Treasure Between the Pages

“How long does he have left?”

“It could be any day now. My condolences, Mr. Balewa. We would have reached out to you sooner, but your father...”

“I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”

The doctor stepped aside and opened the door. Arthur walked into the room to a dying stranger on a hospital bed—a stranger he was supposed to know. There was nothing left of the man in the bed but a bunch of bones wrapped loosely in flaxen leather and a steely bust of a crestfallen king. It was an uncanny depiction of the accomplished entrepreneur Arthur assumed his father to be. Arthur approached the bed and said nothing. What was there to say to the man who abandoned his own son because of the color of his skin? The hateful words and questions yearning to be answered were brushed away from Arthur’s heart so many years ago like dust. And like dust, none of it mattered, not anymore. Nonetheless, he allowed his curiosity to carry him into the room, leaving behind his voice and his heart, bringing only his ears.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” Arthur’s father said in his husky, life-drained voice. “What I meant was, I’m glad you did. There was a time when I would have dreaded being in the same room with you.” He let out a subtle, pathetic cough. “Now, there’s nobody else in the world I’d rather see in my last days. I know what you’re probably thinking—”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You don’t know anything about me,” Arthur intruded. There were no emotions attached to his words.

His father absorbed the punch he knew he deserved, sighing through his nose and closing his eyes. “I don’t have enough air left in my lungs to tell you everything I want to say, nor do I have the courage. I read your book, by the way, about the struggles you went through growing up in a country full of people like me. The struggles I left you with to fight alone. I read the part you wrote about me over and over, at least a hundred times.”

“Yes, well, that was the shortest part of the book,” said Arthur.

“I lost everything because of that book, you know. My business, my home, my reputation—everything. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.” The old man’s arm trembled as it reached for the little black book sitting on his lap. “I wrote a book of my own. Well, it’s a journal. What’s inside is all I have left. Now that I’m dying—” He stopped himself when he saw his son start to nod and look away. “Yes, I waited to give you this until now. They say a man’s dying wish is the one most likely to come true.”

“You manipulated me.”

“No. I chose this as my punishment. I chose to carry this regret. Now, here I am, realizing the very thing I sacrificed was what should have mattered to me most in the end.”

“In the end…”

“If only I read your book sooner, maybe I would have—” The old man fell into a violent coughing fit, then spoke softly when it settled. “The book marks where my inheritance lies. I listed the pages I want you to read. They are the only pages that matter. Read them. That is my dying wish.”

Arthur hesitated when his father reached out to hand him the book. It wasn’t just curiosity that drove him to take it. Not this time. It was something more, something deep in the recesses of his soul that yearned for the closure he forsook so many years ago. It all withered to dust, after all—the hatred, the sadness, the sense of abandonment—none of it mattered. There was no more harm his father could do.

The father passed not even two hours after the son left the hospital. Sleep did not welcome Arthur Balewa that night, only empty thoughts. He could not mourn the loss of a stranger. He could not celebrate the death of the bigot who bastardized him as an infant. Arthur couldn’t feel anything for the man, his own father, leaving a bottomless hole in his heart with nothing to fill it with. Just as the morning dew settled and the sun peaked its crown above the horizon, the writer drove to the harbor, to the spot at the foot of the stony breakwater where it was his custom to sit on a bench and open his thoughts when stricken with a mental block. He took a moment to absorb the sounds around him: The trickling of tiny cascades between rocks, the dawn chorus of the waking gulls, the distant bangs of metal striking metal, and the bellow of cargo ship's horns. When his mind was pacified, Arthur pulled his father’s book from his pocket. The black leather cover was worn at the bottom corners from a callused left hand, and the spine was well broken in, with an inch of thin blue fabric sticking out of its base, frayed at the end where it was torn. A little piece of white paper with page numbers scribbled on it was set at the first page listed. Arthur took a deep breath and began reading.

The first three pages told him a story about a Navy soldier stationed in South Africa who fell in forbidden love with a dark-skinned woman. The next page listed was a farewell and a promise made. The sailor pledged to give his lover a new beginning and a wedding ring. Only half of the promise was kept—the sailor paid his lover’s way to America. The other half was broken by another promise made. The sailor’s father, Arthur’s grandfather, offered his son the family business under the condition that their bloodline remain “pure.” Arthur’s resentment was rebirthed as his father’s sins were revisited. The story continued with a woman, now a mother, turned away from promised wedlock in a land just as prejudiced as the whitewashed country she fled. When the sailor discovered he was to have a dark-skinned son, he presented to her a sum of money to raise the child—discreetly. The world-weary mother rejected the money just as she was rejected by the sailor and his family. A tear escaped Arthur’s eye when he read his mother’s reason for giving him his name, a reason she never mentioned to him before. She believed that a white name would give Arthur a fighting chance in a country full of so much hate for his color.

The remaining pages were written about nothing but an old man’s regret, sadness, and self-hatred—words he wrote to himself. He wrote about how much he loved Arthur’s mother and how intensely he mourned her passing. How much he wished he were a different person. How much he wanted to love his black son but was too cowardly to do so. Arthur now understood why his father waited so long to make his peace. The man was willing to give anything for his son’s forgiveness, even his own life. He waited, and used his own death for the sake of sincerity. Arthur turned to the very last page listed on the bookmark. It was not a journal entry, but an epilogue meant for the eyes of his only son. It read:

For so many years, I believed there was nothing I could do to make up for what I’ve done to you and your mother. I was wrong. After I read your book, I realized there was so much I could have done. You see, my father’s hatred derived from ignorance, as did my cowardice. Your grandfather and I are just talons on a bigger beast, but because of you and the message in your book, I now believe that beast can be tamed. I cannot justify my actions. I can only tell you that people like you have the power to change people like me. There are so many like me. Forgive them because they are ignorant. Enlighten them and guide them because there is hope. I promise you, there is hope. For what it’s worth, I am proud of you, Arthur. I held on to the money I meant to give your mother. I only wish I could have given you more. Keep fighting, son.

Arthur closed the book and reflected on what he had read. The long-deserted hole in his heart began to finally fill with his father’s final act of contrition. Even though the book left no indication of where his father left the money, Arthur was content. For the first time in his entire life, he had the peace of mind he never imagined he needed. He glanced down at the book on his lap. The bookmark with the list of page numbers written on it stuck out from the top. Arthur recited his father’s last words to himself. "The book marks where my inheritance lies. The bookmark’s where my inheritance lies. The bookmark!”

Arthur pulled the slim piece of paper out from the book and inspected it. He then squeezed the sides and it opened at the top. It was a sleeve, and inside it, a check written out for $20,000 to Arthur P. Balewa. It was the hush money his father intended to give his mother so many years ago. On the memo line was written: Give this a better purpose.