Mark My Words: A Christopher Family Novel Book 2

By W. D. Foster-Graham

Allan Beckley Christopher is a self-made, African-American multimillionaire.Starting out with nothing but family, very high intelligence, ambition and drive, he succeeded against the odds.He dealt with racism, discrimination and the naysayers, Black and white, who were convinced he would never make it as an entrepreneur in the 1960s.Opening a fix-it shop in southside Chicago, through hard work and determination he turns it into a multi-million-dollar corporation.

Hes made his mark.His home is a thirty-room estate.He is among the Whos Who of Black America.His company is listed in the Fortune 500.He is a mover and shaker in the community, and all the connections that accompany it.He faithfully attends church on Sundays.

But has he made it?With the advent of his sixtieth birthday, his character, his past and his beliefs come into focus, honor and question as his story is told through the eyes of his family--including his four LGBT children--and with it his impact on their lives.

The time is 1988; the place, Chicago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546245988

W. D. Foster-Graham

W.D. Foster-Graham is a native son of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a B.A. in psychology from Luther College, with a minor in Black studies. He is an original member of the 3-time Grammy Award-winning ensemble, Sounds of Blackness. He has also been recognized by the International Society of Poets as one of its “Best New Poets of 2003,” and is a guest writer for Wyatt O’Brian Evans (The Huffington Post, the Washington Post, the Advocate). He is the book review editor for Insight News, a Black community newspaper in the Twin Cities. His passion for writing was inspired by his father, who read voraciously. His tastes in writing run to historical fiction, family sagas, and romance, seasoned with his own brand of African American flavor—at the end of the day, it’s all about the love. He shamelessly admits to a love of romance novels, whodunits, and classic movies of old Hollywood. He also received inspiration from the late novelists E. Lynn Harris and Toni Morrison. In Toni’s words, “If there is a story you wish to read, and it hasn’t been written yet, then you must be the one to write it.” Retired from the field of teaching, he loves travel on the open road and time with his husband and son when not in writer’s mode. This is the 7th novel in his Christopher Family Novel series.

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© 2018 W. D. Foster-Graham. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/20/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4599-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4598-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906707

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Marshall Moore Christopher-Terrell (June 16, 1951)

Norma Catherine Christopher Johnson (September 6, 1952)

Tanya Denise Johnson-Christopher (June 14, 1953)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Melvin Burnside, Abaree Rayfield, Don Roman, Darrel and Natasha Polk, Rev. & Mrs. Walter Kimbrough and all the folks at Cascade United Methodist Church, Atlanta; Janice Griggs (my favorite female friend), Roberta Talley, Toni Favors and the crew at Southern Bell MAC (1990-1993); my Uncle Funny’s family; my brothers and sisters at AALGA; the Atlanta Writers’ Resource Center; Pastor E.W. Alvin and my church family at Freedom Christian Tabernacle; Florida 44; Albert Sanders (who helped me find a way around the glitch in my old computer program); Rev. S.L. Williams; my friends at First Church of Deliverance and Travelers Rest Spiritual Church, Chicago; Yvette Hay-Rachal; my brother, Arthur Foster; my extended family; Marci Rubin, Brett Merl, Dora Zayas, Richard Howe and the gang at Legal Club of America; and to Paul Borrmann; thank you for your support, your encouragement, your best wishes and your prayers. And thanks be to God for making what was once a dream a reality.

This book is dedicated

to Dad

my No. 1 fan, for his continued love and support;

to Fabian

who planted the seed;

to Stanley

who wanted the first copy;

to Edward Lee and Walter

my amazing husband and son.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Marshall Moore Christopher-Terrell (June 16, 1951)

Last-minute corrections, Marshall thought as he compared the prints to the drawings on his personal computer for the Lake Village Shopping Center and Office Park he had designed. Though he had done many in his years as an architect, there were always final revisions and adjustments needed before they were submitted to his clients. All the drawings seemed to be in order so far, except this one. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and began to chew on it, the way he always did when something was bothering him. Leroy often said that he could never find a pencil around the house that was free of his teeth marks–once he threatened in jest to dip all the pencils in castor oil.

Painstakingly he scanned them again, chewing as he went along in search of the elusive error. He paused for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose. Where could it be? Dropping the pencil on the desk in frustration, he took a moment to stretch. A gentle brushing movement at his leg got his attention, and he bent down to stroke Blanche affectionately, scratching her under her chin as she purred with the bliss of a pampered child. Seeing her catnip mouse over near the window, he went over to it and tossed it across the room in play. Normally, Blanche would run to the spot, dive upon her prey, roll around on the floor for a few seconds and bring it back to him. Then he would repeat the action for whatever time limit the game was set. These days Blanche’s runs had been reduced to a walk, and on some days a waddle. Today she waddled over to the mouse, batted it a couple of times, then waddled slowly back to Marshall, mouse in mouth, and dropped it at his feet. She laid down on her side in an effort to get comfortable, but with her kittens due in two weeks this was more difficult. Hitting the food dish a little heavy today, eh, Blanche? he chided. Blanche looked up at him with copper eyes clouded over with fatigue, and proceeded to lick her long, blue-cream fur as if ignoring Marshall’s last comment. He squatted down on the floor and tossed the mouse across the room again, but Blanche had started in on licking her paws, making no attempt to continue the game. Fine–be that way, Marshall told her, getting up and stretching his 6'2 body, feeling a mild attack of the munchies."

Three ham sandwiches, a bunch of seedless grapes, potato chips, a kosher dill pickle, a plate of oatmeal cookies and a quart-sized glass of Kool-Aid were soon spread out on the kitchen table before him. He was just about ready to sit down when a hunch struck him, and he went speedily to his desk. That’s it–the measurements on the courtyard were off. Pleased and relieved at finding the problem, he entered the correct measurements, vowing again not to work on these projects when he was overly tired, and certainly not one that Josh’s crew would be building. Returning to the kitchen table, Marshall ate with a leisurely relish, satisfied with the results of yet another example of his expertise. Now for Marty’s record store, he thought as he savored a big bite of ham and cheese on rye.

The three brothers had already had several informal meetings regarding this project, and through their sister Tanya the necessary contracts were drawn up after negotiating fair and reasonable prices and estimates. Already Marshall had come up with several tentative ideas, but the final design would be confirmed once the site had been secured. Marty’s daughter Kelley and Josh’s daughter Ruby were at the last two meetings. They had a zillion questions about his designs and how they’d best work, and had recorded the information for future reference. One thing he readily admitted; his nieces didn’t play when it came to business. Their fathers had trained them well in that respect.

Just then another furry face appeared at the doorway to the cattery, just off the kitchen. Alexis, a smoky blue Persian, tilted her nose up to smell the air, then slinked over to the table in the manner of a confident courtesan. That was her approach whenever such delicacies as ham or turkey were being served at the table, and she knew if she turned on the charm and waited long enough Marshall would give in and pass her a morsel. He saw her out of the corner of his eye while eating the tasty sandwich, pretending not to notice her sitting at his feet, poised and ready to receive her share of sliced ham. Leroy usually gave her a piece right away– Why drag it out when you know you’re going to give her some anyway? was his rationale. Marshall, however, continued to engage in this little game with Alexis and she would wait, both of them knowing the outcome. Let me take a wild guess. You wore Sultan out and now you’re hungry, right? he said, slowly turning his head in her direction while she demurely licked her paw, not moving from her spot next to his chair. After a few minutes Marshall finished the sandwich and cut a piece of ham from the platter on the table, deftly tossing it to Alexis. She gobbled it up in a flash and was soon looking for more. After two more good-sized pieces were thrown in her direction her appetite was momentarily satisfied, and as Marshall finished his second sandwich and started in on the pickle she washed herself and brushed against his bare leg appreciatively.

Nine weeks from now there’ll be another litter of kittens around here, Marshall said to himself as he got up from the table long enough to turn on the radio. This idea of Leroy’s for a side business sure has paid off. Between the newspaper ads and our connections through the Cat Fanciers Association the kittens are spoken for immediately, and at two hundred dollars a kitten plus stud and service fees that’s a tidy little income. Let’s see–Diahann is nursing four kittens, Blanche is due in a couple of weeks, Alexis is coming into heat and worrying Sultan to death, and Sultan’s been in great demand lately since he placed so high in the last cat show. When Leroy comes home from his shift at the post office, he just takes over his share of the chores in the cattery without missing a beat. Still, business or not, they’re almost like kids when you consider food, veterinary bills and the attention they need. Speaking of food, we’ll need another twenty-five pounds of Meow Mix next week.

Marshall returned to the kitchen table and proceeded to guzzle down some Kool-Aid, followed by a dozen or so grapes. Dad used to be able to do this–just wolf down food and have nothing to show for it at his waistline. If I picked that up from him I’ll be good for another twenty years, he thought as he crunched a healthy mouthful of dill pickle. Dad has lost weight since Champ put him on that program, but I think she needs to lighten up some–this isn’t basic training. Marshall soon found himself coughing and almost choking as those words caught in his throat along with the pickle, and he grabbed his Kool-Aid quickly to wash down the food in it. He himself had approached Champ before about her fitness program for Dad. She appraised him and said, You know, M&M, you could stand to lose about five pounds yourself, even with your metabolism being as high as it is. Besides, being in shape has another advantage–Leroy’ll keep telling you how good you look in shorts. That was enough for him to start back into a program with her, and he had toned his body back down to 185 pounds of muscle. Champ, noticing the change, commented, You’re looking better, M&M. Now what was it you had to say about my program for Daddy?

Twenty minutes later, all that remained of his snack were empty dishes, which he promptly put into the dishwasher. Marshall then headed to the family room to check the VCR. Satisfied that the latest episode of The Young and the Restless had been recorded, he shut off the timer. I know Jill and Katherine are supposed to be on today, trying to get rid of Nina so Phillip can marry Cricket. And then there’s that other character, Leanna……my curiosity is driving me up the walls. Maybe I’ll go ahead and check some of it out. No…I don’t want to hear Leroy’s mouth about not waiting for him to get in so we can watch it together. He’s never liked being told what happened on here since Josh got us hooked on this show, and he always seems to know when I’ve already seen it. Jack Abbott can be good when he wants to be, but he can be such a dog otherwise. I know he’ll never let up on Brad. And Jill–that bitch is a mess. I wonder when she’ll get Michael Crawford in her office for a conference–on top of her desk? Knowing her, he’d probably have to take a number. Stop, stop, let me get out of here before I start watching it.

He bolted up the back stairs to the master bedroom, searching in the dresser for a T-shirt to wear with his walking shorts. He found one of his old Morehouse College T-shirts he’d purchased at the last homecoming he attended, and quickly pulled it over his head. Morehouse–those were some days, all right. Not having to fight snow to get to class, Dr. King’s funeral, debates, study marathons before finals. As he put some activator on his medium-length auburn curls and ran a comb through them, he recalled how slow he thought Atlanta was when he first went down there his freshman year, yet oh-so-beautiful. Many good things had happened to him during his college years there, including that day when he went down to the main post office…

His eyes twinkled as he found his Adidas in the full-length closet and put them on. That was one of many improvements made to their house on West Belden Avenue. Given their need and desire for more space, they purchased the former two-flat some ten years ago, remodeling and converting it into a single-family home with Marshall’s ability with design, Josh’s construction skills, plus a generous input of Leroy’s ideas. Dad had complimented them on what was the first of many joint ventures he and Josh would have businesswise, yet for a long time he talked about how he and Leroy could have just rented out the second floor the way it was and made some money while the renovations were under way. Not that he was any better. After a few weeks into the project Leroy had to pull him aside for a few words because he’d nit-picked Josh into distraction over his portion of the work. After that, it was agreed that on future projects Marshall would try to curb that impulse, but if it got on his nerves Josh would give some sort of signal so he wouldn’t have to resort to dumping a bucket of sawdust on his brother.

He went down the hall to the bedroom off the utility kitchen and knocked on the door. Hearing no response from inside, he returned to his bedroom, grabbing a note pad from the night stand next to the telephone. Scribbling a quick note, he returned to the door and stuck the message on it. All right, where are they? he asked himself as he hurried down the front stairs, anxious for some time in the sunshine of the afternoon. Of course–right by the terminal where I left them. With sunglasses and keys in hand, Marshall headed out the door, pausing only to grab a large handful of M&Ms from the candy dish in the living room.

Quick strides brought him to the street, where his chariot awaited him. Recently taken out of storage, his metallic blue 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible was tuned, washed and waxed to perfection, and the day was ideal for riding with the top down. This was something that unmistakably rubbed off on him from Dad–a love of antique and classic cars. At last count, Dad had four–a 1946 Oldsmobile, a 1948 Chrysler, a 1957 Lincoln and a 1959 Chrysler Imperial. During the winter months Dad’s late-model Olds Ninety-Eight would carry him to work and his other appointed rounds. Spring, however, could be marked in the family not only by spring cleaning but by the time-honored ritual of taking the other four cars out of storage, as he had done since he bought the first one and restored it twenty years ago. Marshall fished around in the glove compartment, and found a cassette of Fats Domino’s greatest hits. Might as well get some practice in before rehearsal tonight, he thought as he dropped it into the tape player and donned his shades.

He cruised down Clark Street toward Old Town, soaking up the sun and the scenery, dropping a few M&Ms in his mouth as he listened to Fats. I’ve got him down so far, but a little more work wouldn’t hurt–every note and dynamic has got to be right. Spring is in the air around here–all the young brothers and sisters are showing out in droves. If Leroy was driving, we’d probably be comparing notes while we listened to B.B. King, Koko Taylor or Denise LaSalle, and Sultan would recline in the back seat like he was the great Persian potentate of feline society. If anyone digs the blues, it’s Leroy. Funny how that was what first broke the glacier between him and Dad–an old record by Muddy Waters. As much as they talk about the blues greats, I know he’ll enjoy the collection of Bessie Smith recordings we got for him.

He stopped at a traffic light, practicing his songs to the tape while adjusting the outside mirror. Glancing back at the street, he caught sight of a young cinnamon brown man checking out his car and him with a puzzled smile on his face. It must be the tape. With most kids these days you’re ancient if you don’t know who Bobby Brown is, and yet so many songs out today are remakes of those that were around when I was in my teens, Marshall deduced as he gave him a friendly greeting. The young man returned the acknowledgment as he crossed the street and ran to Lincoln Park, shaking his head as he did so. Hmmmmmmm….average height, stocky build, cinnamon complexion, that widow’s peak…….he almost looks like Leroy did at that age, at least from the pictures he showed me. I guess it’s true about everyone having a double somewhere; no telling where mine will turn up. Anyway, back to practice.

Marshall continued through Old Town and on toward the Loop, shifting his concentration back to driving while he sang. His shades hid his Beckley eyes from view, and they fit comfortably on the bridge of the nose he shared with Dad, complementing the heart-shaped face he inherited from Mom. Careful grooming and other tips he picked up from Ebony Man and Ebony, combined with exercise, had helped him carry his thirty-six years well. His bronze complexion was another trait he shared with his grandmother Lorraine, and the only one of his siblings to have it. Right now it was oily from the sun and the moisturizer on his hair, which seemed only to enhance his skin tones. Though his family told him his height was fine, he still occasionally wished he was a little taller, since he was the shortest of his brothers and Dad. Those occasions, however, decreased as the years went by, replaced by a personal viewpoint that if his looks, charm and personality were good enough to get Leroy Terrell to move to Chicago and keep him for sixteen years, that was sufficient.

Sixteen years–practically his entire adult life had been spent with Leroy. Talk about beating the odds, Marshall reflected. Dad wouldn’t have given us six months at the most when we first got together. At least, that’s what he said during one of those rare occasions then when we spoke to each other. Man, it burned me up when he’d say that, but we proved him wrong. It’s not quite rockets, bells and fireworks between us now the way it was during those first years, but it’s solid and enduring from the history and memories we built and shared. It must be love to be able to watch our favorite comedies on Saturday, while he guzzles a six-pack of 7-Up and belches during laughs and not pull out my hair. Or for him to tune out while I’m on the phone late at night for two hours over something a member of the family did and offering my advice whether it’s wanted or not. Or just getting up to fix his Cream of Wheat and toast in the morning when I could sleep late. I’m sure that’s the sort of stuff that kept Mom and Dad together for forty years, as well as some of our friends.

A few more M&Ms found their way into Marshall’s mouth as he passed the main post office. Leroy had told him a couple of weeks ago that he was being considered for the position of postmaster at one of the branch offices. Though he was excited about the prospect, he exercised a certain caution with it. Marshall understood his reasons well. Leroy was forty-two now, having worked in the U.S. Postal Service since he graduated from high school. He had come through the ranks and had outstanding managerial skills to augment his experience, yet that had not prevented his being passed over a few times along the way. No, it was no different from what happened to Dad. Before Dad quit the power company, Marshall could remember occasions when his father would come home tight-lipped, saying very little to anyone initially. He’d just go upstairs to the bedroom for an hour or so, and after a while Mom would go up there with him to talk. Dad eventually came downstairs for dinner, though he’d grumble through it about snot-nosed white kids whose experience couldn’t fill the eye of a needle being steadily promoted over him. If Dad started tugging at his mustache the dinner table got very quiet. If not, Mom would gradually work conversation in by asking them about school that day while mixing in words of support to Dad.

Marshall had done something similar when he’d bring up happenings with the cats, but he was tempted to take matters one step further by calling Leroy’s boss or the postmaster general and giving them a piece of his mind, something Leroy usually discouraged. He nearly succeeded once in calling the postmaster general, and was poised and ready to give him a tirade as a disgruntled citizen–that is, until Leroy happened to walk in and snatch the phone out of his hand, almost in a panic. Slightly chastened but no less determined, Marshall obtained his satisfaction through writing letters to his representatives in Congress about discrimination in federal employment, feeling that he had at least done something. The urge to make another such phone call was strong in him, but he did his best to hold it in check. According to Leroy, Baby, I know your intentions are good, and I love you for that. However, your efforts on behalf of my advancement have a way of backfiring as often as they succeed.

He turned off the tape as he continued to cruise along Michigan Avenue, turning the dial to one of his favorite stations. The first thing he heard was the intro to Good Morning Heartache. As Diana Ross sang the lyrics, Marshall felt a fullness come over him, expressing itself in a lingering sigh that bordered on a moan. Leroy would have preferred hearing Lady Day herself sing this song, but for Marshall it had a direct connection to the movie Lady Sings the Blues, and Lady Sings the Blues contained those three magic words–Billy Dee Williams.

The night the movie premiered in Chicago in 1972, all his brothers and sisters (except Bernie) were there, some with their spouses, others with dates. He and Leroy were sitting next to Vickie and her date; when Billy Dee first appeared on the screen, Vickie and Marshall gasped simultaneously, spellbound by his smile. Swooning women swept the theater like dominoes. When he was strong enough to tear his eyes away from the screen he could see the effects on his family in the row they occupied. Though Marty had taken Suzette Chandler to the show, the expression on his face when he saw Billy Dee was priceless, though Marshall knew at the time that Marty wouldn’t have owned up to melting in his seat. Champ was mentally sizing up his muscle tone, while Josh spilled his popcorn in trying to snap Penny out of a hypnotic trance. Allison was vigorously fanning herself. Tanya just sat back with a not bad look on her face. And Vickie–as much in control of men as she professed to be at age eighteen, that was the first time he’d ever seen her drool, licking her lips with X-rated thoughts going through her head, her date forgotten for the time being. Even Leroy pulled him over to whisper in his ear, When you can stop panting like a wolf, go find the managers of this place and tell them to turn up the air conditioning in here.

The movie continued on to cheers, tears, indignation, starry eyes and pounding hearts. Though the family commended Diana Ross on her outstanding performance, Billy Dee Williams was the prime topic of discussion on the way back to the estate that evening, even spurring an argument between himself and Vickie after they arrived. He had purchased the last poster of Billy Dee in the theater lobby, and was guarding it with his life. Vickie also wanted the poster, and insisted that he give it to her after persuasion failed. When that didn’t work, she tried to take it away from him. Dad soon got involved, telling him to give it to her and adding, Besides, what use could you have for it? You’re….. Marshall cut him off with a dirty look and told him, Stay out of this. Turning back to Vickie, he said in a nasty voice, Look, if you want a poster of him that bad I’ll buy you one tomorrow, but you’re not getting your hands on this one. Better yet, why don’t you get one of your sugar daddies to buy it for you? Marty opened his mouth to make a caustic comment, but before he could do it Marshall gave a quick "Don’t even try it!" and stormed out of the estate with Leroy to their apartment.

That was some night, he thought as the memory faded with the song. Vickie didn’t speak to me for two weeks behind that after she slapped me, and I didn’t make one move to apologize for what I said either. Funny how Dad was the one who got us to make up, after he tried to meddle in it in the first place. She did get a poster of her own, and ours is still framed and hanging in the den. Billy Dee sure carried a following in our family. When they went to see that movie Dad got a little jealous himself when Mom decided to go back and see it again with Aunt Bessie Mae, Aunt Laura and her girlfriends.

Marshall drove through Lincoln Park, finally pulling into the parking lot at Belmont Harbor. The sailboats docked there sent anticipation through his mind about the cruise he and Leroy would be taking to the Bahamas later that summer. All the pictures Lissa and Michael had of the islands were like seeds planted into a fertile ground of vacation plans, and they were sufficient incentive to convince Marty and T.J. to go as well. His nephew Ray wanted to house-sit and look after the cats for them while they were gone–though he suspected that Ray’s boyfriend DeAnthony played a role in his motives, Marshall said he’d discuss the idea with Champ and Russell first.

Soon we’ll be sailing on a cruise ship, away from clients, mail, blueprints, and Chicago traffic, he said blissfully. Dad’s overdue for a vacation. It’s about time he and Mom went away somewhere, like Hawaii or Casablanca, maybe even an island in the South Pacific. I’m sure he can be persuaded, and who’s better qualified to do it than Mom and Champ? I’d be the last one to try that–we’d be too busy telling each other what to do. Maybe if I put the right bug in Mom’s ear, she can get to Dad about a vacation. That way they can get away from it all, and Vickie’ll get a break from his trying to fix her up with a husband.

He stretched his legs across the seat, taking in the people walking by and the lake just beyond. For a brief instant he thought he saw Bernie walking in the distance, but he dismissed the notion. Looking upward, he saw a few scattered clouds moving along like small islands in the sky, and he sat back thoughtfully. Yeah, Dad, you’re going to have quite a celebration…….more than you know…..

Things certainly got off to a rocky start with us, Dad. The morning I was born Grandpa Mitchell had to take Mom to the hospital instead of you because you and Mom had a fight, and you left for parts unknown–so they tell me. Of the eight of us, I was the only one whose birth you didn’t show up for. Grandpa Mitchell was there, though. Mom says he looked at me and declared, He’s going to be the smart one. It might have been guessing, but maybe he knew something no one else did at the time. You had no part in naming me, either–Mom did that herself. I picked up a lot of physical traits from her side of the family; that must be why she gave me her maiden name as a middle name. As for my first name, even though she was furious with you, she picked a name that had letters from her first name and yours in it. So there I was–Marshall Moore Christopher, a newborn son without, for the moment, a father at hand.

I’m sure you had a serious case of the guilts when you came home three weeks later. You might have been proud to have another son, but I can imagine Mom serving you crow pie, crow gizzards, crow sandwiches, crow meat loaf and crow casserole after Grandpa Mitchell finished dressing you down–you know how long Mom’s memory is. You were the head of the household, but you forgot that she was the power behind the throne.

Grandpa Mitchell proved to be right, but at the time you wanted to take credit for the smart genes in me. By the time I was a year old I was already walking and learning to talk; as a matter of fact, my first words were Hi, Daddy, according to Mom. As I got older, you also found it flattering to your ego when you’d see me copying your thing for neatness and organization. My toys were always the ones that were put away in their proper place, and my corner of the room was neat and clean.

When it came to academics, I was your superstar. You saw so much of yourself in me as I came up in the arena of scholastic achievement. You were proud of my brothers and sisters for the most part, but you bragged on me all the time. When I was skipped two grades in grammar school, you were all for it; I was the new whiz kid on the block. Maybe I was, but at the same time I couldn’t understand why you were so hard on Josh. He did the very best he could, but his schoolwork never pleased you. I always stuck up for him. Whenever you gave me a compliment about something good I did in school, I’d thank you and mention something positive about Josh. That was very easy for me to do, since I got the gift of total recall from Mom. You had to acknowledge what I’d told you, though I sensed you really didn’t want to–at least, not when we were kids.

You really thought you had another Little Mr. Fixit in the family when you brought me down to your job back in August of 1955. When you showed me around and saw how excited I was about it all, you were very pleased. All you had to do was tell me what something was and how it worked once and I’d remember it. I put together a simple circuit with some scraps you had lying around while I was there–that impressed not only you but your co-workers as well. They found it incredible that a four-year-old could learn principles of electricity and apply them that fast. However, when I started pointing out things to your boss that he overlooked, it created a problem. Your supervisors had enough problems without feeling intimidated by your expertise and your qualities for leadership. To have your four-year-old son show them up was more than some of them could handle.

I was a challenge to you and Mom when it came to keeping my mind stimulated, so you immediately got me a library card. By the time I was eight I could speed-read, and I’d gone through every book in the children’s section of our neighborhood library. You didn’t mind when I started reading some books in the adult section since I was kept occupied and out of trouble. The fix-it shop was another place to occupy my time. Only thing was, I never helped out there like Marty did. Eventually I’d find some spare materials around, go off to some remote corner and make a radio or a flashlight. Sometimes I’d walk off with a toaster, iron or some other appliance a customer had brought in and fix it without telling you. The first few times I did that messed with your mind, since you assumed that the customer just didn’t flip the right switch or something, and yet said customer had an entirely different story. When Marty solved the mystery by finding me working on a mixer you’d been looking for, you appreciated my initiative but chastised me for taking things without asking you.

I’m not really surprised at how I got my nickname. You called me Marshall–never Marsh, because in your ears that was too close to sounding like Marcia. When we went to the neighborhood grocery store after we moved to Chicago, Mom noticed that I always picked M&Ms when I wanted candy. It didn’t matter if they were plain or peanut, as long as they were M&Ms. I was particular about things even as a child. I wouldn’t accept substitutes for my M&Ms. The trademark had to be on the candy as well as the package. With my initials already being M.M., M&M caught on quickly with everyone.

You liked the fact that I was as perfectionistic as you were, Dad, with the brains to match. By the time I was nine I could do your tax returns, making sure all my numbers were even and didn’t go below the line. My penmanship was flawless. However, Champ, Tanya and my brothers didn’t like it when I’d look at their homework like I was their teacher and tell them about their handwriting. Champ even took my homework assignments and ripped them up one day–she said I got on her damned nerves about the way she wrote Ks and Rs. I’d seen you point out spots Mom