Chapter 21: Moving On

After five years at UGA, they lost Uncle Pete when his heart failed. He’d lived to see the Covey obtain five bachelors - two with double majors - two MBAs, one EdD, and three MA’s. Only Melba hadn’t reached her final goal. While they waited, the others continued filling up their knowledge banks; taking internships, and consulting opportunities. Susan, in particular, disenchanted with teaching as a career, was now picking up classes and assignments in law enforcement.

Bob and Priscilla had decided that joining the Confederacy would require an uptick in multicultural dealings, if not management. They were in Phoenix finishing fall semester finals at Arizona State University’s world-class Thunderbird School of Global management. Roycealee called to tell them Uncle Pete was probably dying and wanted to see them all.

There would be a charter plane waiting at the general aviation terminal and to bring home their essentials and they should abandon the rest. In a little over three hours, their ASU dean was notified, their apartment key turned over to management, and the Salvation Army notified of a sizeable donation that could be pickup by contacting the apartment complex manager.

The luxury of the small executive jet went largely unappreciated as they worried across most of the southern half of the United States. Upon arrival, they found the remainder of the Covey waiting at the small airport near home, and two sheriff’s cars to escort them the county hospital.

As they sped down the dark highway, Roycealee briefed them, “He woke up this morning with nausea and shooting pains in his left arm and shoulder. He managed to call an ambulance, and because I have his healthcare power of attorney, I was notified by the hospital before he arrived. He’s stable now and not in pain, but it was a massive event. He needs a new heart to survive, and that’s not likely at his age...”

At the hospital, the administration’s reluctance to allow them to join the many already in his room was overruled by his physician who simply stated, “Uncle Pete is dying. Every one of these folk has his power-of-attorney. He wants to see them. Let the man have his final visit. If y’all don’t, he’ll probably demand to go home, and I will release him.”

When they quietly entered has room, Uncle Pete woke and smiled. Accompanied by the sounds of various monitors and assorted support equipment he looked around to include them all and spoke in a soft voice, “Good. I so wanted to see y’all a last time before I go. Y’all know I love you all; and I know y’all love me, so listen up - this is important.”

He rested a moment and told them, “You know that I’m an orphan, so I have no blood relations. You are my family, and I’m counting on you. Everything I own is in a trust and y’all are the new trustees and beneficiaries. I want you to use the money - income and principal if needed - to help orphans and youngsters left behind by Confederacy extractions. Education, food, clothes, housing, whatever. Who and how is totally up to your discretion. I doubt you’ll personally need my money, but that includes you. The trust documents will give the details.”

“Now, listen here!” he commanded. “I know y’all are Hell bent to get Bettie lifted off Earth. BUT don’t you get caught here on earth when those Swarm things get here. This isn’t a zero sum game. If y’all get off and the Rules don’t, they’ll count themselves winners, just like I will.” He drifted off to sleep.

Throughout the night, Bob sat in the bilious green recliner in Uncle Pete’s room. His ladies took turns snuggled in his lap while the others sat or slept in the waiting room. Cassandra Anne, normally an energetic sprite, sensed the seriousness of the occasion, spent two hours reading with one or another of her mothers before falling asleep curled up on a sofa.

In the morning, Bob woke when Eva Mae nudged him and pointed to Susan holding two cups of coffee. He lifted Eva Mae so he could stand, stretched, and used the room’s restroom. He returned and gratefully took the proffered coffee and sipped.

He almost dropped his cup when a surprisingly strong voice demanded, “What does a dying man have to do to get his last cup of coffee?”

His physician, entering the room, heard him and leaned into the hall and called, “Bring the cranky old fart a cup of coffee. Cream and two sugars.” Followed by Uncle Pete’s, “And two shots of Booker.”

Uncle Pete looked at his physician and told him, “Get my kids back in here. They need to hear this.”

The Covey, along with Cassandra Anne gathered, and Uncle Pete pointed to the doctor and then Melba. “Hubert, you’ve been my trusted friend as long as I can remember, and Melba ya’ll have my POAs because I love and trust you. I think I’m goin’ this morning. When I flatline, let me go. Y’all hear me. Let me go.”

Then he turned to the crowded room and said, “You’ve meant a lot to me. I’ve had tears and laughter, lots of rewards, plenty of hugs and kisses, but I’m a dirty old man at heart. I’ve held back from temptation, and now I’m going to give in. I want y’all to line up and give me my last hug and kiss, and when you do, I’m going to pat and maybe rub each of y’all’s pretty butts. Bob, a handshake and hug will do just fine!”

The women lined up, even Cassandra Anne, and each got a hug, a kiss, and a pat or rub.

Eva Mae hung back to be the last. When her turn came, she climbed onto the bed and stretched out. She laid on a gentle kiss, then whispered, “You principled old fart. All y’all had to do was give me the smallest sign and I’d have crawled into your bed and given up a heck of a lot more than a kiss and a rub. I love you. We all do. We all would have.”

Uncle Pete managed to finish his coffee before drifting off to sleep. Shortly, the cacophony from the various monitors let his family know that he was gone.

The weather on Saturday was cold, drizzly, and just plain miserable. The only place large enough to hold Uncle Pete’s memorial service was the high school auditorium. Well, the gym would have held a very uncomfortable crowd, but many a rule was broken and the gym became the site for his wake.

Very few from the town and surrounding county failed to attend his service. The school parking lot was full, and the line of parked cars stretched down the road for almost a mile. Friends and colleagues visited, told stories, and more than one bottle of Booker’s was slipped into Uncle Pete’s coffin. At his wake, even most teetotalers took a sip of his favorite beverage and toasted his memory.

The Covey, no longer owning local property, spent a week in Uncle Pete’s house, preparing it to be emptied and listed for sale. They learned that they now controlled a foundation with assets in excess of thirty million dollars, and they had a long list of families and children that the foundation was assisting. And they learned that the name of the foundation was The Covey. Why hadn’t they known before?

Much like old times, they twice had Sunday lunch with the Rules and Stacie. Then, the Covey drove back to Athens.

Melba was weeks away from her mortarboard walk down the aisle for her JD, but she had already started preparing for her Bar Examination, a complicated but essential process if she was to practice law. The Covey was searching for jobs where they could remain together.

Strictly speaking, jobs weren’t needed, at least not for income. Priscilla and Susan had proved exceptionally skilled, almost prescient, when investing the family’s pooled resources gained from inheritances and insurance payouts, and also when investing for their foundation. They wanted to remain together, and they wanted to use their education.

Then, Roycealee noted an article describing an extraction in the northern Midwest. Almost all of the faculty and administration for the school district had been extracted. She immediately sent a letter asking if there were any interest in her background, and noting that she could bring at least five teacher candidates. She put together a package with her curriculum vitae and an unofficial transcript. Also in the package were the CVs for Eva Mae and four newly graduating and certified teachers that had lived with them in their Honors dorm. These youngsters wanted to remain associated with the Covey.

Less than a week passed, and the phone sounded. “Doctor Bashar? Are you really interested in a position up here in the rural Midwest? How soon could you come up to interview? You’d have to fly, but the nearest airport is a hundred and fifty miles away. Too far to drive from Georgia, I suppose...”

“Yes, this is Roycealee Bashar,” she responded. “Yes, I’m interested. We have rural school districts in Georgia, you know. I could bring us all up to interview in a week if y’all tell me y’all can schedule us all. And yes, we’d fly.”

Then she added, “I apologize, but I don’t think I caught your name and what position would I be interviewing for?

“Terribly sorry,” the voice responded,” my name is Agnetha Svensdotter, and I was drafted to be acting superintendent when pretty much all the administration and faculty were extracted. We recently filled the high school principal opening. Would you rather be considered for superintendent or elementary school principal? Say ‘superintendent’, please.”

Really!

“Okay, let’s say superintendent.” Roycealee continued, “What else do you need? You saw the CVs that I sent. I might could bring some more full-time teacher candidates, and most of my family could substitute in subject-specific high school classes.”

“We need just about everything.” Agnetha told her. There are very few people interested in teaching ‘in a deserted wasteland in the frozen Midwest’. That’s a quote.”

“I don’t want to discourage you but it’s a real mess. Everyone was at a retreat to update our curriculum to prepare our students for extraction and life in the Confederacy. I was popping out a baby, and Oscar had a very sick wife, so we weren’t there. He’s principal of the junior high, and I’m really the elementary principal. We’re the only administration left except for the new guy. From the faculty, we still have a few who had similar issues to me and Oscar.”

She ran down, and Roycealee commented, “So it sounds like you don’t have much in the way of Earth First sympathizers around you.”

“I should think not!” came the prompt reply. “We’re rural, not stupid. We only have five years to prepare or get out, and that’s if we’re lucky.”

Telling herself that she needed to get control of the situation, Roycealee told her, “Tell you what. If you can get your interview team together, I’ll bring you some candidates - those whose resumes you already have and any others I can find interested - what say we’ll be ready to interview next Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I’ll send ahead any CVs you don’t already have.”

“Nine o’clock Wednesday morning next week sounds good to me,” Agnetha told her. “Actually, that’s not soon enough, but I can deal!”

Roycealee mustered her troops and handed out assignments, “We can meet on this later, but I think that helping this school system falls within the charter of helping those left behind by Confederacy extractions.”

Bob set out to identify the closest airport and an air charter company willing to and capable of transporting fifteen or more passengers from Athens or Atlanta.

Priscilla located a provider with three minivans for rent and negotiated a deal that allowed at least one of the drivers could be less than twenty-five years old.

Eva Mae found a Holiday Inn Express thirty-five miles north of the school on a major highway. The drive down to the school would be on country roads. She reserved ten rooms, half with king beds and five with two queens.

Roycealee called UGA’s placement office and requested the resumes of any new education graduates who were still looking for jobs. Their names would be handed over to Eva Mae and Susan to vet before she interviewed any she didn’t already know. She called the placement offices of every education school within approximately a two-hour drive to Athens or Atlanta.