Sing Roses for Me

1

Max Allen

My name is Max Allen. Yes, The Max Allen–the guy in the news, the guy you think you know all about, but you are wrong, you don’t know it all–not the whole story …

This began, September 1, 1983. It was the worst day of my life, a memory so haunting, so horrible it’s hard to believe it really happened, but it did. Even now, 20 plus years later, the pain comes rushing back and still makes me cry every time I think

about

it

.

It was an unusual day for Houston, especially for that time of year–a glorious morning, cool, around 70 degrees with very little humidity and not a cloud in the sky. I’d actually stopped in Memorial Park on my drive to work that morning to finish my coffee, eat my doughnut and admire the splendor of the day. As I sat there listening to music, watching the ducks swim in the pond, I had a feeling of euphoria running

through

me

.

The planets had aligned, my life for the first time in a long time had some form of direction, but most importantly, I was finally, after thirty years, bonding with my older brother. For the first time in our adult lives, Dean was treating me with respect. We were actually working together, had become friends, and had somehow overcome our silly childhood sibling rivalries.

Dean had become a very successful real estate developer and had built several high-rise office buildings around the Houston area, as well as several apartment buildings and condo complexes. He was rolling in cash and finally had convinced me to give up my life long dreams of being a country music star and go to work for him. He would tell me, Give me ten years little brother and we’ll buy Nashville. Although I’d had some good luck and minor success in the music business, I certainly wasn’t a star. I was 32 years old and had finally come to the crossroads–I had to choose between possibly never making it in show business, facing a future barely scratching out a living doing what I loved, or give it all up, go in with my brother and make some serious cash. Reluctantly, I cut my hair, put down my guitar and moved from Nashville, Tennessee back home to Houston, Texas.

When I finished my coffee in the park, I cranked up my truck and headed to North Point Central–my office and our newest office tower under development. The traffic was horrible, as usual, backed up for miles, so it was almost 9:30 a.m. before I walked into my office. Taped to my phone was a message–Call Dean. He wants you to fly to Louisiana with him this morning. I tried to call him but he was on the phone, so I left a message with Peggy, his personal assistant, for him to call

me

back

.

Things had picked up around the office and I’d honestly forgotten about Dean until the phone rang on my desk. It was almost

1

p.m

.

How fast can you get to Andrough Airport? Dean asked.

"I don’t know. The traffic was hell this morning, maybe an hour or so I

guess

.

Why

?"

"I’ve got to go to Lafayette to take this dumb ass coon ass cash money to close the deal on a new quarter horse. Hey! What do you think about that? A dumb ass coon ass! Sounds like a country song to me. Write that down little brother it might be

a

hit

."

"You know... it’s a damn good thing you’ve got a shit load of money, because if you’re considering a career change to show business you’re gonna need it, other wise you’d starve your

ass

off

."

"Little brother you always were jealous of my singing voice. Seriously, can you make it to Andrough by two? I’ve got to take off by then to make it back

in

time

."

Are we flying in the new one, the Merlin? I asked.

Nah, the damn nose gear is still out on the Merlin, my pilot’s coming to get me in a Beach Baron. I hate those damn planes, but he says this is a good one. He flies it all the time. It’s got six seats, so why don’t you leave now and head that way? If you make it, we’ll take a cab downtown and get some crawfish ettoufee’ or some gumbo while we’re there.

I’ll do my best to get there by 2, but it’s going to be close.

Ah, one more thing little brother.

"

What’s

that

?"

"I know your heart ain’t in this construction business, but stick with me on this for a while. As soon as we’ve got your pockets lined with a little gold, we just might ship your ass back to Nashville and see what you can do. Hell, we might even start our own record company one of these days. I figure you got a hit or two

in

you

."

I was so taken aback I didn’t know how to respond. That was the first time he’d ever said anything positive about my music. He’d always been my worst critic, but now out of nowhere he was talking like this? "Be careful what you’re suggesting, big brother, I just may hold you to it

one

day

."

I think it’s something we need to talk about. Dean said. "Look, get your ass to the airport and we’ll talk about it on the plane. See you there.

Hurry

up

."

I rushed out of the office and started working my way to southwest Houston through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I looked at my watch, it was 1:45 and I wasn’t even close, so I took the next exit and tried to call his car phone. There was no answer. Back on the freeway, it was obvious that I’d never make it in time, so I gave up, took the next exit and began driving down the side streets to Dean’s office complex near Gessner and Westheimer. His office suite took up an entire floor of a beautiful, three-story, mostly glass building he’d built a few years earlier. I had a small office there, so I figured I’d finish out the day there rather than fighting the traffic back to North Point Central.

At 2:15, I heard a special announcement over my truck radio. A local businessman and his pilot had been killed in a crash at Andrough Airport. The reporter said the crash happened as they were taking off at 2:05 P.M. Both were killed instantly. A wave of fear came over my entire body as I wondered if it could be Dean. I began pondering all the horrible consequences of his death. How could I tell Mom and Dad? What would happen to his company? His kids? How could I go on without him–without his wisdom and guidance? His love? If this was true and it was his plane, suddenly I’d be working for Camille, his wife. Oh, God! What a horrible thought.

Camille was Dean’s second wife, not the mother of his children. Their relationship was a real life cliché, the same old story–married boss, hot secretary... you know the rest. Camille was an absolute knock out. She had a beautiful face, a tiny waist, huge tits, but definitely was not a dumb, blonde. She was smart, real smart, but a conniving kind of smart that was obvious to everyone who knew her,

but

Dean

.

For whatever reason, she didn’t think much of me, so I did my best to just stay out of her way. I assumed that she’d heard one too many dumb little kid stories about me from Dean, because she always treated me with aloofness–not rude, just a total lack of respect for my intelligence and complete disregard for anything I had

to

say

.

She was one of those obstacles you try to side step in life. She had few redeeming qualities, but she was Dean’s fairy princess. He loved her and because he loved her so much, he was completely blind to her faults, so I just kept my mouth shut and tried to

avoid

her

.

If this horrible scenario was true and Dean was dead, there was no way I could work for her. She didn’t have the intelligence or experience to run the company, but I was sure her arrogance and giant ego would convince her that she could. Oh God! What in the world would I do next? This couldn’t be happening. The thought was so horrible and preposterous I quickly put it out of my mind. After all, Andrough was a very busy airport with private planes taking off every few minutes; it could have been anyone. No way could it have been Dean’s plane. No

possible

way

!

It had taken me another thirty minutes to reach the office, so the thought of the plane crash was far from my mind. I was in a great mood, winked and said Hey there, to the receptionist as I walked past her desk. She didn’t respond to me–nothing. She just sat there staring forward. It was a bit strange, but I didn’t think much of it and walked on by her down the hall to my office.

When I sat down behind my desk, I overheard Peggy, my brother’s personal assistant, talking to Camille. I don’t think Max knows, she said. "Someone’s got to

tell

him

."

The moment Camille and Peggy walked into my office, I knew. They didn’t have to say a word. My brother

was

dead

.

2

The Funeral

AHouston motorcycle cop told me that it was the longest line of cars he’d ever led. The parade stretched for almost two miles and created a major traffic problem on the Katy Freeway backing traffic up all the way to the 610 loop as we crept along working our way to the gravesite. Soon the nightmare I’d been living the last three days would be over. Dean would be in the ground and the rest of us would have to figure out how to go on with our lives without him. We all knew that wasn’t going to be easy, but we had no choice .

I’d been quiet, not saying much to anyone since it had happened. The last person I’d talked to was my father and I’m not sure those were actual words. My dad and I have always been very close and as long as I can remember, we’ve had a slight telepathic communication between us. I never really had to go into deep detail about anything with my father. He just always seemed to know what I needed or wanted. When I knocked on his door only hours after Dean’s plane crash, my father took one look at me and

instantly

knew

.

At the gravesite, I sat on one of the small green chairs reserved for the family and listened to the preacher pray for my brother’s soul. It seemed like an eternity, but it actually only took a few minutes. When it was finally over and everyone moved out from under the small canopy cover, I just stood there with my hand on his casket. To this day, I can still see it clearly. It was made out of beautiful dark mahogany wood and was so highly polished I could see my reflection.

As I stood there with my hand on that cold wood, the memory of the last time I’d seen him alive flashed through my mind. It was only a few days earlier at a party at his ranch. Dean loved throwing big Texas size parties and this was one of his best. One of Dean’s side businesses was racing and breeding quarter horses. The purpose of this party was to celebrate the success of one of his horses that had just been named the Aged Champion Stallion. It was a big deal and lots of people, dressed up in all of their finest boots and hats, showed up. Dean had asked me to put my old band back together for the entertainment, so I did and we were a big hit with his friends. It was one of those magical musical nights for me; things had gone especially well. During my breaks, everyone was coming up slapping Dean on the back talking about what a great singer his little brother was. Although he never said it, I know he was proud of me that night.

When the party was over and most of the guests had left, he came up to me as I was packing up my guitar. Would you do one more song for me little brother? he asked.

Sure. I said, "What would you like

to

hear

?"

Sing Roses for me again, he said, smiling. "I love

that

song

."

He was talking about a song called Run For The Roses, by Dan Fogleberg. I’d already sung it three times during the night, always at his request. "Hang on a second, I’ll round up

the

band

."

You don’t need the band. Sing it for me here at the table. Just you and your guitar.

I pulled up a chair and sang it for him one last time. Every time I’d come to the chorus, he’d lean back in his chair and join in, singing at the top of his lungs. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was a monumental three minutes in my life – a performance forever imprinted in my brain.

When the gravesite service was over, I went back to Dean’s house. Within an hour, the place was packed with some of Dean’s closest friends and everyone had a story to tell about him. Some were about his generosity, some were about his intelligence, but all were from the heart. After listening to one story after another, I soon realized that I didn’t really know Dean at all. He had so many dimensions, so many layers. I only knew what he chose to expose to me. The more I learned about him, the more I felt a little cheated. I’d missed out on so much of his life, knowing who he

really

was

.

The biggest surprise of the day came when four of his closest friends came to me and said, Come with us, there’s something we have to do. I had no idea what they were up to, but I could tell it was important, so I went with them without hesitation.

They took me upstairs to Dean’s library and sat me down in his favorite chair. Bob Hugley opened the bar and poured five tall scotches, neat. Randy Woodham opened the doors to the stereo and began searching through the albums. To my surprise, he pulled out one of mine and put it on the record player. Before I could protest, my voice was blaring out of the speakers. It was almost as if they’d rehearsed what to do next. Bob handed me a scotch and sat in the chair next to me. Randy, Howard and Sidney sat on the couch. For the next hour, no one said a word; we just sipped our scotch and listened to my music, all three albums.

I was very confused at all of this, but didn’t question it, because for whatever reason his friends were enjoying it. Each one of them lost in deep thought, no doubt memories of Dean. It was all very bizarre and surreal.

When it was over and my music had finally been turned off, I asked them, What was that all about?

The four of them looked at me with shocked expressions. You’re kidding right? Howard

Stone

said

.

No, I’m not kidding. Why did you guys want to listen to my music?

Because that’s what Dean loved to do, Bob said. That’s what we always did up here: drank scotch and listened to your albums.

My albums? You listened to my music? I asked.

Of course, your albums. Max, he loved your music,

Randy

said

.

I had to sit down. My legs felt like rubber and my head was spinning. I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t hold it in. I didn’t know, I said, wiping my eyes. "He never

told

me

."

Sid sat down next to me and put his arm around me. He knew every word of every song. He thought you were brilliant. It was all he ever talked about.

Yeah, he drove us all nuts with it. Randy added. I can’t tell you how many times he made us sit here with him and listen to your damn albums. To be honest, I’m a little sick of hearing you sing. He broke into a loud belly laugh. Soon everyone was laughing,

even

me

.

That experience was a true revelation in my life. It made me realize something I’d hidden away from myself for over thirty years; I’d been living my life not for me, but for Dean. Everything I’d ever done I did hoping that it would garner his acceptance and somehow meet his standard of excellence. Until that day, I thought I’d always missed the mark somehow. I was sure that everything I’d ever accomplished was not quite good enough; just slightly sub-standard. That day I found out that I had done something Dean approved of… my music. He loved my music.

I guess if Dean had not died, I would have never known what he thought and would have continued living my life not believing in my talents and myself. Why he couldn’t tell me, I’ll never understand. I guess he had his reasons; however, from that day forward, I changed. From then on, I lived my life for me and no one else. It had taken my brother’s death and 32 years, but I’d finally

grown

up

.

As I expected, working for Dean’s widow, Camille was a futile effort. Without Dean’s ingenuity there was no company, only the shell remained. It was time to move on, so I packed my bags, said goodbye to my parents and headed back to Nashville.

3

Edward

Cecil

,

Sr

.

Edward Cecil, Sr. had everything a man could want: a gorgeous wife, two beautiful children and a good job. He started working at the box factory when he was only 15 years old. Each day after school, he would walk to the factory to do his daily chores of sweeping the floors and cleaning the bathrooms. Legally, he was too young to work there, but old man Jackson took a liking to him and hired him anyway, paying him in cash each week until his 16 th birthday. Finally of age, he became a full-fledged employee of the Jackson Box Factory. Two years later, when he graduated from high school, he was old enough to go on the line. Five years later, he was promoted to line foreman .

Over the next ten years, he labored vigorously and learned everything he could about the manufacture of corrugated cardboard boxes. He proved himself a dedicated employee and because of this, was promoted three more times until at age 35 he became the youngest general manager in the factory’s history. He’d reached the top as far as he was concerned and he was proud of himself.

Along the way, he’d married Judy and had two beautiful children. Every time he looked at his wife, he said a small prayer giving thanks for his good fortune. She was extraordinarily beautiful, exotic with her dark skin, long black hair and deep blue eyes. She could have married anyone, but she had

picked

him

.

Their meeting as cliché as it sounds, was truly love at first sight. They met at a church picnic by accident when she spilled her drink on him. She’d just moved to town; he had never seen her before that day, but when she looked into his eyes, he was lost and he knew instantly he’d finally found the one he’d been searching for. They were married six months later; he was twenty-seven and she was twenty-five. On his twenty-ninth birthday, Judy delivered their first child. They named her Carla after his father, Carl; five years later Edward Cecil, Jr.

was

born

.

It was a strange phone call. Edward could hear the stress in old man Jackson’s voice, but didn’t ask what was wrong on the phone. Jackson told him to drop everything and come to his office, ASAP. On his way, he racked his brain but couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong. He had no idea why he was being called in so suddenly. It must be something big, he thought, as he walked up the long stairs to the main office.

When he opened the office door, Brenda, Jackson’s secretary was crying and looked up at him with sad eyes. Go on in Ed, he’s expecting you, she said softly.

Jackson was sitting behind his desk. His eyes were swollen and bright red. "Have a

seat

Ed

."

What’s wrong? Edward’s heart was pounding fast in his chest. He could sense that something was terribly wrong.

"Ed, I… I… just don’t know how to tell you this. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had

to

do

."

Just say it, sir. Tell me please.

It’s Judy. She’s been in a horrible accident.

Oh my God! Is she alright? Edward yelled.

Ed, son, Jackson stared at the floor and fumbled for words, "They did everything they could for her. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but

she’s

gone

."

Edward did not react.

"Ed, did you

hear

me

?"

As if in a trance he slowly stood up, looked at Jackson and whispered, "Where

is

she

?"

She’s at the hospital, but... Edward didn’t let him finish. He rushed out of the room and ran to his truck.

At the hospital, they stopped him at the emergency room doors. No, Ed. You don’t want to see her like this. The doctor told him. "Please listen to me. It was a head on collision. She’s pretty messed up. Trust me on this Ed. You don’t want to see her

this

way

."

I want to be with her! He yelled. "I have to see her. Is she dead...

really

dead

?"

The doctor put his arm around him. "I did my best Ed. I’m so sorry, but yes,

she’s

gone

."

Edward looked into the doctor’s eyes. She’s gone? His knees went limp and his body began to shake uncontrollably.

The doctor could feel him begin to slump under his arm. "Ed, I called John at the funeral home. He’s on his way to pick her up. You know he’ll do a good job on her; he loved her too. We all loved her. Please let us do this for you first. You can see her in a few hours. Let him make her pretty

for

you

."

Edward collapsed to the floor, holding his head in his hands… weeping from the depths of

his

soul

.

He buried Judy on Saturday morning. On Sunday, he gathered up his eleven-year old daughter, his six-year old son and headed for Padre Island. For the next two weeks, they swam in the Gulf of Mexico, made sand castles on the beach and searched for seashells, all the while trying his best to explain to his young children why they wouldn’t ever see their mother again.

At the funeral, Carla seemed to understand what was going on, but little Edward just couldn’t grasp it. "Is Mommy asleep? When will she

wake

up

?"

Yes Eddy, she is asleep in a way, he struggled. It is sort of like sleeping, but she can’t wake up from this sleep.

"Go kiss her, Daddy. That will make her wake up. Like in Sleeping Beauty." He said it loud enough for everyone in the chapel to hear. It was the saddest thing anyone had ever heard. Edward’s heart sank. Oh, how he wished it

was

true

.

Everyday at the beach, little Eddy would ask a million questions and Edward would do his best to try to make him understand, but only seemed to confuse him further with each one of his answers. On the drive home, Carla who had been very quiet, having not talked much since the funeral, finally spoke.

Eddy, do you remember what happened to your goldfish? she

asked

him

.

Yeah, he said, sadly. "They died. I fed them

too

much

."

"Do you remember what we did

with

them

?"

"Sure, we buried them in the back yard under the

big

tree

."

Have you ever seen them again?

No way. I can’t, he said, with a puzzled look on

his

face

.

"

Why

not

?"

"Cause

they’re

dead

."

"That’s right. Do you still

love

them

?"

"

Yeah

,

sure

."

"Do you think they still

love

you

?"

He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess

they

do

."

"Well, that’s the same thing that happened to Mommy. She died, but it’s important to remember that even though she’s not here anymore, she still loves you and it’s ok for you to still

love

her

."

Eddy smiled and said. Ohhhhh. He finally understood.

Edward Sr. was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard come out of his little girl’s mouth. For over two weeks, he’d stumbled and fumbled for the right words but they never came. Now, in less than three minutes, his eleven-year old daughter had explained it simply and with compassion to her six-year old brother. Inside he felt a strange wave of relief come over him and he knew that things were going to be all right with his children.

On the long drive home, he listened carefully to everything else his daughter had to say, which wasn’t much. She listened more than she talked, but when she did say something, it was always well thought out and very astute. The more he listened, the more obvious it became that she had an intellect far beyond her years. No doubt, she was a gifted child. He wondered how he had not noticed her brilliance before.

Edward had to force himself to return to his job after his beach trip with his children, however, once he got there he realized that work was exactly what he needed. When he was busy, the time flew by and kept his mind occupied. For the next year, he worked long hours neglecting everything and everyone in his life, except his job and his children.

Each night he would rush home from work, so he could lie on the floor and help Carla and Eddie with their homework. After homework, they would have dinner. After dinner, they’d play games together or just talk to each other about their day. He loved this time with his children. It was the only time he ever smiled, the only time he was truly happy.

Spending these nights together made him realize how distinctly unique each child was. Carla was the quiet one, but quick to anger and very vocal when she was mad. Eddie was the loud one, always talking about something, asking a million questions, but sweet, never losing his temper and always forgiving, even when Carla was mean to him. Eddie was always in a positive, happy mood; Carla was usually brooding and dark, but always thinking. She was very intelligent, never really needing his help with her homework. Eddie was always confused with his schoolwork and always needed his help. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their looks. They both had his blonde hair and their mother’s

blue

eyes

.

Each day Carla’s intellect became more obvious to him. Frequently, she shocked him with answers to questions that most little girls her age wouldn’t even understand. To be certain, he contacted her school principal and arranged for her to be tested. He found out that his suspicions were correct; her test results were so high it astounded everyone at her school. Soon she was bumped up a grade, then another and another until she was the youngest child attending Tyler high school. At 12 years old, she finished her junior year at the top of her class. When she turned 13, she was tested again: she had an IQ of 163, technically a genius. One month later, she became the youngest freshman ever to be accepted at Rice University, the Texas equivalent to Harvard

or

Yale

.

To