eyelids started to fill with tears. His instinctively held them back with a swallow. “Dad it has been awhile.”
He patted a place beside him on the bed. Andrew stepped softly with his back to his girlfriend and the stepson. “I tell ya dad, all this isn’t you.”
He smiled then coughed up a last laugh. “No shit.”
“That’s his son?” The stepson whispered in amazement.
The wife nodded rubbing her temples.
“Son have you found anything out there on your own.”
“Yeah I have. Some were just born with the means to fog up the windows so they can’t see out, and you can’t see in. Those are the one’s without the fullview.”
“Son I haven’t been able to tell ya much in life but… it isn’t where you’re going but how you get there. Be satisfied with what you got.”
Andrew’s father turned away from his son, his girlfriend, and stepson. A single tear broke through the hardened surface of his face, his eyes darkened, as he exhaled the last of his insight to his son. He was gone.
The writer of the will got up from his chair, and surveyed the body. He walked over and took the dead man’s pulse. He looked at Andrew.
“By law you get the estate of Bernard T. Forsyth.”
“Bastard.” Andrew whispered. Andrew wanted to get there on his own.