b e n ' s c l o n e
In the weeklong process of settling his accounts, selling off his worldly possessions, and purging any remaining evidence of his miserable life from the earth—short of taking a sledgehammer to his headstone, I realized I was the last one, last of a family line who served in every single American war. I was it.
Three ex-wives in fifteen years did nothing to inspire the confidence that I might one day have children to pass this legacy onto. When I sold off the old man's gun collection and the land his worthless shack of a house was sinking into, I was surprised to find myself $110,000 wealthier before taxes. I owed it to the old man to ensure the family name carried on at least one more generation.
Even with the $110k, I was still short. My wages at the shipyard wouldn't secure a loan worth a damn, so I took out a second mortgage on my house on false pretenses with the intention of declaring bankruptcy at a later point. I could never afford the lawyer to do that, and my credit was forever wrecked, but I guess that just proves I'm not the government.
Raising him wasn't easy as a single father. I got him away from Latanya, around three months old, and found a more appropriate sitter. Between her and my mortgage payments, forsaking all else, I was working twenty hours overtime a week staying afloat. Every couple of months I switched sitters, to prevent arousing suspicion and to keep Junior from growing too attached. Life became exhausting, but I guess the wonder of seeing myself grow up in the snippets of free time made it all worth it.
Once Junior was old enough to send to public school, I let my tax dollars keep an eye on him. He was home alone most of the afternoon, but I sprung for cable television and that kept him out of trouble. With the economic burden allieveeated… aleaviated… alleiv--decreased, I cut my hours to devote more time to Junior's aware years. He wouldn't remember that I wasn't there for his first words and potty training. I could still shape him as a person.
Junior grew up, got expelled, and eventually the letter from Virginia Military Institute arrived. It was in a small envelope, same small envelope I got my senior year of high school. The one I hid from my father for two weeks until he
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