Chapter 62—Rob
“What gave you the idea for Cultivate?” a woman with hair like a helmet asks.
“When I was stationed in Libya, our unit was hit with an IED. I was thrown to the road, and debris landed on my chest. It broke my back.”
The room falls surprisingly quiet.
“Through equal parts luck, hard work, and dedication by a group of military surgeons, my break was stabilized and then it healed. My broken spine has refused and I’m fine today. I can do anything.”
“Could you play quarterback in the NFL?” a man with a hugely wide mouth asks.
“Anything I could do before, which sadly means that I’m as bad at football as I always was.”
People in the room snicker.
“But I do have complete range of motion. It’s miraculous to me, even now. But some of my friends weren’t as lucky as me.” I put my hand on Clive’s shoulder. “Many former warriors in our nation’s military are now fighting battles of their own every day at home. The wounds they received in combat continue to plague them.”
“What about your girlfriend?” a man with long thin fingers, and a bright white smile asks.
I bob my head. “My girlfriend was in an automobile accident. She’s also a wheelchair user today. And you know, there are hosts of other people who deal with similar difficulties. I have neighbors, friends and family who use wheelchairs and have prosthetic limbs, and I’m not the exception. I’m the rule. People who use wheelchairs are all around us. Many people have suffered injuries in combat, or are dealing with medical conditions. Differently abled people face a barrage of problems most of us never even notice. Many, many places still aren’t accessible. My buddy Clive teaches,” I pause. “Or, I suppose I should say, before he accepted my offer to be the new President of Cultivate, he taught physical education. It’s not typically a job performed by a person who uses a wheelchair. Not because a wheelchair user can’t do it, but because it’s not something people typically make accommodations for, which is a shame.”
“When we completed our rehab,” Clive says, cameras snapping as he speaks for the first time, “we were told to look for jobs we could complete at home. Even for those of us able to live independently, we’re directed that it’s just simpler. I was strongly encouraged to go into customer service or computer programming. Everyone wanted me to do something I could do while sitting in a wheelchair in my family room.”
“One of my goals with Cultivate,” I say, “is to help people to see, all people, the tremendous value that disabled people can bring to the world around them, if we’re able to approach things from a new perspective. And not because they are wheelchair users, not at all. Not because they’ve risen above their great difficulty, but because of the people they were before, and now and the people they always would have been. They’re people exactly like you and me, with the exception of needing a few accommodations. Although, instead of seeing the changes we need to make as accommodations, I wish we could think of them as opportunities to improve. I know no one likes change.”
“Believe me,” Clive says. “I don’t like it either. But I didn’t have a choice.”
“In a moment,” I say, “I’ll have the honor to announce the amount of donations we were able to raise through the sale of some furniture I made in my shop at home. Each piece is different, unique, and one of a kind. And all the people Cultivate strives to care for, to benefit, and to enrich, are different and unique too. They aren’t like everyone you see in your normal routine, but they’re just as beautiful as each piece of furniture.” I turn to face Tate. “Isn’t this where you wanted to play that reel of the images of what we put up for auction?”
Tate nods. “And I thought I’d surprise everyone with a little announcement of my own. Thanks in large part to the tremendous response from donors tonight, the gallery is planning to donate its entire commission as well. Therefore, one hundred percent of the income from the sale of these beautiful items will go to fund Cultivate, a charity the Callanwolde stands behind one hundred percent.”
I’m floored. He’s donating their twenty percent cut? I don’t know how to react.
Tate starts the video, and flashes of furniture I made over the past years in the quiet of my own shop appear, one by one. A coffee table with glass blown in between the joined parts of a split tree. A nightstand with the word Sleep burned into the top, then covered in iridescent glaze. A dining table formed from a single cross cut slab. A breakfast table with stump slab seats. A bookcase with carved scrollwork running up the sides, featuring butterflies and flowers I treated with a chemical stain, making them iridescent. A delicate china hutch. A set of end tables. A lamp stand. A rocking chair. On and on, the images flash. More coffee tables. An entry table, and my favorite piece of the night. A breakfast table made of the same inosculated ash I used for Trig and Geo’s wedding gift, and delicate, individual chairs made of ash as well. The finish is rubbed, and the legs took me days and days to carve, those of the table matching the chairs.
“While the slide was playing,” Tate announces, “the network informed me that we’ve had viewers, hundreds of viewers in fact, who have called asking to donate as well. We wanted to let you know, the website recently set up for Cultivate is available at the web address flashing in the strip at the bottom of the screen. If you’d like to donate, they welcome that. Every donation helps. And now, I’ve got an envelope here for Rob. We wanted him to read the amount he was able to raise, as well as the single largest donation out loud for all of you today. Live, so we can experience his success right here with him.”
I take the envelope with steady hands. I’m surprised about how utterly calm I feel. I’m conscious that this is all happening in front of thousands of people, but I can’t see anyone other than the representatives from the press and a handful of cameramen, so it feels pretty surreal. “Well,” I say. “When I had this idea, I wasn’t sure if anyone would turn out other than my mom, so I’m pleased, no matter what this number is.”
“Tell them your pie-in-the-sky goal,” Clive says.
“Good idea,” Tate says.
“Well,” I say, “Clive and I went over his expenses. He’s going to work for the same salary he was being paid as a teacher, forty-thousand dollars a year, and since he’s got VA coverage, we don’t even have to pay for his health insurance.” I wink. “Which is really why I gave him the job. He’s cheaper than anyone else would be.”
Clive rolls his eyes.
“By my calculations, if I could manage to raise a hundred and fifty-thousand, we’d have enough to run for a year and a half, especially if people like me are willing to donate their time to help effectuate the modifications to the individual applicant’s homes.”
“I’m not sure whether anyone mentioned this yet,” Clive says, “though I know it was on the invitations. I thought maybe we should explain on air that Rob here spent weeks and weeks of weekends at my house, and donated all the supplies to redo my cabinets at a level I could easily reach. He’s done it for several other friends from our injured veteran trauma support group as well.”
I swallow. “But the material point is that, in addition to people donating any money they are willing to donate, we will be looking for people willing to volunteer time or skills. The more donations of any type we receive, the further these donations of cash will go.”
“Exactly,” Clive says.
I pull the paper out of the envelope and start to read. “It says that we raised one hundred and four—” I cut off. There must be a typo. I turn toward Tate and drop my voice. “This can’t be right. Is there a typo?”
Tate shakes his head and jerks his head toward the cameras.
“Uh, okay, well, it says we raised one hundred and four million, three hundred and forty-three thousand and fifty dollars.”
Clive’s mouth opens and his eyes widen like teacups.
I whisper at Clive again. “Are you sure it’s not one hundred and four thousand? It’s less than my pie in the sky dream, but it’s still tremendous. More than I had any reason to hope.”
Tate points at the paper. “Keep reading, hot shot.”
I look back down at the paper, my hands shaking so badly I can hardly read the figures. “It says the single largest donation was for the breakfast table and chairs made of inosculated Ash. The donation was made by Brekka Thornton, who paid one hundred million dollars on behalf of the Aldertree Thornton Family Trust.”
I drop the paper.
Brekka.
“Even without your girlfriend’s tremendous support,” the woman with the helmet hair says, “you still raised four million and three hundred and forty-three thousand. How does that feel?”
“Three hundred and forty-three thousand and fifty,” Clive says. “Every dollar counts.”
I have no idea what to say.
One of Tate’s employees hands Clive a laptop.
Clive makes a strangled sound. “I was logged in to the system so that they could provide the information for donations on the air,” he says. “And look!”
He spins the laptop around toward me.
Our fund shows that we’ve already had almost half a million in funds donated from individuals through the website.
“I’m utterly speechless,” I say into the camera. “It’s one thing for the very wealthy to support a cause and take a write off. But to know that all of you viewers believe as strongly in this cause as I do? To see you all supporting us tonight, well, it’s overwhelming to say the least.”
A whimpering sound to my side draws my attention and I notice that my friend who’s a former football player, who normally sports a classically good looking profile, has turned to look at the ground. Because his face has scrunched up in an ugly way.
Clive is crying. On national television.
“Well, it’s time for us to conclude this interview,” Tate says. “Because I have word that Mr. Graham has a special phone call. From the oval office. Apparently the President is planning to redecorate, and she would love to commission her new desk and filing cabinet from a veteran. Her favorite cousin is also a wheelchair user, you know.”
I can’t hold back my tears either. I have no idea how long Clive and I are crying on a live feed before they finally cut off, but the donations roll in even faster after that.