Fathers and sons have striven mightily since the dawn of time, often over trivial disagreements that escalate into hot-blooded animus long after the roots of their conflicts are lost. The feud sometimes becomes the raison d’être that sustains estrangement of people who once truly loved each other.
Clayton Kelly had not spoken to his son Isaac for five years over some long-forgotten peccadillo or slight, unintentional or otherwise. Isaac was understandably perplexed when, following his parents’ unexpected deaths during the COVID-19 epidemic—before the vaccines that may have spared their lives were available—he discovered that they had named him executor of their estate.
Isaac’s twin brother Paul had died in the War in Afghanistan, and a drunk driver had killed his brother Shane in a car wreck when Shane was just 18. Then, his sister Betty succumbed to a flareup of lupus, and Isaac became the last survivor of a lineage that traced itself all the way back to the verdant highlands of Ireland.
Clayton and his wife, Abigail, had worked at a Ford plant after Clayton returned from his tour of duty in Vietnam, where he earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star Medal. When the industrial economy collapsed in the Rust Belt states, the couple weathered that storm like most had, through stubborn force of will and ornery contrariness to dying. After Isaac and Paul were born, Clayton moved his family to a 10-acre farm that clung to the side of a mountain, where he built a house perched on a steep knoll.
Thunderstorms often washed the loose gravel down the driveway, leaving the surface open to erosion unless it was not laboriously carried back up to the level top to await the next washout. Clayton exercised his patriarchal authority to assign Isaac, Paul and Shane the task of restoring order to the driveway while he was at work driving a bulldozer to clear logging roads through the forests and dig farm ponds and basements. At first, the boys felt important because they were contributing to their family’s needs. The physical labor gave them lanky athletic physiques. During their teen years, however, Isaac grew to resent his indentured servitude. He particularly hated to do what was a Sisyphean task of carrying the rock up a hill only to see it tumble down again.
When Paul was killed in Afghanistan, Isaac came home to bury his brother and comfort his parents and siblings. Isaac had begun to see the chore of hauling gravel up the hill as a metaphor for both the Vietnam War and the War in Afghanistan, wars that could not be won, only abandoned. After Paul’s burial, Isaac and Clayton’s fiery disagreement ended only when Isaac fumed out of the house, vowing never to return.
Still, blood is blood, and Isaac worried about his parents when the grim reaper of the COVID pandemic began to harvest its mostly elderly victims. He knew Clayton’s intransigence would keep him from reconciliation, but by the time he had decided to visit to make amends, Clayton and Abigail had died a day apart. When he returned home to close out the affairs of the estate, Isaac saw that Clayton had poured a concrete driveway over the gravel road. At the top of the driveway the initials “WD” were etched into the concrete. After the funeral, he met with his dad’s lawyer to settle the accounts. They set up an estate sale on Sept. 21.
The crowd gathered at 9 to bid on and buy the household chattel. Isaac was taken aback when he saw a handsome young Black man purchase the entire contents of Abigail’s kitchen. Curious at the stranger’s offer, Isaac introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Isaac, the Kellys’ son,” he said. “Mom cooked lots of great meals using those pots and pans.”
The man replied, “You’re just the man I need to talk to. I’m Joe, Willie Duncan’s son. I have something to give you from my dad.”
He pulled a crumpled, yellowed envelope with Clayton’s name on it from his jacket pocket. “Let me tell you the backstory,” Joe said. “My dad owned a concrete business. About four years ago, your dad called him about pouring this concrete driveway for him. Dad, my brother Josh, and I drove down and began to build the forms and pour the first sections. We worked until noon, and your dad came out and invited us to dinner. Dad was old-fashioned and had never been invited to break bread with a white family, so he respectfully declined. I saw your dad’s face darken. Then he said, ‘Look, my wife has spent all morning cooking a big dinner to feed you fellers. Now get in there and eat, like I said.’ ”
Joe smiled. “We saw there was no need to argue,” he said. “Your mother cooked us a great dinner of pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans and coconut cream pie with black coffee. Finest meal I ever had. When I heard about this estate sale, I was determined to buy all the pots and pans your mom used to fix that dinner for us because it meant so much to us to be treated like people.
“Clayton paid us after we finished the driveway. Dad drew his initials—‘WD’—into the concrete, and we went home. All my dad could talk about was how a white man had invited us to dinner for the best meal he ever had. My mother told him that he had to write a thank-you note. He was supposed to mail this letter, but I guess he forgot where he put it. I found it last week stuck in his Bible and decided ‘better late than never,’ so here it is.”
“That’s very kind of you to remember,” Isaac said. “I’m sure Dad would appreciate it.”
Joe blushed. “Well, I actually wrote the letter,” he confessed. “Dad couldn’t read or write anything other than his name. I hope you understand.”
Isaac smiled and clasped Joe’s right hand in his and softly squeezed his left shoulder. “I understand,” he said. “My dad couldn’t read or write anything but his name either, but that doesn’t matter. Sometimes, words just get in the way, don’t they?”
Roger Guffey, Lexington