Million Dollar Dilemma

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Million Dollar Dilemma Page 14

by Judy Baer


  “Because you have no idea how many times I’ve decided to do just that.”

  “What changes your mind?”

  As if he were folding in on himself, Adam sank deeper in the chair. “I’ve even been at Cassia’s door with my hand raised to knock. I was this close.” He made a gesture with his hand to show Terrance how near he’d come to spilling it all.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Because the FedEx man walked through the front door of the building.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone stop you from doing anything you wanted to do. Why him?”

  “Because he brought me these.” Adam reached for a large padded manila envelope that appeared battered and worn from its journey. Adam’s address and the return address were written in a pinched hand that looked out of place on the large folder. He handed it to Terrance without explanation.

  Terrance opened it, drew out a stack of eight-by-ten photos and stifled a gasp.

  “Frankie sent them,” Adam said, referring to his photographer on the Burundi trip. “He told me there were some he didn’t want published, but he’d send them to me because he knew I’d understand.”

  Frankie Wachter was as good at his job as Adam was at his. The photos, though no doubt taken in a quick series, were crisp and detailed, the angles and lighting flawless. That perhaps was what made the photos so awful.

  A mother sobbing over the dead body of a child who could have been as young as three or as old as ten. When children were malnourished, one never quite knew. A father scraping a shallow grave with his bare hands for the tiny body that lay in the dirt beside him. And Adam, doubled over and weeping, holding the leaf-thin shell of a baby in his arms.

  Terrance drew a breath and dropped the pictures. “I never knew… I thought I did, but…is this what you saw over there?”

  “Starving children are very quiet. Did you know that? They have no energy to struggle. You hold them, knowing death is going to come, but still you’re surprised to realize they’ve slipped away without your knowing. Terrance, I saw dozens of people—mostly children—slipping away.” He couldn’t even bring himself to verbalize the pain—from rashes, open wounds, blindness or blood that won’t clot—in which some of those people must have been.

  Adam stood and prowled the room like a miserable jungle cat. “That’s why I’ve kept going with this story and hating myself all the while. I’ve been studying what it costs to keep a child alive. Terrance, if I worked the rest of my life for this and gave everything I earned to the rescue efforts there, I still couldn’t do all that needs to be done. But I have to try anyway. I’ve had this idea that with the stories I’m writing about Burundi and the money I could make on this lottery story, I could actually do something.” He looked at Terrance until his agent squirmed. “But I feel like I’m selling my soul to make it happen.”

  Terrance paled. “I didn’t mean for this… Adam, I have no idea what to say.”

  “Either way, it’s killing me.” Adam’s eyes hardened. “The only thing that’s kept me moving forward is that I know Cassia will recover from my deception. The children, well, that’s a matter of life and death.”

  “And your friendship with Cassia?”

  “It can’t survive this fraud I’ve been perpetrating on her. I know that. She is loyal, honest and sincere as they come. She’s a Christian, Terrance. She refuses to mess with the truth.”

  “Aren’t Christians supposed to be forgiving, too? ‘Turn the other cheek,’ and all that?”

  It was odd, Adam thought. He and Terrance had never had a talk about faith when Adam had actually thought he believed in God. Now, after Burundi, when he wasn’t so sure anymore, it came up.

  “Yeah, that’s true.” He wished he had Cassia’s ability to rattle off Bible quotations, chapter and verse, but he had to settle for, “It’s in the Gospels somewhere.” Something bubbled up from long ago, a memory of his mother standing in the middle of their bright yellow kitchen. There were avocado-green appliances, the ones she was so proud of, and counter-tops in matching green. He remembered flowers from the garden on her table in a milk-glass vase and even the smell of the casserole in the oven. It was as real as though he could touch it.

  “‘Love your enemies, Adam,’” she was saying. “‘Do good to those who hate you. Pray for the happiness of those who curse you. Implore God’s blessing on those who hurt you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, let him slap the other, too! If someone demands your coat, give him your shirt besides. Give what you have to anyone who asks you for it….’” And then the memory faded. His mother was a Christian, and as beautiful and loving as Cassia.

  He sighed. “But even Christians have limits, don’t they?”

  “You’ve got me there, buddy.” Terrance stood up and put his arm on Adam’s shoulder. “Listen, I just want you to know that now I understand this turmoil you’re going through. If nothing else, do a generic bit on lottery winners and we’ll really try to make something happen with the Burundi thing. There’s probably a chapter for a book in that, too. Maybe you could get your message out that way. You’re going to have to follow your heart on this one.”

  My soul is being ripped in two. Though he’d been careful not to let Cassia know the depth of his feelings for her, she had burrowed her way into his spirit. He’d set up his own heartbreak by lying to her in the beginning. But what he’d seen in Burundi was about more than just himself and Cassia. Adam stared after Terrance as he left the building. He’d remembered the last part of what his mother had said to him that day.

  Treat others as you want them to treat you.

  Was this how he wanted to be treated? Lied to, deceived, used? The ache in his gut throbbed. He was selling out on his own values, he knew, but it was for a good cause, the best he could think of. Did that make it right? Cassia’s sweet face shimmered in his mind. Doing what he was doing would ensure that their relationship would be over soon, that he’d never know if the feelings he was developing for her could ever turn into something more permanent.

  This was a decision he’d possibly regret for the rest of his life, but at least he had a life to live. No matter what it cost him personally, he had to give those children a chance. Wearily he returned to his computer.

  Starvation has many faces. It also manifests itself in many ways. Children who have a single non-protein staple in their diets often suffer from kwashiorkor, a disease whose symptoms include enlarged liver, edema, swelling and growth retardation. Niacin deficiency will produce pellagra and its accompanying diarrhea, rashes and tissue irritation, while a thiamine deficiency produces beriberi and heart disease or brain and nerve disease. Lack of the vitamins and minerals that many Americans automatically pop into their mouths with a glass of morning orange juice results in scurvy, bleeding, gum disease, convulsions, fever, loss of blood pressure or death. Malnutrition can result in blindness, rickets, anemia, shrinkage of vital organs, retardation and a host of unspeakable suffering. Is this the torment to which we choose to consign many of the world’s children?

  The helpless feelings that are generated by these massive problems often lead to an attitude of hopelessness, but there is good news. Remarkably, children can recover from severe starvation. An orphanage in Bujumbura, Burundi, can accept another one hundred children into its program for less than seventy dollars per child, per month.

  Seventy dollars a month—a little over two dollars a day, a latte at the drive through, a soda and candy bar at break time, the money wasted by not clipping that restaurant coupon from the newspaper—the difference between life and death?

  It is time for us to wake up, to realize that one person can make a difference.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Are you happy, Cassia?” Cricket sat on my couch eating from a plate of Mattie’s gingersnaps.

  It’s Tuesday evening and Cricket is back from her latest spa. Her eyebrows are nicely shaped and she has a fresh manicure and pedicure. Otherwise, she looks exactly the same as when she left. Apparently th
is spa didn’t have the magic potion she was looking for either—the one that makes a cute, short woman into a ravishingly beautiful, leggy, six-foot-tall model. At least with spas, the hunt is almost as much fun as finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  She has a milk mustache on her upper lip and a perplexed expression on her pleasant features. “Really happy?”

  “Sure. Aren’t you?” I sat down on the couch beside her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you are happy, then I think you’re the only one who actually is.”

  “What’s wrong, Cricket? Have you had bad news?”

  “No. Not that. I just expected something when we won the lottery. Something…more.”

  “What did you imagine would happen?”

  Cricket breathed a dramatic, Cricket-like sigh. “I expected it to be more fun. I’ve always been broke because I love to shop.”

  Cricket wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already know.

  “And shopping’s not as much fun anymore!”

  “Really?” Now, that surprised me. “Why?”

  “It used to be an adventure, a hunt. For the best buys, the biggest sales, the most shoes for the least amount of money. Now it’s like going on a photo safari and having the animals walk up and circle the Jeep, waiting for me to take their pictures.”

  I must have looked blank.

  “No more thrill of adventure! No more danger of succumbing to something I can’t afford in the high-end department! Because,” Cricket said morosely, “I can afford it all. I always thought buying things made me happy. Now I realize that it was the search that was fun, not the buying. Now if I want a designer dress, I go out and buy one. What’s the fun in that?”

  “When you had to work for it, it was more fun?”

  “Yes.” She looked at me beseechingly. “Am I losing my mind?”

  “Hardly. Maybe you’re just getting it back.” I curled my feet under me and settled in for a visit.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When I work hard for something—clothing, artwork for my living room, school tuition—I see its value. I know that this sweater cost me a half day of work at Parker Bennett, for example. But with all the money in the world, you value things differently when you can buy anything you want. The pleasure is gone. You aren’t working toward a goal anymore. You forget the difference between what you want and what you need.”

  Cricket bobbed her head. “That’s me, all right. I’m feeling cheated because I have it all.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jane peered at me over the tops of her reading glasses as I stormed into her house the next afternoon. She was sitting at her dining-room table with papers, flow sheets and investment brochures spread around her. I’d said hello to my brother-in-law—or as I lovingly called him, bother-in-law; we both knew it is Jane who is the biggest bother—outside where he was trimming hedges.

  I eyed the papers gloomily, knowing that they were all about me and my money. The only thing that kept me going was a single exasperating and pointed verse that had etched itself inside my head—1 Corinthians 9:16.

  If I were volunteering my services of my own free will, then the Lord would give me a special reward; but that is not the situation, for God has picked me out and given me this sacred trust and I have no choice.

  I don’t have a choice. I can’t heedlessly give the money away, even though it’s my heartfelt desire. Much as I’ve fought it, I do have to be conscientious about it. Unfortunately, other than Ken, my only role model in the millionaire category I’d found in the funny papers. Scrooge McDuck never mentions a problem like this.

  But now that I have it and I’m responsible for it, I’m getting the message. If nothing else, it’s coming with the postman every morning.

  “Look at this.” I opened the bag I was carrying and dumped it onto the only clear spot on the table. There were investment brochures and pleas from charities spanning Save the Whales (a good idea) to Save the Spotted Itchy Five-Legged Biting Monkey Beetle (probably not such a good idea). There were flyers for every cruise ship in existence, real estate agents wanting to sell me mansions in the Deep South and yurts in Nepal. I had been blessed with the opportunity to join AARP and Mensa. If I’d been courted by a group called NUISANCE, for Newly Unhappy Individuals Suffering Abundance of Nasty Cash Evils, I would have signed on in a heartbeat.

  I’m still being wooed by unidentifiable new friends and relatives. Someone in Scotland had seen my red hair, done a search of the name Carr and deduced they were long-distant relatives from clan Carr. Now the entire clan is petitioning me for money so that they can all come to the United States to visit “fortunate Cousin Cassia.” Mysteriously, however, the name in the return address on all the envelopes is a man named Howie Earl Crispin who, according to the postmark, lives in Yuma, Arizona. It’s amazing how far a clan can travel. Besides, my ancestors are from Wales and Ireland.

  “Where are all these people getting my name?”

  “Newspapers, the Internet, mailing lists, talking to neighbors and maybe even a detective or two.”

  “No way.” I felt a cold chill.

  “I just added the detectives to scare you,” Jane said in her evil-sister way. “Sit down. I’ve been consulting with investment persons I know and the people at my bank. I think we’ve figured out a way to get this money working for you more efficiently and keep it safe at the same time. Then you can take as long as you want to decide what to do with it.”

  “Working more efficiently? Aren’t my millions pretty efficient on their own?”

  Jane looked at me with exasperated patience. “Cassia, if you ever intend to set up foundations or work as a philanthropist, you’ll have the money renewing itself so that you can continue to fund those concerns.”

  “Concerns?” Oh, I have concerns, all right. I closed my eyes and recalled the discouraging conversation I’d had with Pastor Osgood only two days ago.

  “I took your offer of financial gifts for those charities our church supports to the weekly business meeting and…” He’d sounded worried, and before I heard another word out of his mouth my heart took a nosedive into the soles of my feet. “It’s not that they don’t want it, exactly. It’s just that some on the board are a little uneasy about distributing gambling money through our church coffers. They’re afraid of what kind of witness it might be.”

  “But I didn’t gamble to get it!” I wailed. “I thought I was buying a baby gift!”

  “I know that, you know that and the board knows that. But still…”

  Even though I’d done nothing wrong, the board didn’t want to take the money because that would suggest approval of how it had been obtained.

  “Charities and nonprofits, you goose.” Jane interrupted my rambling.

  “Do you mean this will go on for the rest of my life? I’ll never be poor again?” My nightmares were coming true.

  “Snap out of it, sis! Quit whining and start working. You’ve been given this money for a reason. You,” she emphasized, “not anyone else. I’ve contacted two major ministries in the past two weeks, both of which have grappled with accepting money that was won at gambling and turned it down. So now it’s time to set the wheels in motion for fiscal responsibility.” Jane studied me with something more akin to compassion. “So you’ll quit resisting and roll with it?”

  That doesn’t mean I have to be comfortable with it.

  “There have to be organizations that will—”

  “But this isn’t about them. What does God want you to do?”

  “Hi, Pepto, is your boss at home?” The big cat lay in the doorway waiting, I presume, for the Federal Express man. Pepto doesn’t like failure, and so far the FedEx guy had pretty much ignored him. There’s nothing a cat hates more than being ignored.

  Pepto sees that as his job in the world. Cats are the ones who should be aloof and distant. How dare someone with only two legs take away his thunder? The FedEx guy is definitely a hard nut for Pepto to
crack but, much to his feline satisfaction, the postman now carries kitty treats in his pockets just to keep Pepto off his case.

  “You’re talking to the boss. I’m just the cook and litter-box custodian, didn’t you know?” Adam was at his laptop computer, but he quickly saved and backed out of the document he was working on as I entered. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve surrendered.”

  “What do you mean?” As usual, Adam wore the softest, most comfortable looking chamois shirt and washed-out jeans. His shirt was a pale blue and open at the neck to reveal a pleasant thicket of dark chest hair. He was barefoot, and I observed that even his feet were chiseled and beautiful. Had the man no flaws whatsoever?

  “Capitulated. Waved the white flag.” I flopped down on his couch. “God conked me over the head with my grandmother.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “Not literally, of course.”

  “What a relief. My next thought was for Grandma.” He smiled indulgently, and I immediately felt better. Pouring my thoughts out to Adam is so natural and easy. He never seems to take me too seriously, which I like. I don’t feel pressured by him the way I do by Ken. Of course, Ken is itching to marry me, and Adam doesn’t have any designs on me whatsoever.

  “My sister has gathered a team of financial wizards to manage the money.” I noticed Adam straighten slightly, as if interested.

  “Oh? I thought your pastor was helping you give it away.”

  I told him where that had gone. “So I’m still the steward. And not only is the money safe, it’s drawing interest, which is rolled back into the initial sum and making more interest. It reminds me of a snowball rolling downhill and becoming an avalanche.”

  “You started with a pretty big snowball. And then what?”

  “To wait for doors to open. To see God on the other side of them beckoning me on. To let it all hang out, so to speak. No more fussing. No more fretting. Instead, I’m asking myself who Jesus would give it to—widows, prisoners…” I looked at his laptop. “What are you doing? You’re always on that thing.”

 

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