What Good Am I?
What Good Am I? is an intriguing story of two selfish, greedy politicians. Will they find empathy before it is too late? Will a decent-yet-sad probation officer find a purpose to live? Are miracles possible at the dawn of a new millennium? This drama has a rich plot containing murder, suspense, forgiveness, and more.
What Good Am I?
by TJ Hawk
Christmas Day, 1999
What good am I
If I'm like all the rest,
If I just turned away,
When I see how you're dressed,
If I shut myself off
So I can't hear you cry,
What good am I?
As
a probation officer, I’d become cynical. I’d heard all the stories, all
the lies. I’d seen more fake tears than I could stomach . . . ready to
retire, counting the days. Besides, I’d never done anybody any good.
What’s next? My marriage had ended years ago, shortly after the death of our eleven-year-old son. I didn't have any interests or hobbies. What could I expect? More depression? Death?
When your child dies, it changes you. Forever. I’d thought no man could break my hard shell. Then I met him and my cold heart melted. Incredibly, it melted on Christmas Eve!
When he walked into my office yesterday, fresh out of prison, I peered at him with my typical pessimism. I’d seen too much. How could this man be different, in spite of being our former governor?
I’d stopped looking into a man’s eyes for sincerity. Too many cons had stepped out of prison with a good story. I was too old for fairy tales and Santa Claus. My philosophy was simple: Human nature is inherently selfish. There’s no such thing as nobility. We hang Christmas lights and speak of love and joy, but it is just pretense and syrup. Yet, my ideas changed yesterday, after meeting him, after hearing his story.
“Hello, are you Mr. Billings, Howard Billings?” softly asked a tall, thin man upon entering my office.
“Yes, please sit down,” I requested, pointing to a chair in front of my desk.
“My name is Tom Keller. I was told to report here.”
“Yes, Mr. Keller, you met my associate earlier. I’ve read your paperwork.” I didn’t even look up at him; I kept staring at the papers. “I know the details: Keller, age 42, eleven years in prison, early release due to good behavior . . .”
“Sir, please . . .” He tried to interrupt.
“Mr. Keller, I’m in control here. It doesn’t matter that you were a former governor or that you came from money or that your father was a senator. None of that means a thing to me. You’re an ex-con, period. You’ll do what I say, when I say it. Do you understand, Mr. Keller?”
“Yes, yes, sir,” politely stammered the former governor. “I just wanted you to call me Tom, not Mr. Keller.
Ignoring him, I said bluntly, “Mr. Keller, you were convicted of murdering your father, brutally killing the senator with a knife.”
“Yes, I did it, I killed my dad,” murmured the raspy-voiced con. “Do you know how it feels to look into the dying eyes of the only man you ever respected?”
“I’m not required to answer your questions, Mr. Keller; you must answer mine.” I looked closely at him for the first time. He appeared genuine, but I wouldn’t be fooled by counterfeit contrition. “Nevertheless, I’ll answer you. No, Mr. Keller, I don’t know what it’s like to kill someone. You did it, not me. That’s why you’re on that side of the desk, and I’m over here.”
“Blood was pouring out of his chest,” whispered the governor as he put both elbows on my desk and gazed into my eyes. I was infuriated that he dismissed me, but I was also curious. Consequently, I let the infamous Tom Keller continue.
What good am I
If I know and don't do,
If I see and don't say,
If I look right through you,
If I turn a deaf ear
To the thunderin' sky,
What good am I?
“Blood
covered my hand, red blood, precious blood, my father’s blood. For a
moment, I stared in horror at my hand, still tightly gripping the knife
handle. Suddenly, I let loose, but the blade remained stuck in his
chest. I didn’t know what to do, leave it in or pull it out. So I did
nothing, nothing but watch him die. It took almost an hour for my dad
to die.” Governor Keller shut his eyes tightly and murmured, “For most
of that hour, he was able to talk to me. After twelve years, I remember
every word he said. Those words still haunt me . . . And they help me.”
“Why did you kill him?” I asked the grieving man, shaking my head in disgust. “I read the newspapers, the court reports, your paperwork. You’ve never said. You admitted to the crime, but never answered why. Explain yourself, man. Why did you kill your father?”
“Oh, you’ll hear why I did it, Mr. Billings. You need to know, Mr. Billings.” He was staring at me, disturbingly.
I heard myself saying, “Don’t call me Mr. Billings. Please call me Howard. No, I mean, call me Hal.”
“Sure, Hal,” agreed the governor with a sparkle in his eye. “My name is Tom.”
“Okay, Governor, T-T-Tom,” I stuttered.
“It’s a long story, Hal. Do you have the rest of your life to hear it?” asked the mysterious governor with a brief smile.
I was confused. “Well, I have the rest of the day.” I was trying to appear nonchalant, but I was yearning to hear the story – to hear what no one else knew about this odd former convict, former governor.
Keller told a bizarre story. He talked and I listened, spellbound in timelessness. Tom told me with stark honesty about his former narcissistic ways. Caring only about himself, he was greedy, egotistical and pompous.
What good am I
While you softly weep
And I hear in my head
What you say in your sleep,
And I freeze in the moment
Like the rest who don't try,
What good am I?
Tom’s
father, the revered Senator Robert J. Keller, had groomed his son for
politics, with an eye on the presidency. Tom was like his father –
proud, prosperous, pretentious and powerful. Yet, both father and son
were also amoral brutes, willing to do anything to advance their
position.
Everyone was a pawn to them. They laughed at the misfortunes of others, knowing nothing of loyalty or friendship. They masqueraded as patriots who loved their country. It was a lie. They only loved themselves.
It was the winter of 1987. According to convict Keller, his senator father asked a disabled veteran to sit with them at the head table during a $1000 a plate fundraiser. In reality, the senator cared nothing about the vet or his family. It was a publicity stunt.
At the head table, the senator and the governor sat in the center, of course. Sitting to the left of the governor were his mother and his date. Sitting to the right of the senator were the disabled veteran, the vet’s wife and his teenage daughter.
The senator had to act as if he genuinely cared about the disabled veteran. Cameras were flashing. The senator listened intently to the words of the vet.
Later he laughed about it with his son, saying in derision, “The pathetic loser wouldn’t shut up. It was grueling. Oh, the sacrifices we make as public servants!”
The fundraiser changed everything. Tom Keller, the second youngest governor in history, on that fateful night, met the vet’s teenage daughter, a beautiful girl named Brittany. His lustful heart yearned to seduce her. During the next few weeks, he wooed her and conquered her.
After a few nights of passion, his plan was to forget Brittany, never to see her again. Yet, plans often go awry.
Three months later, Brittany told the young governor that she was pregnant and he was the father. It devastated young Keller. He ordered her to get an abortion, but she had the audacity to refuse him. The honorable and esteemed governor was enraged.
Later that evening, Governor Keller flew to Washington to meet with his father in secret. If the ugly truth reached the newspapers, it’d be disastrous. Fathering a child with a teenager would be unforgivable and the governor’s promising political future would be finished. He’d never be the president, a great loss for the Keller legacy. Unacceptable! They decided to fly home to confront Brittany.
Tom Keller cried, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s not your fault, son,” consoled the older statesman. “I’m sure the nasty, little girl seduced you.”
“I hate that gold-digging tramp,” snarled the governor, his eyes bulging with rage.
“We’ll pay her to keep quiet,” advised the father in exasperation.
“What if she won’t agree?” asked the son.
“I don’t know,” responded the father, frowning.
“We kill her,” whispered the young governor with blood in his eyes.
The father said nothing.
The next evening, the two politicians met Brittany in a dark alley. With plenty of money in their briefcases, they were determined to end the nightmare, whatever it cost.
“You don’t look pregnant, young lady,” announced the senator scathingly. “Is this a scam?”
“No, no, absolutely not” creaked Brittany with her eyes widening. “I’m really pregnant. I’ve been to the doctor.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” cried Governor Tom Keller with a scowl. “Maybe you’re pregnant, maybe not. Maybe I’m the father, maybe not. We’ll still . . . ”
“Tom, don’t say such a thing.” The young girl was crying. “Of course, you’re the father. I’ve never slept with anyone else.”
“Shut up,” yelled the distinguished governor. “Didn’t you hear me? It doesn’t matter. You’ll get your money. But you must keep your filthy mouth shut or something bad is going to happen – something very bad. Does that compute in your stupid brain?”
“Tom, why are you doing this?” cried the girl hysterically.
“Young lady, let’s cease the dramatics and do business,” advised the venerable senator. “My son has a bright future. I’m very proud of him, just like your father is proud of you. We have dreams for Thomas. He’ll do great things for this country. But to put it bluntly: nobody must ever know that he fathered your child. End of discussion.”
“But I love him,” whimpered Brittany.
“I’m sure you think you do, Brittany,” softly said the senator, gently patting her shoulder. “Still, for the greater good, it is imperative for Tom to marry the right kind of woman. I’m sure you’re a nice girl. Your father certainly spoke highly of you. But Tom needs someone his age with the proper background. Please try to understand. Do you realize what you can do with $750,000? It’s a lot of money. You’ll be able to provide for your baby and your parents. Move out of your cramped shack. Never worry again. Cars, jewelry, whatever you want.”
“I don’t want to hear anymore of this crap,” screamed the girl in defiance. “I’m leaving.”
“Grab her, dad,” yelled Tom Keller.
His father quickly held the petite teen with both hands. Brittany started screaming.
“Shut up! Shut up!” yelled the governor.
She kept screaming, louder and louder.
“Shut up! Please! Brittany, please,” begged the senator.
“I’m killing the --,” yelled the governor, pulling out a long knife.
“No, no, Tom,” pleaded the father in desperation.
The son made a quick and violent lunge at the girl. At the last moment, the senator thrust the girl aside. However, Tom Keller’s momentum from rage was too great. The blade slid deep into his father’s chest.
What good am I
If I say foolish things
And I laugh in the face
Of what sorrow brings
And I just turn my back
While you silently die,
What good am I?
Keller
couldn’t speak for grief. I went over to sit beside him and put my hand
on his frail shoulder. Again, he tried to open his mouth, but nothing
came out.
I decided to break the silence. “What did your father say to you?”
“He told me that for the past few months he couldn’t get the words of that disabled vet out of his mind,” softly uttered Tom, wiping his moist face.
“Brittany’s father?” I asked.
“Yes, Brittany’s daddy, Samuel Ackerman,” said Tom with respect. “Ackerman had talked for hours with Dad at the fundraiser, beaming with pride when he told my father about Brittany. Remarkably, both my father and Mr. Ackerman had the same birthday, January 1, 1932.”
“Wow, what a coincidence.”
The governor told me that being born on the same day was the only thing they had in common. Tom’s father came from a wealthy, influential family. Brittany’s father, Samuel Ackerman, came from poverty. On January 1, 1950, both registered for the draft, but only Ackerman went to Korea. The senator’s parents ensured their son’s safety.
After the war, Keller became a respected senator with countless accolades, living in plush splendor. On the other hand, Ackerman came home with permanent and severe disabilities with no external honor, living in meagerness and constant pain.
After thinking deeply about the words of Ackerman, the senator realized that the vet was the hero, a truly honorable man. The senator saw himself as a fraud. Yes, the esteemed Robert L. Keller had everything in this world, everything but dignity. That belonged to Samuel Ackerman. As his son pulled back the knife in that dark alley, Keller hoped his death would finally serve a purpose.
Governor Keller put his hand on my shoulder and said, “As my knife approached Brittany, my dad knew he could never live with the fact that I killed Ackerman’s precious daughter. Remember, also, Brittany was pregnant. How could he let me kill my own baby, his grandchild?”
The door opened. A beautiful woman and a young boy entered, running to embrace Keller.
“Mr. Billings,” began the convict with a beam in his eye, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Brittany, and my son, Hal.”
I was confounded. “Is this the Brittany you tried to kill?”
“Yes,” said Keller as the couple looked at each other with a grin.
“Hal? You named your boy Hal?” I asked, staring at the boy in bewilderment.
“Yes, his name is Hal. He was born before I went to prison. His birth name is Robert Howard Keller. We’d plan to call him Bobby.”
“What happened? Why do you call him Hal?” I asked, patting the boy on his head.
“After a year in prison, they released my cellmate. He wrote to me about his probation office, a crusty geezer, a respectable man named Howard Billings. He told me you were tough, but fair and decent. He also mentioned that you were sad. And you never realized how much you helped people.”
I tried to resist the emotions rising in my throat.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Billings,” continued the governor, looking me in the eye with sincerity and tightly gripping my hand. “We call him Hal in honor of you.”
“And we want to ask a favor, Mr. Billings,” interjected Brittany, so sweetly. “Would you please be Hal’s godfather?”
“Godfather? Me? I’d me honored,” I choked, hugging Brittany.
“Thank you, Mr. Billings,” said little Hal, smiling at me.
“How old are you, Hal?” I asked, feeling a tear roll down my cheek.
“Eleven,” said the boy.
I embraced my godson tightly, as his kind mother and father embraced me. My thoughts were quick and focused. I thought about the true patriot, Samuel Ackerman, who raised a compassionate daughter. I thought about a selfish senator, Robert L. Keller, who found empathy before it was too late, who gave his life for his unborn grandson.
Furthermore, I heard heaven open with the sound of my own son. He was laughing with joy, waiting for me in eternity. I knew he wouldn’t mind waiting a few more years. I had important work to accomplish at the dawn of a new millennium. I was the godfather of an eleven-year-old boy, little Hal.
Tom Keller, who found redemption during his father’s final words in a dark alley, patted my back, saying respectfully, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Billings.”
“Merry Christmas, Tom, and to you, too, Brittany,” I cried with love and joy. “Merry Christmas, Hal.” And so it really happened. My heart melted. On Christmas Eve!
What good am I
If I'm like all the rest,
If I just turned away,
When I see how you're dressed,
If I shut myself off
So I can't hear you cry,
What good am I?
