Mr. Mac lived in one of our subsidized apartments on a small income. His apartment was sparsely furnished, as expected of an old man whose social security check reflected a lifetime of low wages. But he was clean, quiet, and his rent was always on time.
One day I got a call from a friend who was an intake worker at the hospital. Apparently Mr. Mac was hospitalized, told her I was his next-of-kin, and asked her to call me. Ann was amused. She knew this old black man wasn’t related to me. But he insisted we were, so she called, and I went.
He told me the local reverend and his son had paid him a call while he was sick, and while the rev was comforting Mr. Mac in the living room, his son was rifling through his things in the bedroom. He told me he thought they had stolen his coffee can of cash from the closet, and he wanted me to check it out.
Knowing Mr. Mac’s income, and since I was still young and dumb about life, I thought he was delusional because he was sick. But I dutifully went to his apartment, checked his closet, and reported back to him that there was no can of money there. Now he was upset as well as sick, but I chalked it up to his illness and age.
As it turned out, this was Mr. Mac’s final journey, and in fact, he did have real kin. I met his sister when she came up after he died, and she verified that Mr. Mac did indeed have a can of money. Not much, just coins as he could put them aside.
I trust God will take care of the good reverend.