When I was a child, I often asked my parents that timeless question: Where did I come from? Until I was old enough to learn the truth, my parents had all sorts of amusing answers that were so outlandishly silly that, even as a small boy, I found them hard to believe. Some of my favorites included:
The neighbors were moving, and they didn't have room for all their children, so we decided to keep you.
We bought you at a lovely department store on the Crystal Boulevard that sells only the finest children.
The maid was cleaning and found you under a sofa cushion.
Of course, my father eventually told me the real story, which I had already heard a zillion times from the guys at school by that point. You see, son, when a man loves a woman. . . I groaned and rolled my eyes, and he knew that I already knew, but I imagine my mother insisted that he fulfill his paternal obligation to explain the dynamics of human sexuality. I don't recall which of us was more uncomfortable, yet somehow our rare, awkward father-son moments seemed to have the desired effect. I may not have learned much in the way of mechanics from my father, but he did manage to impress upon me a certain sense of decorum and a reasonable respect for the opposite sex that always made me feel like an outsider during the regular recounting of conquests in the school locker room.
The question continues to haunt me. Reborn of a man I know nothing about, I suppose I shall never free myself of some lingering curiosity about where I come from. Religious mysticism aside, however, I find that I know remarkably little about my own family. Money seems to have a way of separating us from the things that are truly important, even loosening the bonds of blood.
Maxwell Xavier Ellis (1.17.53), Amanda Michelle Ellis (8.23.56)
My father never earned a dime in his life. The family owes its wealth to his grandfather, and I suppose I owe my very existence to money and tragedy. Dad met my mother at dinner; she waited on his table. She tells me, with some fair deal of embarrassment, that she was first attracted to his flambuoyant spending to impress his friends.
Enjoying a drunken night of revelry to celebrate some event that neither of my parents could recollect, Dad brazenly announced that he could have any woman he wanted; his friends insisted that he couldn't score a date with their waitress. Mother says she had always politely declined when other restaurant patrons had inquired about a date with her, but having been a ward of the state as a child, she was diligently working to move up the socioeconomic ladder, and the smell of money was as intoxicating to her as the champagne was to my father.
Several weeks after Dad had sobered up, he stumbled across her number and called her just to find out who she was. Mom says Dad apologized profusely for his behavior and offered to treat her to a splendid evening, clearly attempting to purchase her forgiveness. She says that he seemed so sincere that she felt guilty for her own motives, accepting his offer on the condition that he not spend a cent on her. They agreed on a picnic by a lake at a park near her home where she occasionally went to feed the birds.
My parents' first son, James, came shortly after they were married. Seven years later, James fell down a flight of stairs and perished. I only know of him from the stories I hear. Mother insisted on having another child to cope with her grief, and that's where I come from.
Some of the servants who have been employed at the family estate since before even my father was born tell me that Mom and Dad have never been quite the same. Unfortunately, I never quite filled that hole in their hearts that James left. My brother was the child of their love, and I'm the child of their grief. My father most often seems to consider me a burden, and though I know he'd do anything for me, I cannot deny his disappointment with me. Mother seems lost in the fantasy that I'm in need of constant protection, a perpetual youngster in danger of falling and breaking her poor heart beyond repair.
I wish that I could give them another day at the park, but they've outgrown that life. All that's left is money and family, and the dutiful, often joyless stewardship of both.
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