ENCOUNTERS

Last spring I was in Delray Beach to attend a convention. On a free afternoon, I was walking along the beach. I paused to sit on a bench to admire the view: bobbing white sailboats, chattering beachgoers, nodding palm trees. At the end of the bench sat a distinguished looking gent, fifty-something, dressed in upscale sportswear that branded him more as a local than as a tourist. We exchanged pleasantries, and he introduced himself as Dayton White.

Commenting on our random encounter, the gent remarked that his life had been marked by a series of encounters, each of which helped shape his life. Then he told me his story:

Dayton White was Black. He had been born in 1970 in Yonkers, New York, just north of the Bronx. His parents were part of the lower middle-class which had gravitated upward from Harlem, both geographically and economically, displaced by the Puerto Rican immigrants who had arrived during the last part of the Twentieth Century.

His parents ran a grocery store on Nepperhan Avenue. They had worked there for years and eventually inherited it when its old Caucasian owner died, widowed and childless.

Dayton had been an indifferent student, an all-too-typical product of the Yonkers School System of the time, for whom training was a possibility but college a seemingly irrelevant, seldom-attainable goal. When he graduated from Yonkers High School, pushed out of the mill with all the other C and D-plus students, he had no particular occupational aspirations. His classmates found work in auto mechanics, landscaping, sales and (for the brightest) computer sciences, none of which commanded his attention. He tried each field, and others, without enthusiasm or success, for several years. By the time he was twenty-five years of age, a quarter-century old if you looked at it that way, he was but a young man barely escaping his teens, a work in progress.

When his neighbor, Julia Swanson, broke her back in an industrial accident, his parents suggested that he help her out (for a decent hourly fee) until she could find a full-time nursing aide.

To any half-way observant blackbird sitting in the oak tree by the front porch, Dayton White was a mixed bag as a person:

He was, in no particular order, polite to his elders, personally neat and punctual.

He was not, in any particular order, inspired, socially adept, or gay.

He was ignorant about much of life, but not stupid; he was capable of learning when sufficiently motivated, but seldom was he so motivated.

He liked girls, in theory, but had little practical/social/sexual experience with any of them.

He was honest, but not self-aware nor inclined to offer his views without prodding.

He wasn’t afraid of hard work, but didn’t go out of his way to look for it.

So semi-armed, Dayton White had Encounter Number 1: He rang Miss Julie’s bell one Saturday morning. Her sister, Cynthia, admitted him to a large, Victorian house shaded by oak trees, and ushered him into the parlor (aka living room) wherein sat Miss Julie.

Julia Swanson, age 45, had lived for most of her life in the family home. A graduate of Yonkers High, she had attended a college in Manhattan until her parents’ declining health had interrupted her education. A dutiful daughter and enough of a wallflower to have sacrificed no social opportunities in the process, she set aside her studies to become her parents’ companion/caregiver for the rest of their lives. After they passed, she took a lower-management job at a Bronx factory. It was while so employed that she was injured, consigned thereafter to life in a wheelchair.

Her childhood had been unremarkable. She wasn’t one of the popular girls in school, but she had had her playmates, girlfriends. She wasn’t especially pretty, her appearance tending to mousey/plain-Jane, but she dressed neatly and had a pleasant if unmemorable demeanor. Except for one boyfriend during her short college experience, she wasn’t into dating, didn’t enjoy making out in the back of his parents’ sedan, and stopped seeing him when she dropped out of classes to help at home.

Now she passed her time reading, watching tv and listening to music - mostly pop stars of the ’70’s and ’80’s. She still played the piano, an old Chickering baby grand which her mother had inherited from her own parents. It was a point of pride that she had it tuned every six months, even if it sounded in tune. (She knew that steam heat wreaked havoc with the strings.) Her own artistic accomplishments were limited: she could play a Mozart Sonata credibly and had once co-written a song for her Senior Class musical.

She greeted Dayton serenely. They had met several times, in passing, but they had never engaged in conversation. Different circles, ages, races, different altogether. Now here he was in her parlor, offering to be her companion, to help her, feed her, clothe her, bathe her! She shuddered, and hope he didn’t notice.

For his part, Dayton was polite, reticent, and curious. He asked her for details as to what she expected of him as a companion (as he admitted to having no experience in this line of endeavor). While she spoke, he took no notes, but nodded in what she hoped was understanding and agreement.

After half an hour, Julie asked, “So, Mr. Dayton White, what do you think? Can you be a companion? Can you do the messy part of the work? Do you have any questions?”

Dayton swallowed, took deep breath and ventured: “Do you have any feeling, you know, below your belt?”

Julie smiled. Ah, yes. In fact, I do, but I’m not looking for any hanky-panky. So you have to be a really professional nurse when you’re helping me dress or bathe or whatever. I hope that won’t be a turn-off, or a turn-on.”

Dayton nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”

Julie smiled. “All right then.” She told him the hourly wage that the worker’s comp attorney had recommended. Dayton nodded, in assent, and the deal was made. He would start work the next day, living in a guest room on the second floor. After a week’s help orienting him, her sister Cynthia would return to her family in San Diego.

***

And so it began: Caregiver 101, a learning curve that encompassed how to clean a toilet, how to make chicken cacciatore, how to lift a 100-lb person from a bedside to a wheelchair, and how most efficiently to bathe a female person without getting emotionally involved.

As Dayton’s caregiving skills gradually developed, during the ensuing months, so did his sense of obligation, his loyalty, and his caring. Many Sundays, he would return early, just to take Julie to the park or read to her on the oak-shaded front porch.

Meanwhile, Julie’s sense of security and confidence grew. She allowed Dayton to drive her to lunches with school friends. She started playing the piano more and even began writing music again, something she hadn’t done since high school. She wrote a song with one of her girlfriends, then arranged to have it recorded by a kid singer, released, and put on on the radio. A statistical improbability, their song hit the charts, resulting in lots of buzz, a year of welcome royalties, and a monumental emotional high.

One Wednesday night off, Dayton had his next Encounter, in the form of a mini-reunion with three high school classmates at a local bowling alley. They compared notes: Henry had become a mechanic at a Mercedes agency, JB was an Army recruiter and Jesus was a laid-off laborer. When they asked Dayton what he did, he said, “I’m a caregiver.”

“You mean, like gardening?” JB asked.

“No,” Dayton explained. “That’s a caretaker. A caregiver takes care of a person.”

“So, like baby-sitter?” ventured Henry.”

“No, for an adult lady,” Dayton corrected.

“Oh, so you’re not a baby-sitter. You’re a babe-sitter. Cool! What do you do for her?” asked Jesus.

“Everything.”

“Everything? Jesus asked, wide-eyed.”

“Don’t be a wiseass,” Dayton growled.

“What kind of job is that?” Henry shook his head.

After that night, Dayton began to do something uncharacteristic: He started thinking about himself. “Who am I? What do I do? What’s my place?” he asked himself, but found no answers. No surprise there. He had no background in self-examination, in how to ask, in where to look for answers.

Then he remembered Pastor Bill. Although Dayton hadn’t been to Church since he was in high school, he recalled that Pastor Bill was one of the smartest men he’d ever met. (Perhaps that was true, or just evidence that Dayton had led a sheltered life.)

It was time for Encounter Number Three: The next Sunday, Dayton took the bus to the Community Baptist Church. After services, he followed Pastor Bill to the vestry. “Can we talk?” he asked.

“That’s what we do,” replied Pastor Bill, a 250-lb Black bear with an easy manner and a booming voice. He motioned to a pair of chairs separated by a bass-drum table.

Dayton described his job, told about his three friends’ work and asked his questions: “Who am I? What’s my purpose? Why am I here?”

Pastor Bill listened patiently. When Dayton’s rant was spent, the pastor stroked his beard for a moment, then spoke: “Purpose? Not everyone needs one. They just do whatever they do. So you want purpose, do you? Well, I think there’s no purpose more worthy than in helping others.”

“But it’s not like being a doctor, or a lawyer, or a preacher,” Dayton said.

Pastor Bill shook his head: “Purpose isn’t about height. Remember, Jesus washing the peasant’s feet? Purpose is found anywhere, everywhere. Sure, being a pill-pusher or an ambulance chaser, or even a preacher can be worthy, but a caregiver is serving another human being, one-on-one. What’s more important than that?”

Dayton shrugged.

Pastor Bill pressed on: “Your friend wrote that song…”

Dayton looked startled. “You know about that?”

Pastor Bill smiled. “Yeah, I hear stuff. I know about the song, the airplay, the charts. Cool. Now, it’s not helpful to confuse fame or money with value. But, if you must, consider this: But for you, Julie couldn’t have written that song. She wouldn’t have written that song. By being there for her, you freed her from the daily struggle of existence enough to write again. Her “success” is partly yours, even though you didn’t write a note, and maybe can’t carry a tune. Think of an Assist in basketball. Sometimes value isn’t recognized publicly, but it’s real, my friend, it’s very real. “

Dayton gulped. The idea of supportive contribution had never even occurred to him.

Pastor Bill continued: “You know, she may never have another hit. She may never even write another song. If not, that doesn’t change your value, to her, every day of your lives. Hey, you may be one of the most fortunate men

I’ve met. Whether you recognize it or not, you have a life of purpose, of success. Not that I want you to let it go to your head. It’s a gift, but it’s ok for you to recognize the gift. Accept it. Appreciate it. Continue to use it well. There’s plenty else in life to worry about.”

Dayton nodded, overwhelmed for a moment.

Pastor Bill rose. “I hope that helps a bit.”

Dayton stood slowly. “Thank you. Thank you, Pastor Bill. Yeah man, that helps, a lot.”

As they walked toward the door, Pastor Bill said, “Now for a brief commercial plug, if your friend Julie would ever care to come by on a Sunday, our band could do her song. I think our congregants would get a real charge out of that, her being here.”

Dayton nodded. “I’ll tell her. Yeah, we could do that. I think she’d enjoy it, too.”

And so, when Dayton White looked in the bathroom mirror that night, for the first time he saw a man, not a boy. He smiled when he thought of his next bowling night with the guys. Oh yeah. He didn’t just have a job, an occupation. He had a career. Jeez, he had a calling. (Careful, jerk, not too big for your britches, he thought.)

As time went on, content with Dayton’s services, Miss Julie stopped seeking a full-time nursing aide. Meanwhile, Dayton experienced an evolutionary process. He didn’t just have a career title, he began seriously caring about his ward. Loyalty became tenacity and devotion. Physical closeness, borne of necessity, grew into love, which love, in time, was returned by an increasingly appreciative Julie.

***

At this point in the man’s story, an errant skateboarder crashed in front of them, narrowly missing their bench. I took the opportunity to ask an obvious question: “So the two of you were, shall we say, intimate?”

Mr. White glared at me. “Sir, I don’t need to go there, to tell the essence of my story.” Nevertheless, he continued:

In the spring of 2000, Julie was summoned to the offices of her Trustee, Mr. Bass, a partner in a White Plains probate law firm. Dayton guided her wheel-chair into the man’s office, and was about to withdraw to the reception area, but Julie asked him to remain in the room with her, for what proved to be Encounter Number Four.

Mr. Bass spoke: “Thank you both for coming in today. I’m planning to retire in two months, both as an attorney and as a Trustee for several trusts. My wife and I will be moving to Florida. I wanted you to hear this from me, and not just get an impersonal letter.”

Julie frowned. “Oh, I see. But what should I do?"

Mr. Bass replied: “I’ve discussed this with my partners. The way your Trust was set up, after settlement of your accident case, I have the last word on this.

We do have a recommendation. but I would want your approval of my nomination.”

Julie nodded. “OK, so what’s your recommendation?”

Mr. Bass replied, “I think, and my partners agree, that Mr. White here would be a good choice for Successor Trustee .”

Dayton White jolted in his seat, thinking, “Say what? Wait, man, I’m no trustee.”

Mr. Bass turned to Dayton: “You have no training in being a fiduciary, but we know you care about Ms. Swanson’s welfare. You’re honest and conscientious. What you don’t know, we can teach you, and from time to time, you can always engage the firm for consultations, at a reasonable hourly rate. No one knows Miss Swanson’s needs better than you. So why have a total stranger be the trustee?”

Perplexed, Dayton looked toward Julie, who was nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I like it.”

Bass added: “We should agree on an appropriate, equitable fee arrangement. My partner can help you both with this, next week, if you like.”

So it was that, two months later, in addition to being a Caregiver, an honorable calling, Dayton White had a new title: He was a Successor Trustee.

When Julie told her, Sister Cynthia was (predictably and in no particular order) hurt, offended, and outraged. She remained silent in Julie’s presence, but when she was finally alone with Dayton in the Swanson parlor, she exploded: “You self-serving, Black bastard!”

Dayton, having expected the worst, calmly replied: “You got one out of three. That’s cool. If I could hit one out of three I’d be on the Yankees.”

Thrown off guard, Cynthia snarled, “What do mean?”

Dayton explained, “I am not self-serving. I’ve earned whatever little I have. I didn’t ask for this. This was Mr. Bass’s idea, not mine. Your sister agrees, even though it’s not her call. Anyway, you can be be sure that the attorneys will still be watching me closely.

“Next, I am not a bastard. I am the son of a loving, married couple.”

Cynthia glared.

“Third, yes, I am Black, although that’s nothing for which I can take credit. I was born to a Black man and a Black woman, of whom I am very proud and who I endeavor to cause to be proud of me. So, one out of three’s not bad.”

Cynthia, at a loss for words, sniffed, glared again, and left the house. She didn’t call Julie for six months.

***

Serving as a Successor Trustee, Dayton soon learned the difference between having good, conservative instincts and making sound financial decisions, most of which were best left to professional investment advisors. The more he saw of Julie’s financial files, the more he realized how much he didn’t know. Finally, with Julie’s blessing, he enrolled in a series of evening classes: Business Law, Accounting, Financial Planning. Several years later, he applied for a Certified Financial Planner designation, passing on his second attempt.

In the years that followed, with Julie’s encouragement, he accepted a small but increasingly appreciative group of investor-clients. Using a conservative approach, he helped them develop portfolios that served their respective financial goals. In the process, he earned fees which he used to acquire investments for his own account.

In 2010, Pastor Bill retired. Although he had lost close to ninety pounds in recent years, his heart had taken a beating, and although he didn’t smoke, he had COPD. Per doctors’ orders, he would retire to an independent living facility in Delray Beach, Florida, near his sister and her family.

At a well-deserved, well-attended testimonial dinner for Pastor Bill, as a respected financial leader of his community, Dayton White was invited to be one of the speakers. This is part of what he said:

“As I get older, and contemplate my own mortality, I think about my remaining elders and their own useful shelf lives. What I’m about to say may sound like a eulogy, but it isn’t, because Pastor Bill is still alive.” (Chuckles. Pastor Bill pinches himself and smiles.)

“Some of you think of me as a financial success, a self-made man. That’s nice. But this isn’t about me showing off. Rather, its to observe that, whatever I have achieved has been the result of my standing, however shakily, on the shoulders of giants such as Pastor Bill, shoulders which have so generously supported so many of us. (Applause.)

“In my case, in one conversation with Pastor Bill, I learned more about myself than I had in the prior twenty-five years, a lesson that served me well.

“So it is with the greatest of gratitude, that I say, thank you Pastor Bill. May you enjoy new adventures, in many productive, rewarding years to come, and may you avoid the alligators and the sinkholes !” (Much applause.)

Last September, Julia Swanson died of natural causes, at age seventy-two. After the funeral, as he was walking to his car, Dayton was approached by Sister Cynthia, with whom he had not spoken in years. She asked, solemnly,

“May I please have a word?”

“Please” coming from Cynthia? Surprised, but hoping to avoid a scene, he nodded.

“First, I owe you, and humbly offer, my deepest apology.

Dayton blinked.

“I have spoken ill of you, many times, and not just behind your back to but to your face. I need you to know that I regret all the ill things I said. They were hurtful, and they were wrong. They came from my worst places, from ignorance, from insecurity, from jealousy.”

Dayton whispered, “Jealousy?”

Cynthia went on: “Jealousy of you, but even more, jealousy of Julia.”

Aloud, Dayton managed, “Julia?”

“Yes. When we were children, our parents let her get away with stuff that I’d catch hell for. I thought they loved her more than me. It probably wasn’t so, but that’s what I thought. Then when they became ill, Julia lived with them. I couldn’t help. I was a single mother with my own kids, but yes, I resented that she was here with our parents and I wasn’t. And after her accident, I was jealous of the all the attention she got. Lame? Of course! Hell, she needed all the help, and there I was being jealous. The final straw, she had someone who was totally devoted to her, there for her all the time.”

“You mean me?”

“Right. Totally devoted. Her protector. And I was stinking jealous. Sometimes, after a hard day at work, or a night up with a sick kid, I wanted someone to care for me, just a little bit, the way you cared for her. When you became the Trustee, of course you were the right person for the job. The best. I couldn’t do it, no way! But I was jealous. I was resentful that I wasn’t even asked. Obviously, that wasn’t your fault. Look, you may not believe me, but I am so sorry I mistreated you. I hope that some day you’ll forgive me. And just so you know, I haven’t read the will, but if Julia didn’t leave you the house, if it comes to me, I intend to sign it over to you. My parents took care of me. You deserve that house.”

Dayton looked at Cynthia in amazement.

Cynthia said, “I have to go. Thank you for being so good to my sister. I wish you well.”

With that, she turned and left.

For a long time, Dayton stood there in the cemetery parking lot, alone with his thoughts.

***

His story told, we sat for a while, letting it sink in, as the waves crashed on the beach. Then I asked, “Do you still have your financial planning practice?”

“No, he replied. “Funny you should ask. After Miss Julie died, I retired. I still have the house, but lately I’ve been spending winters here in Delray. Although I’m still no churchgoer, I’ve been teaching Sunday School here. At Pastor Bill’s congregation downtown.”

We both smiled.