The Jaspers Issue

Samuel Beauregard Jaspers did not have time to die. His family’s venerable company Jaspers Reinsurance Company, Inc., was about to be sued by a radical political group for having the bad taste yet extreme good fortune, of building centuries of wealth from investing in the African slave trade. From the mounting press exposure, it was shaping up to be a heated battle whose spark had already ignited public outrage and acrimony on all sides of the issue. If by some great miracle he could manage to successfully quash that conflict, Jaspers’ next project was to appease his business partners by finally taking the company public. Surprisingly, these complicated business matters weighed heavier on his mind than the failing liver and ever weakening heart he was also waging war against. Being the smart man that he was Jaspers realized that his demise was inevitable. Death was certainly on his agenda; just not near the top.
It was seven am in the morning. Jaspers awakened in his office/bedroom/conference room to the tinkling of Francine’s silver charm bracelet as she prepared his first round of meds for the day. She had already opened the dark, heavy drapes that covered the curved bay windows across from the foot of his bed. He imagined the sounds of screeching tires and blaring car horns of morning traffic on the street fifty-one floors below his penthouse apartment. He wished he were an active part of that world again.
He was a pragmatist if nothing else.
“Fuck it,” he told the Handlers, his name for the cardiologists, liver specialists and internists hired to attend to his every medical need.
This was one battle he knew he couldn’t win. Always, when it was time to do the hard thing—put some woman’s tit in a ringer or grab some guy by the balls, he could do it without apologizing or feeling bad about it later.
He didn’t get to be one of the wealthiest men in the U.S. by looking into a rearview mirror holding a bleeding heart. He was a son-of-a-bitch and proud of it. He had lived that way and he was more than willing to die that way.
“And no heroics,” he told them.
The last thing he wanted was to end his life as the world’s most expensive vegetable.
Jaspers’ head turned towards Francine’s cup of coffee sitting on his bedside table. He took in a long, slow breath relishing the smell like a newly reformed nicotine addict strolling past a gauntlet of smokers. No more black coffee for him. No eggs Benedict at the café downstairs before signaling Marcellus to bring the car around. No more crisp Philadelphia Inquirer to read on the way to his office sixteen blocks away on Chestnut Street. No more underlings falling all over themselves trying to impress him with how smart or invaluable they were to his company.
No it was just Jaspers, Francine and round after round of pills and injections. At six o’clock Ellen, the night nurse would arrive. Francine would give her the day report then leave, but not before drawing the drapes leaving him once again, entombed in darkness. Alone except for the florescent lights beaming from the bank of medical monitors that stood around his bed like modern day centurions, ready to spring to life at the least sign of distress.
Francine pushed the button to raise the bed and Jaspers mentally prepared himself for his morning sponge bath.
“Make me look pretty today,” he told her. “Company’s coming.”
“Me do me best Mistah,” Francine answered in a thick Jamaican accent.
Jaspers loved the sound of Francine’s voice. It reminded him of the happiest times in his life; the sweetness of his youth and the vacations his family took to Jamaica. His greatest worry then was whether to snorkel or bake in the sun.
As the youngest of two children and his mother’s favorite, he relished the time they spent together. His favorite thing of all was going with her to visit the flower lady Helena. Even at the young age of nine, Jay, as his mother preferred instead of Junior, realized that their visit to Helena was about more than the beautiful flowers she offered for sale. The household staff at the family’s summer compound made sure there were fresh flowers in every room.
Jay didn’t care. He was just happy to spend time alone with her. He would take in the sounds and smells of the open market with its strange looking fruits and vegetables and colorfully dressed women talking back and forth in a way that sounded more like singing. When they were nearly there and Jay could recognize the final turn in what seemed like a maze, he would tear away from his mother’s hand and run the last few steps to the flower stand.
Helena was always happy to see him. She would scoop him up into her beefy, brown arms and plant a big kiss on his cheek. To Jaspers she smelled of Christmas spices and candy. Her embrace was warm and soft not at all like his mother’s. His immediate response to her kisses was to rub them away. He was too old for that sort of thing. Secretly however, he enjoyed the attention.
Another reason Jay liked going to see Helena was the chance to have fun with her daughter Marlen. She was several years younger, but just as spunky. She would meet every challenge he proposed, even holding small snakes and bugs. The best thing he liked about her is that she never cried, even when he could see she was hurt, like the time they tried jumping from stump to stump down at the docks near the market.
“I bet you can’t do this,” Jay shouted as he hopped on one leg, jumped onto the nearest stump, then leapt onto the next. Marlen was never one to shy away from a challenge, especially one launched by Jay.
“That’s nothing,” she shouted. “Watch this!” With that she jumped wildly from the pier onto the nearest piling beneath her. Almost immediately she lost her footing and plunged into the shallow water. A jagged gray rock literally broke her fall and she instinctively grabbed her left leg that was stinging from the contact. Jay hopped down from his stump and carefully made his way to her. He saw the hanging skin that had torn away from her leg, and the white spot that remained.
Although she didn’t cry, Jay knew Marlen was in pain. “I’m sorry,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t look down at her injury and panic.
“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s my fault. Can you help me home?” She raised her small, brown arm. Jay bent over, hooked her arm around his neck and with his other arm around her waist, raised her slowly from the water. They walked the entire way back in silence; him blaming himself for what happened, her trying to be brave. Once she was safely home and Jay and his mother had departed, Marlen wailed uncontrollably in her mother’s arms.
The ringing telephone interrupted Jaspers’ trip down memory lane.
“Jaspers residence,” Francine said, still holding the damp wash cloth she used to clean Jaspers’ face.
He watched Francine’s face as she listened intently to the caller.
“Who is it,” he demanded?
“Sir,” she answered, covering the telephone, “it’s Mr. Kincaid from the office. He say he be here wid de others soon.”
“Good,” said Jaspers. “Tell him to hurry along. Time is short.”
Francine nodded her head, relayed the message to Kincaid and returned to Jaspers’ sponge bath. By the time the group--- Kincaid, Jaspers’ Executive VP, Shalkroft, his attorney, Shalkroft’s assistant Murphy and Charlene, Jaspers’ personal secretary had arrived, Jaspers was clean and as clear-headed as his many medications would allow and ready to do battle.